Escher 2 Hands
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The people you meet...

Many Little Things

26/1/2019

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‘Punctual, like the trains in Germany.’ The train is delayed by fifteen minutes. Then, the train is cancelled. People huddle in jackets, scarves, hats and gloves on the platform. When we finally get on the red regional train to the big city, it’s full with two train’s worth of people. So there is nowhere to sit.

I draw a few people, standing up. I can only use one hand, so I alternate with each portrait: one with my right hand, one with my left. They’re still defrosting from the long wait in the cold. Someone soon lets me use his giant suitcase as a table. Both hands make good use of it. An older couple can’t stop watching me. They can’t stop talking about me. I manage to draw one of them, before our train reaches its final destination. They wish me good luck.


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I make it in time for our lunch appointment. Living far from friends means we have to schedule these kinds of things. The line to the restaurant stretches far into the sidewalk on a freezing afternoon, but that’s no big deal. Once we’re waiting inside, it’s warm. I take a seat with my friends in the crowded reception area. I draw a family that, like us, is waiting for a table. As I draw each young daughter, they run over to show their dad. They proudly display their portraits to their grandma. Their dad gives me a nice smile. We get a table. We enjoy four delicious bowls of piping hot ramen.
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Some friends take the subway. I head to the tram with another friend. We pass the little girls and their family on our way. They’re still holding the beige sheets of paper I drew their faces on, dancing in the cold. “How’d you learn to draw people like that?” my friend asks, as we board our tram. Practice.

We sit down. Our ride is short. I draw a man dozing off, wearing a cap. Everyone is watching. People are talking. “…und mit beiden Händen!” (“…and with both hands!”) I can hear in conversations all around me. I stand up and quietly wake the man: Entschuldigung… he opens his eyes. Ihren Porträt. Ein Geschenk (excuse me…your portrait. It’s a gift). He looks at me, then the portrait. Everyone starts smiling. He starts smiling. An old lady starts clapping. Everyone starts clapping. “Do you draw like this everyday?” One of the old women asks. Yes.


My friend and I get off. He’s never seen me draw in a train before. I was lucky he joined me on a day I received an ovation. As we talk, two Kurdish men from the tram approach me. “Could you...also draw my picture?” one of them asks. I ask my friend if he’d mind. Sure, I tell them.

We find a café there in the station. They buy me a cappuccino. We take a seat on the long couch and I draw their pictures. A balding man with glasses can’t stop staring. His mouth hangs open the entire time I draw. My hands move fast now, warm and comfortable. I draw both men, then their girlfriends from photos they share with me, before I cap my pens; before I return my folder to its place in my bag. I make my way to leave. The balding man looks up. He points at his face. I close my eyes and smile. OK. I take my paper and pens out again. I draw one more portrait in this coffee shop. He can’t stop admiring it.
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I find the big red train that will take me home. I walk past each train car, surveying which will have the most faces for me to draw; which will have the best possibility for interesting conversations. I pick a seat, and realize I know the girl across from me. I drew her only two weeks ago! She was an artist herself, and drew me too. I smile at her. She recognizes me too.

I draw a young couple. “…und mit beiden Händen!” says an older woman near us. Naturally, I draw her next. We talk of studies and work and my experiences being new in Germany. I set my eyes on someone sitting a bit farther from us. I draw her picture. I hand it to her. Ano…kimi wa nihonjin desuka? (um…are you Japanese?) “Ehhh? Yes I am!” she answers. I change seats. I sit next to her and her boyfriend. There are no Japanese people in my small town. A chance to practice like this is a rare treat, I explain. She watches my hands move, mouth open as I draw her boyfriend. “…Ryou te de!” (“…With both hands!”) she exclaims, at least a few times. “I find it amazing you can talk and draw at the same time,” the boyfriend tells me, in German. No, the hard part is drawing and speaking in Japanese at the same time, I explain. I get a few minutes of practice in. What I can’t say in Japanese I explain in German, the gears of language in my brain shifting with less friction now. Kore wa watashi no eki desu, (this is my stop), I say, telling them goodbye. “Hopefully we’ll meet again,” the Japanese woman responds.
The doors open and I step off the train. I put on my jacket, scarf, hat, and gloves at the platform. I head home.
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I Miss Singapore

6/11/2018

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It startles me.

