sketching on ANZAC parade

In the darkest hours of the morning I draw pictures of the things I imagine: The coarse flesh inside men’s nose cavities, corroded hollow by the icy weather. The intricately knotted trunks of trees which conceal cast bodies and hushed schemes. Here, some of the roughest business people in town are waiting to sign their crude contracts. They have no suits nor silver cufflinks. Instead they imagine their wealth in high spirits and hallucinations the colour of Oxford Street.

I do regret my abilities in hours like these. My artistic visions sit behind my skull and singe the edges of my brain. Graphite sleeps in the corners of my eyes. I could attempt to erase the entire contents of my note pad, but I know everything will only become smudged. Everything will become much, much more difficult to look at.

I grip my pencil tightly hoping I can persuade it to ally with me. Everyone knows that lead poisons your blood. That’s why they removed it from petrol some years ago. But while I’m sketching, my blood is so red I doubt lead would do any damage were I attacked by my own defence. I am the perfect art station: My skin has offered itself as a smooth, white canvas. My veins have surfaced hot and alert under my skin to form gridlines. My navel holds a pool of moisture in which to dip used paintbrushes. My fingernails are poised to carve hideous sculptures out of anyone’s woody eyes. I swear even Michelangelo never felt this much adrenaline.

Here is the curse: When I invent my subjects my hand gets carried away. The pictures start talking to me. They reek of shop alcoves and taste like mirrored hallways and sound like the drone of neon lights. I find myself drawing with all five senses.

There is one subject who stands before me eager to be drawn. I have not materialised him, I swear. I am unsure of his intentions at first – whether he means to become a two-dimensional keepsake or bleed the colours of my skin together. At first it’s unclear what I’m drawing. I can see a silhouette a few metres ahead of the bus shelter but can’t capture any of the details in his face.

I’m not sure what colour to paint him. Instinctively my initial thought is red. But then I imagine him as turquoise or perhaps sickly yellow-brown. By the time I reach Oxford Street I know his sadness can only be purple. Reddish purple? Sure. I would give him a portrait but I don’t think he’d have a place to put it.

Because of this my initial intention is to only sketch a draft, but his picture becomes a haunting masterpiece. In the end I am sketching for almost two hours. So much so there is even a change of weather.

And when I’m finished sketching… There is no more ink in me. I’ve sweat it all out. When I arrive home I take off my heels so as not to dog-ear the smooth pages of my flat mates’ sleep. When I finally crawl into bed my ink-stained body blots the sheets yellow. Everything my eyes have seen marks the pillows black and blush red. When I wake up they are dusted with gold and bronze glitter. My face is a collage of fears.

I search for my sketch book everywhere in the morning, but I cannot find it. Either I have torn the pages out in my sleep, or I have disposed of it on my way home. I don’t know. Perhaps my drawings refused to be confined to small, square pages. They could have gone wandering in King’s Cross Station or climbed trees in Hyde Park. I don’t mind so much – they would never have been framed or put on display or scrapbooked. They would have forever remained folded into oversized black garbage bags underneath my bed.

Or perhaps – perhaps – the man near the bus shelter decided to claim his portrait. Perhaps he had a place to put it after all.