He looks up and asks me “why?”

Why? I’ve stopped asking that question. I don’t know why. Just a habit I have. 4.700 crisp white sheets of muscle memory. These hands just move.

Why? Just the boredom. Riding alone without a book. Seeing new patterns in nostrils and eyebrow ridges, the slopes in the temples, the curve of an inner-earlobe, the curious and never ending varieties of dimples in a smile.

Why? Just the loneliness. We exist in the reflections of others. I exist in other’s memories. I disappear into the void when there is no one to verify my presence. So I want everyone to know me.
Why? Because more than that, I want to know everyone. There are so many countless human beings in this world. So many countless living, breathing, laughing, smiling, sharing, crying, hoping humans around me. I want to know them.

So much of life is a mystery to me. So much of life is a gift, a string of beautiful moments, each gone in a flash. And you will never find that moment again. Never. It passes right before you, so quickly. Hold your eyes open that you don’t miss it. Enjoy it when it comes. Why? Why not? Why risk losing the moment to a question?

​Why? Because I had no way of knowing that today he failed his driving test for the second time. That to sign up for another would cost him over one hundred Euros. That he still had a long commute home. That it was an April day that was pouring and cold and grey and overcast. That I had brought one simple good thing into his day. A little bit of light in a day that just wasn’t going his way. And so here we are: he, a downcast human sitting across from me in a blue plastic chair on a bus in the outskirts of Berlin. I, a traveler with a strange habit. A simple white piece of paper with pencil scratches arranged to be his reflection passed from my hands to his. He looks up and asks me “Why? Why did you draw me?”…Why? I’ve stopped asking that question. I don’t know why.

In college I decided to draw every student in my dorm. It was a huge project, but it sent me in a direction I couldn’t have predicted. I met so many surprising people. So many talented people. And I formed so many great memories. My dorm, the “I House” at UC Berkeley, had six-hundred students from eighty countries. I was lucky to have lived there. But not everyone can.

I meet a lot of people through drawing. Some of them don’t leave a mark in my mind. Others, I think about years later. It could be a ten minute encounter, but it can make a permanent memory for me. Drawing portraits with both hands has been a big factor in the way I meet new people. I sometimes use it as a crutch—when at a party where I don’t know anyone; when I’m depressed and want someone to talk to; when I need a small favor—but I’ve had so many conversations and connections because of it.

I’ve been meaning to get around to writing about a few of these encounters on my website. I just started a new job, so they won’t come out too frequently. I plan to write a few per month. I usually don’t remember the names of the people I meet through drawing, so everyone I write about is anonymous. That’s a good thing, because not everyone can live in an incredible dorm. Not everyone can live at the International House. But I want everyone reading to understand that decent, nice, even awesome people live everywhere around you. That you can’t tell them apart by their eyebrows or hairstyle. They don’t have a dress code. They don’t look unique. They look just like you and me. And they may be sitting right next to you on your morning commute.

​I called my first portrait series The People You Meet at I House. But I’m leaving this one open ended. I don’t plan to ever be finished with this series. I’m at 4,628 portraits and counting. So I hope you enjoy reading a few stories of The People You Meet...

   I still remember those eyes. I’ve drawn a lot of people. A lot of eyes. But this girl was especially different. She was intensely curious when she saw me going around the packed waiting room, every seat full, those eyes following me as I drew each person. She listened closely as I talked to the other patients, eyebrows furrowed, leaning as far as she could without leaving her chair. She wore a mask, the kind you see in Beijing. The kind that makes you think contagious air-borne disease, or dangerous air pollution. Her nose, mouth, chin, all were covered. Others in the room had bruises, limbs in casts, and illnesses I couldn't see. But she had a mask. I’ve never drawn someone with a mask before her. I never have since.

I put aside my fear of contracting SARS long enough to ask her if she also wanted to be drawn. She was too shy at first, and waited for me to draw a few others before she finally said yes. We got a good conversation going. The mask helped her breathe, she said. She had lots of questions. Not the usual ones. Not the “How did you learn how to draw with both hands?”…”Are you ambidextreeous? (sic)”…” Do you do this full time?” not that kind. She had heard me answer those with other patients. Instead, she asked real questions. Questions that don’t see me as a freak of nature, but as an honestly interesting person. She wasn't from that area, if I remember correctly. She was a bit older than I. She spoke with hints of a southern accent. She was a big fan of German rap music. She was really interested in foreign countries, their histories, their music, cultures, and peoples, but had never left her own.  She was a spring of curiosity. A spring of interest and attachment to moments, hidden behind a mask. I remember her eyebrows: thick and black. I remember her eyes: clear and observant. And her will: to go places, far away; to learn things school would never teach her; to realize that a moment with a stranger could be something more than that.

Some patients that day had been waiting for care for five hours. She had been one of the first arrivals that day, and still hadn’t been helped by the time I left the room. I drew at least fifteen people there. I had already drawn a dozen more in another waiting room. My hands grew tired, but I drew some more even after that. Like always, I left each person their portrait to keep. She has hers with her, wherever she is now. So I don't know anymore know what she looked like, this girl with the mask. I don’t even remember her name. Still, I remember those eyes. I remember the eyebrows. The baseball cap, the long black hair, the slim nose. I've drawn thousands of people's portraits now. But this one girl sticks out in my mind: #3,978, the girl with the mask.

I may be a bit off, but if I remember correctly, this girl was portrait #3,978.