“Who are you drawing?” an old lady on a bright train in Singapore asks. I haven’t been drawing for even twenty seconds. Already someone asks a question. Um…I’m drawing that lady over there. I sort of point to the woman I’m drawing, but she hasn’t noticed I’m drawing her, so I speak quietly. “And will you give it to her when you’re done,” she asks loudly, “or will you keep it for yourself? I don’t think she knows you’re drawing her. Hello over there!” She waves her hand. She gets the attention, instead, of the older woman’s husband. He taps his wife, “see, look at this! This guy’s drawing your face!” It’s awkward. I’m not used to this much open attention. This woman is not shy. I’m learning that Singapore is opposite Japan, and opposite Germany, in that people are not afraid of me; in that they always open contact on their own. “How long does it take you to draw someone?” Um…about three minutes. “Oh! That’s so fast. And with two hands. I’ve never seen that before. Have you ever seen that before?” she asks a third older lady on the train. “Say…what happens if you’re not finished with a portrait yet, but the person has to alight? Or what happens if you need to get off?...” The questions come rapidly, one after the other. Before I’ve finished answering one, the next comes. All the pressure makes this picture take longer. I can’t get some shapes right. I can’t do a perfect job on the picture, and everyone’s expectations are so high, but I hand off what I have to the lady I drew. She likes it. Her husband gives a thumbs up.

“Who are you going to draw next?” the curious lady asks. Um…I don’t know. Maybe I’ll draw- “-You should draw that lady over there.” She interrupts, pointing to an older woman sitting across from her. “She’s not going to get off for a lot of stations.” The woman with many stations giggles. She and the curious lady are probably friends. I draw her portrait, then turn to see who’s next. I nod to an Indian man sitting next to me. He shakes his head. “I alight at the next station.” Seeing an opportunity, a Chinese tourist sitting behind him hops up: “Please, then, draw me next!” He tries to find a seat across from me, squeezing between commuters. I do my best. I hand it over. His smile grows so big, he asks his wife to come over and take a photo of us together. I can’t stand and go to him—I have too many things. He comes to me instead. There is nowhere for him to sit so he kneels on the floor beside me. His wife snaps a photo of us together, posing with his portrait. His English isn’t good—but his Thank You’s are emphatic.
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The lights above the train doors show my stop is coming soon. This train is nothing like I expected Singapore to be. I wasn’t expecting a country that outlaws singing loudly in subways, chewing gum in public, and bringing smelly fruit on the train to have some of the friendliest commuters I’ve ever seen.
I’ve drawn quite some people in this train car now. “Can you draw me too?” I’m surprised to look up and suddenly see an excited university student in front of me. “And do you mind if I film you?” her sister asks, holding up a smartphone and a smile. She’s wearing a yellow pullover dress. They’re a family, with parents in tow. They saw me from a different train car and came over to be drawn.

Sure, I say. No problem. “Oh! But you’ll have to hurry! We’re getting off at Outram Park. That’s the next station!” the student realizes. “Can you draw someone that fast?” No, I can’t. But we work out a plan. When the stop arrives, I get off the train with them. There’s a bench by the tracks. We take a seat, and I can take my time. Because I want to do a good job for this student and her family. Because they look like they really appreciate it. The whole family—mom, dad, daughter, sister—ask me questions:

“Why do you do this for free?”
“How long have you been drawing for?”
“Do you like Singapore? Will you miss it here?”
“What should I do to make an impact on the world?”


…How am I supposed to know that? What am I supposed to answer to that? I don’t know this family, I don’t know the secret to making the world a better place, but this student and her sister ask me life advice anyway. They listen in rapt attention to everything I say. And it is so heartwarming, to see the faith they have in me. Their earnestness, their curiosity, their deep respect in me feel so…good.
We talk for ten minutes. I draw the one university student, then the other. They say a million Thank You’s. They ask for a selfie, all five of us together, grinning wide as the Pacific Ocean.

We part ways.

I told them I wasn’t sure I’d miss Singapore. It’s just a city. But nearly one year later, I find I was wrong. Yes, I do miss Singapore. I miss its commuters, and I miss that beautiful ride in February.
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Someone posted video of me on one of the Singapore trains. See the photos and videos on Instagram.
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He Looked Friendly

19/10/2018

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It’s quite late. I sit in the quiet waiting room of the central train station. The walls are painted a dark color and the lamps aren’t all that bright. A few people are trying to sleep behind me, in the time before their train arrives. There’s an older Thai woman and her adult daughter with their large luggage rollers sitting to one side. There’s a man with a scar on his face, one eyelid drooping lower than the other, with hollow cheeks. He’s unfolding a newspaper and reading. I sit down, lay my bag on the seat next to me, and pull out my paper and two pens.

