Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
“I have to focus for a little while longer, just to blend out this paint before it dries,” I tell him.
“That’s fine. I won’t bother you.”
He takes a seat in a comfy chair in the corner, crosses his ankle on top of his knee, and sets his laptop on his lap. “I need to work too,” he informs me with an arched brow.
Right. I turn away from him and get back to focusing on my art. I lose track of time again as I blend, working carefully with paint, relieved when I start to see my vision come to life. At some point, my body takes notice of Walt’s attention as a shiver rolls down my spine.
“You’re distracting me,” I tell him, not taking my eyes off my canvas.
“I haven’t said a word.”
“You don’t have to.”
Another few minutes pass, and I’m no less distracted by him. I sigh and turn back to find his laptop closed and his arms crossed. He looks so perfectly content sitting there watching me, and it gives me an idea.
“Have you ever posed for someone before?” I ask, setting my paintbrush back down on my palette.
He makes a face like, You’re kidding me.
“C’mon, you’re sitting there anyway,” I goad.
“I wouldn’t make a good subject,” he argues.
“Pfft.”
How cute of him not to realize he’s basically been made for art. Every detail of his face begs to be celebrated with pencil and paper, and I’m happy to prove that to him if he needs me to.
“Stay where you are,” I instruct, walking over to him. “But lose the laptop.”
I reach for it before he can argue and set it down on the side table near his chair.
“How long will this take?” he asks, watching me carefully as I back away from him.
At first, I think he’s wondering because he’s impatient and doesn’t want to sit there for long, but then I catch his gaze down on my bare legs and realize he might actually have other plans in mind.
“Not long,” I promise, walking back to get my sketchbook and charcoal pencils. “I prefer doing what’s called continuous line or contour drawing. It’s done pretty quick.”
I set up a chair a few feet away from him and then sit down, opening my sketchbook to a fresh page.
“You don’t pick your pencil up off your paper as you draw,” I explain, glancing up at him as I start to work. “So the drawing is essentially done with one long line.”
“Why do it that way?”
I shrug. “I appreciate the way it looks. Rather than a detailed drawing, you can sketch a silhouette quickly, concentrating on the most defining features of the subject.” My pencil drags across the paper. “You let your pencil travel just as your eyes move across your subject, moving slowly and allowing your pencil to feel all the details your eyes see.”
“Should I stay perfectly still?” he asks.
I smile and glance down at my sketchbook quickly before looking back up at him. “It doesn’t matter too much. As long as you stay in that chair. Will you look to the left just a bit?”
“Like this?” he asks.
I nod, catching a better view of his pronounced cheekbones.
“And lift your chin a little.”
My pencil draws, emphasizing the lines of his face. I scratch in his sooty black lashes and his defined eyebrows. Then my continuous line drags slowly down, mimicking the bridge of his nose and the soft curve of his upper lip.
It doesn’t take me long to capture his quintessential features on the paper. There’s no shading work at all, no shadows or highlights, no minute details, and yet, I think anyone would look down at my sketchbook and immediately realize I’ve drawn Walt. That’s the beauty of this type of drawing.
I push up off the chair and carry my sketchbook over to show him.
I hold it out, and he chuckles with admiration. “Looks just like me.”
I smile and he reaches out to grab my hips, tugging me down onto his lap. I let him, happy to fold my legs up against my chest and sit with him. He takes my sketchbook out of my hand and starts flipping through it. I moan and try to grab it back from him.
“C’mon, you can’t! It’s like reading someone’s diary!”
He doesn’t give it back to me though.
He holds it out to the side so I can’t reach it and starts flipping through the pages.
“These aren’t like my greatest hits or anything! It’s just stuff I do for fun! Like that, okay see, I was studying hands that day in the park and none of those sketches are particularly good.”
“Elizabeth,” he says with a chiding tone.
I finally give in, realizing my attempts to get my sketchbook away from him are going to be futile.
“Fine. Get your fill. There are some of you in there, in the early pages.” I cover my eyes with my hand, rubbing my temples with my thumb and middle finger. “You’ll get to them eventually, so I might as well just tell you they’re there.”