The other day on the metro I saw a young woman with a sketch pad. She was discreetly observing a passenger across from her and sketching rather hurriedly. The train was not packed, but there were several people in the general direction of her glances and I couldn't tell which one she was drawing. I started thinking about which one of them I would draw and I had chosen a completely bald man with twinkly brown eyes, John Lennon glasses, a rosy complexion, in a jean jacket who was smiling at his friend as they talked. Whether it was him or someone else, I was dying to see her drawing and I was hoping she would get off at a stop before mine so I could try to get a glimpse of her sketch pad.
My mind got distracted by something for a few moments and I was staring at the window as the cement walls streamed by in the dark tunnels when I noticed in the reflection of the glass (a handy observation tool when you want to look at fellow travelers but don't want them to know you're looking at them...) that she was now drawing me! Her eyes were darting between the page and my head, just like she was doing with the other "model." Now I really wanted to try to look at her sketchbook, but at the same time I didn't want to turn my head so that she would know I was "on to her." I wondered if she was studying something in particular for an art class, like noses or ears. I inwardly tried to make my nose and ears as interesting as possible. This was difficult as you can imagine, especially as I wondered if she had noticed me noticing her earlier and whether she was toying with me, realizing that I was now trying not to look at her.
Anyway, it all came to an end when the train arrived at my station and as I prepared to get off, the artist in residence closed her sketch pad and got off just ahead of me. So just as this young artist found something in our shared travels interesting enough to draw, I found it interesting enough to write about.
It's funny being observed. Sometimes you just have a feeling that you're being watched.
On this same afternoon, as I walked from the metro to my apartment, I saw a little boy who was blowing bubbles from his third floor balcony. The sunlight made the bubbles sparkle and dance as they floated up, and down, before a current of air caused them, one by one, to disappear. Three, four, five times I happily watched the boy bring the little plastic wand to his lips and send the bubbles on their brief flight.
I finally stopped walking so I could watch for a little longer and made a mental note to include bubble-blowing from the balcony as an activity to be enjoyed by future children in my life. Just then, the little boy noticed me watching him. He stopped briefly and I thought '
oh no, I've made him self-conscious.' Then he brought the wand to his lips again and blew, but he missed the mark and nothing happened. '
Oh no, I've made him nervous, but good for him, he's not giving up.' Next try, one little bubble came out. '
OK, the next one, you can do it...' As much as I was enjoying watching this moment of childhood, I was the intruder. I waved and smiled and continued on my way.
Conclusion: Blow bubbles from your balcony. Draw a picture. Inspiration can be brief and interrupted by well-meaning observers.