I draw the man. Actually, he’s a little bit scary looking. I’ve learned through drawing seven-thousand-four-hundred-and-eleven people that the order you draw people in is important. Everyone can smile when they get a portrait—but it’s safest to draw the scary looking people last.

Tonight, though, I take a chance. I draw him first. While his scarred face looks like it’s been through a lot, he doesn’t act scary—he’s even reading! My two hands start to move, gliding the ballpoint pens across the surface of the paper, this way, then that.  As I’m about to finish, the man takes note. He looks up from his newspaper. He looks at me, then his watch. He gets up to leave. Just before he can, I hand him his portrait. It’s for you, I say, wearing a smile. It doesn’t cost anything. He looks at it for a while. He puts his things back on his seat. He walks over to me. “Do you think I look friendly?” he asks. There’s no smile on his face. I don’t understand his question. I’ve never been asked this before. Well, I didn’t draw you because you looked friendly, I drew you because you were in front of me. I like to draw people, so I draw everyone. It doesn’t matter what they look like. “I see,” he said. “But…when you drew me…” he thinks over his words, “…did you think I looked friendly?” I still don’t understand his question. I still don’t understand his tone. Does he not like his picture? Did he not want to be drawn? I don’t say yes. I don’t say no. I’m not sure what to say. At my reaction, he looks a bit disappointed. “My friends tell me that I’m not a friendly looking guy. I thought maybe…you thought different.”

Just then I realize what he wanted. Just then I realize that he’s just an ordinary guy with a scary face. Just then I realize that after getting over the shock of being drawn with two hands, his mind started to contemplate something even stranger: that this young artist could think he looked friendly.
 

It all took place in the matter of a few seconds. If there had been more time, or had I not been so tired, I would’ve caught on earlier. I would have told him yes, I thought you looked friendly. But it was too late. He was already gone.
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She Forgave Me

22/5/2018

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I get onto a Saturday afternoon train to the big city. Experience has taught me that while the elderly don’t pose a threat to me, here in Germany they often feel threatened by me—so I look for a place to sit near immigrants; near youngsters; near people under forty. Finding a seat on a train is like opening a pack of Pokémon cards: you never know what’ll you’ll get to work with. But you work with it. The new parents with mixed kids I had noticed go to sit in some far corner of the train. Before me instead are a group of elderly women. But they’re happy—even full of energy. I get to drawing the happiest one. Whispers begin, and soon smiles too. They are all abuzz with the drawing. They start a conversation with me. By the time I begin on the second elderly lady, even others on the train join in on the conversation. There is such a glow on that short ride. You can never know, until you try.
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​Two of the lively old ladies.
That was a short train ride, but this was a long journey. One train was finished, a much longer one was to begin. I wait by the platform until my connection arrives. I climb on, and walk from one train car to the next, trying to find a ‘nice deck.’ I settle for a seat next to some Taiwanese college students. Nǐ shì zhōngguó rén ma? (Are you a Chinese person?) I ask. A nice conversation ensues. After plenty of practice in Chinese, I begin to draw the one, then the other. Of course, the other eyes in the train are attracted even more by two-handed drawing than by a brown guy with an afro speaking Chinese. One older German woman with a head of white hair is especially leaning over to watch. So after drawing a third person on the train, I begin to draw the older woman who was so curious.
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​The Taiwanese students.

​“No! I don’t want a portrait,” she says in English, sharply. I’m not expecting this. “You’re not allowed to draw someone’s picture without asking them first. It’s just like taking a photograph.” She sternly explains, still in English. Woah. I’ve only had this kind of negative response three times before—even after six-thousand portraits in ten countries! It never feels good. 
You don’t want a portrait, and that’s fine, I explain to the white-haired woman in German. But I have a reason for not asking. I can say, ‘this is free,’ ‘it costs nothing,’ ‘it’s just my hobby, I’ve drawn six-thousand portraits before you,’ and people will still ask: “but how much does it cost?” People look at my curly afro and my dark skin and think I am a refugee, who must be struggling for one or two Euros more. I’m American, working here as a software developer, but no words I can say, no way I can ask can break through this pre-conception. She is now surprised. She recognizes that what may be easy for her to do as a German woman is a lot more complicated for someone like me. I’m watching her reaction. I’m not talking for my benefit, I really want her to know this. I really want her to understand this. I really want to challenge her perception of me she began the conversation with. So I seek measured words.

“OK, you’re American, I know Americans. My daughter lives in Colorado. But you’re not really from America, you immigrated there from somewhere, right?” She asks, switching the conversation again to English. Wooph. It’s one of the hardest things you can do: change a person’s mind, when they don’t want it changed. I was born in America. I respond slowly in German, My dad came from this place, my mom  from that place, and I studied in California. “You studied art there?” I studied mathematics there. I don’t fit in any of her boxes. As the conversation continues, she is only more and more surprised.

She doesn’t like me, but she can’t stop asking questions. We talk, it turns out, until we reach the end of the line—more than half an hour. I still have more of a journey ahead of me. Before I take my leave, I say a few words: I apologize if I offended you in not asking. But I hope you understand now why I didn’t ask. “Oh, it’s OK,” she says, making a face. “I forgive you.”
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The Girl Who Was Like Water

16/3/2018

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I have two bags. Together, they weigh 13.6 kg—too heavy for my airline. “It’s OK, I’ll let it through. Just be careful for next time,” the very polite check-in attendant warns me. On the plane, I see why. The overhead lockers are stuffed. I check one section, then another, before I give up. Instead, I try to squeeze my two bags under the seat above me. 13.6 kg—too many souvenirs to fit comfortably in the space before me. “Actually you can put it under this seat here. I don’t think there’s anyone sitting between us.” The girl with the window seat says. I slide out my black, oversized handbag. I push it under the middle chair. A much better fit—no more squeezing. That’s a strange accent…are you American? I ask. No. She’s not. She’s from Singapore. The destination of our aircraft. She’s heading home after a trip to Taiwan.

We start the conversation slowly, talking about food: love-it-or-hate-it dishes and regional delicacies. Soon I notice something strange: she doesn’t love anything or hate anything. She likes ‘garlic cheese’ but doesn’t care much for it. She listens to music but can’t invest the time to know the bands’ names. She watches movies but doesn’t like to think about them afterwards. “For me, because I like a little bit of everything, I don’t really follow anything.”

Sure, I’ve heard “I listen to everything” before. I’ve heard “I really don’t know what I like to do” before. But it’s never true. With sharp skill, the layers of passive I don’t know’s can be trimmed away. I’ve had lots of practice. Most times, I only have a few stops on the train line to get to know someone; to get a feel for that person. I’ve gotten good at cutting the fat off conversations. I’ve gotten good at finding what makes a person smile. But in this case…I trim and trim only to find more fat.

There’s a question I ask that can often reveal a lot about a person: If you could spend the day with your (half your age) self, at the end of the day, what would your younger self be most impressed with about you? She makes a face. “Honestly, I don’t like kids very much. So I’m not sure what I would even tell my younger self. I don’t think my younger self would like me enough to be impressed by anything. So honestly, like, I don’t know. Nothing, I guess.” I’m starting to realize that maybe this isn’t just a defense. Maybe it’s not that she’s too embarrassed to talk about what drives her. Maybe, this girl from Singapore with well-shaped eyebrows really has no defining interests; really has never let herself develop a passion; really has no shape, conforming to the container she’s in: this girl is like water.

Her brother, I learn, is more like me. He has dreams and ambitions. He enters a conversation knowing what he wants. He talks of deep things. She does not. “All my conversations are really surface, because, I guess I think that nobody really cares about my opinion anyway.”

I like to stare into the depths of people’s souls—I like to know what makes them. When I see a face, I imagine what makes it smile; what makes it frown, cry, grow sad, look puzzled; what makes it laugh. The week before, I visited a crossing in Shibuya with literally a river of people. Thousands of bodies, moving in and out with the flow of traffic lights. Thousands of faces. I looked at as many as I could. I stared into their eyes. I tried to see their souls. I tried to imagine their families. I tried to imagine how they grew up and who they were. I didn’t want to see them as water. I didn’t want to dehumanize them. But this Singaporean girl on the plane, who likes ‘garlic cheese’ but doesn’t care much for it, this girl who watches ’11 ways you know you’re really Singaporean’ but doesn’t particularly enjoy it, this girl with well-shaped eyebrows who sums herself up as a ‘squiggle,’ she may well be water. 

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Until the End of the Hibiya Line

11/3/2018

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​Do you mind if I draw a few people? I never know what kind of attention I’ll attract through these drawings. So if I’m with a friend, I ask before I begin to draw, as a courtesy. “Actually, I’m really curious to see what people’s reactions will be. Is there a particular place we should sit?”
 
The prospects look decent. It’s a late night, so there are still available seats on this downtown Hibiya line. We have five or six stops, around fifteen minutes. —That is absolutely right! It was Hibiya line where all the wonderful things happened!! (This is a bit of a unique occasion; since my friend was there too, I asked him to look over my draft of this story. I put his comments in green)
His stop is one before mine. “So…who are you thinking about drawing? The girl in front of us? Or…” I think I’ll draw this guy on our left. He has a head of black hair that is combed forward at the top. He is probably in his early thirties. He has strong eyebrows. His collar is raised quite high, covering his chin and obscuring his jaw. I draw what I see. Of course, the gentleman notices. But this is Tokyo. This isn’t something you do here. So the gentleman looks away. He continues reading his book. And then it’s done. I put my pens down, I snap a photo, put my camera back in my pocket. Sumimasen, I say, Anata no kaku desu. Kore wa purezento desu. (Excuse me, it’s your portrait. This is a present).

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​The gentleman isn’t sure about this. He isn’t sure he should touch the green cardstock paper with his likeness in blue and black ink. Finally, he does. He takes a moment to look at it. Then he stares at me. “…Doushite?” (…Why?) he asks. I try to explain, with my limited Japanese vocabulary, that this is my hobby. That I’ve drawn 5705 people before him. That I find people interesting. But he says something more. This is longer and I cannot understand it. —I think he actually said that he was very happy about the present, since he has never been portrayed by somebody and it was completely a surprise.
He also said “Kon-na koto arunn da na…” meaning “I never expected this to happen to me…” with very surprised but bright face.

​Ano…moichido, kudasai. (Um…once more, please). This is why I want to learn more Japanese. This is why I want to know more of every language. By his second sentence, he already reached the limits of my skill in his language. I ask him to repeat his question. Maybe then I’ll understand. But my friend has been watching the whole thing. As shocked as the gentleman is, so too is my friend, sitting beside me. He’s never seen this before, in all his days taking these trains in Tokyo. He comes to my rescue. “He asked where you grew up.” Kohei, my friend, peeks his head out from behind me. Now, they get a good look at each other, these two. They introduce themselves: first name, last name. Kohei explains what I’m doing here, what he’s doing with me. I realize this isn’t just my conversation—it’s Kohei’s.
 
These two Tokyo natives who just expected an ordinary night, an ordinary train ride, shared a moment. They shared in something they thought was so rare, they just kept on talking. I don’t remember all that was said, nor was all of it translated for me, although my friend Kohei tried his best. But I remember that soon we passed stops four, five, and six. And then Kohei’s stop came. Kohei did not care. He just kept on talking. Mine, too, came and went. We kept on talking.
 
“What kind of coffee do you like?” The gentleman, Takayuki asked. —Yes, his name was Takayuki Maeda. He had started a business selling coffee based on each person’s individual tastes. He was trying to figure a way to thank me. He decided to send me a free package of coffee. He would send one to Kohei, too. But…this wasn’t enough. “How can I repay you?” I think for a moment. I respond. People have given me things. I can’t always pay them back. So I pay it forward. I give things freely to others. Please, like I gave this portrait to you, do something kind to someone else. It was a lot of words, but Kohei got the meaning across to this gentleman, Takayuki. “Sou ka…” (I see…) he said. “Today...today is the day of beginning for this. I will do nice things for others, starting from today.”
 
I don’t know if he has. I don’t know if he will, pay it forward. But I know that at that moment, on that night, on that train on the Hibiya line through Tokyo, he meant it.
We talked all the way until the end of the line.

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“Is it always like this? Are all the conversations you make through portraits like this?” my friend Kohei asks. There’s wonder in his eyes. I can feel his excitement. No, I say. It’s not too common. Maybe one in thirty. We make our way to the train heading the opposite direction. We missed our stop, after all. “Is there a particular place we should sit?” my friend asks again, this time with more meaning. This time with an understanding. Here is just fine.
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Three minutes, done. ​Sumimasen!...Anata no kaku desu. Puresento desu!" (Excuse me! It's your portrait. It's a present!) "Really…? Is this me?" the young gentleman sitting across from me asks. "…is it…free?" Yes. One in thirty? No. Tonight it’s two in two. This gentleman is a Korean student on exchange. He has the greatest reaction. He wants to know more. “But…how did you draw me? With those two pens?” I respond through demonstration. —The Korean Student and people around you looked and was amazed by your technique of drawing! They were amazed as if they were seeing a show by Cirque du Soleil or something!
I draw a man sitting beside him. I draw a woman with a large collar sitting a little further. I draw a handsome gentleman. I notice an old man has been watching this whole exchange. He tells one passenger to look up, because he’s next. So after that, I draw the old man, too. He was happy to pose.
 

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The old man will not forget that train ride on the Hibiya line. The Korean student who was more amazed now than even before—he will not forget it. The others on the train who were awakened from that sleepy night—they won’t forget it either. Takayuki, Kohei, they have a memory that will stay with them for the rest of their lives.
 
I haven’t forgotten that train ride either.
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A Present from Japan

25/2/2018

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"Uh...uh...Thank you!"

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The Grandson

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She asks a few questions with the English she knows...

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The Grandpa

I am nervous. I don’t know if what I do works here. I know the rules of engagement in Germany, in Norway, back home in the USA, in Switzerland, in Europe. But this is Japan. This is the Tokyo subway. I’ve been told you don’t talk here. It’s so quiet. People are on their phones, reading manga, taking naps, or staring at their feet. I notice people don’t even acknowledge eachother’s presence. That seat isn’t taken by someone—it’s just pretended to not be there. You don’t make room for someone to sit beside you—you just happen to prefer less space suddenly. I have six stops to Harajuku—I’m meeting friends there. The culture here is so different. And I’m not sure if it’s OK for me to draw here.

Of course…I do anyway. I draw a girl who first is surprised I am using two hands. She then tries to ignore me by checking her phone. In a train where everyone is trying to go unnoticed, I am like a Las Vegas casino. Eyes start to point in my direction—even if they dash away when I look up. A grandpa with his high-school-aged grandson nudges his wife: he says something in Japanese. He makes a drawing motion with his two hands. Three minutes go by. I hand the girl her picture. Sumimasen, anata no kaku desu. (“Excuse me, this is your portrait”). “Oh! Uh…uh…thank you!” she stares at her picture. She is totally confused. Doitashimashite! I say, and begin to draw the next person. I start on the grandson.

He looks confused. But his grandparents know exactly what I’m doing. They tell him to look at me. They tell him to smile. Now the furtive glances from my fellow passengers aren’t as scared. They hang longer. Some smile at me. Three minutes more: done. Sumimasen! Anata no kaku desu! (“Excuse me! This is your portrait!”). Now there are big smiles. A woman next to me with a mask (to protect a cough, I imagine), starts talking to the first girl I drew. They share in their disbelief. The grandparents join in on the conversation. I can’t understand what they’re saying—my Japanese isn’t good enough—but I can see what they’re meaning. I can see how much they’re enjoying watching this foreigner give gifts on a train.

A few stations have gone by already. The first girl has gotten off. New people come; they find seats to rest in or a strap to hold tight against the back and forth motion of the train car. I take a look around. This train is so much different than when I got on. Now we are sharing a train car, all focusing together on the same experience. Now we acknowledge the presence of one another. I take a look around. My eyes settle on a girl beside me. I start to draw her. She thinks it’s cool, and asks a few questions with the English she knows. And then it’s done. Ano…anata no kaku desu…(“um…this is your portrait”).

I really wonder what those who only just got on the train thought. Only a few moments later, the grandma whose grandson I drew stood up from her seat. She had seen enough. ­She walked across the divide from her side to mine. She bowed. “Arigatou gozaimasu!” (“Thank you very much!”)—this is a really respectful way of speaking. I am probably less than one third her age. I am a foreigner on a train, with a heavy coat a few sizes too big for me and a goofy camera lens cap. But she shows me the utmost respect. She holds something small in her hands. Bowing, she hands it to me. “Nihon no purezento desu!” (“This is a present from Japan.”) I take it from her two hands. It’s a dog on a key-chain. It has googly-eyes. I smile. I can’t help it. This is the cutest thing I could ever imagine!

​In just a few minutes more, my stop arrives. “How was your ride here? Was the train OK?” my friends ask me. It was great, I respond. I got a present from Japan.
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Don't Worry, Paper's on It's Way!

19/1/2018

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I’m always running out of paper.

Like this time on December 31st in London Gatwick airport, on my way from LA to Munich. I had something like a five-hour layover there. I passed through security, made my way to the train ticket counter to see if I could visit the big city. It didn’t have to be long—a breath of fresh air would do. “Uh-uh,” the ticket vendor said. “Five hours? There’s no way you’ll make it back in time.” I sit in the airport.

I don’t have a smart phone, but I have about thirty sheets of really special, not ordinary, thick, light green paper, and two pencils. I know what to do with them. I draw everyone around me during my five hour layover: a young Alaskan couple making their way to Italy. A Russian family with a young girl, hair braided and legs swinging. An Indian man with a great big mustache. An old British couple. A French brother and sister, who try to teach me their language. And with each person I draw, my stack of special lime-green paper gets just a little thinner.

I draw two families travelling with about six kids. They’re on their way to a snowboarding exhibition. They want to pay me. I explain what I really need is more paper. “Sorry, we don’t have any.” The stack gets lower. I’ve got four, three, two, finally one sheet left. I look left, then right. I shake out my hands (it’s important to take good care not to overwork them). I start on my final portrait. “-Don’t worry!” a young girl says, in the most adorable British accent. “Paper is on its way!” Her parents and a few of the kids were dispatched to find me more paper. They head down the terminal, asking workers along the way. Soon I’m all done with this portrait. I hand it over. One of the little ones assures me: “they’re going to bring the paper soon.” Such a cute accent.

​And the paper does come. About twenty sheets of everyday, ordinary, A4 printer paper. With it, I am able to draw until my plane takes off. It’s not the paper that’s special. It’s what I can do with it. When I land in Munich, and have to take my train back to my apartment, I run out again. I’m always running out of paper. But there are always more people. There are always more smiles to create. So on the S-bahn heading home, I use the back of my boarding pass to draw just one more person. Shuffling through my folder, I find my itinerary: even just *one more* person. It turns out, it was his birthday.
Forty-six people in one journey. I am always running out of paper.
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Number One

4/1/2018

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Picture
Portrait number one.

Who was number one? I don’t know. I simply can’t remember. If I were to guess, I would say it was in a Communications class in the top floor of a building in the Mojave Desert. But that’s only a guess. In reality, I have no memory of who portrait number one, ten, one hundred, or one thousand were. I don’t remember people by the number I write on their portrait. I remember them because they were interesting—because their personality is one in one thousand (sometimes literally!). And so today I write about a different portrait number one.

I was travelling from Berlin to Munich. I needed to stop somewhere along the way. My first time in Germany, I had only partly planned my trip. Where to next? I trace my finger on one of the giant maps in the Berlin train station. Kassel…Rodenburg…Ulm…I’ve never heard of any of these cities. Dusseldorf! I’ve heard of that! I decide to stop there. I note down the next departure time. Before long I find a seat on the high-speed train: ICE, Inter-City Express. I get my luggage in order. I settle in, find a seat, pull out a white sheet of paper, two pencils, and get started doing what I always do.

He’s a mellow looking guy, still studying in university. He’s got a black jacket with the zipper only partly fastened. “Are you American?” Yes. I didn’t even need to open my mouth. I don’t know how he can tell so easily. Maybe it’s the drawing strangers part. “Where are you heading to?” Dusseldorf. “Why?” Because it’s the only city I’ve heard of between Berlin and Munich. “Really?” chimed in another passenger. She’s a bit ‘goth.’ She’s been paying attention ever since I started drawing the student. “If you’re only visiting Dusseldorf for that, you really need to visit Köln instead.” “She’s right, you know…” the student adds, “the people in Köln are really nice and down to earth. The people in Dusseldorf on the other hand…” his face wrinkles, “…are too schickimicki.” It means snooty, I learn. “Trust me, if you can only visit one city in Germany, Köln is the best one to visit.” A third rider chimes in.

It’s this third rider who was curious enough, brave enough, crazy enough, to take a look at what I was doing with my hands. I had drawn one, two, all three riders already. Of course, with both hands. We talked about that too. And so, after a few stops, and a lot of questions, she asks if she can have a piece of paper. She asks if she can borrow my two pencils. She gets up and finds a seat facing me. She places the sheet of drawing paper on the small table between us. She holds the pencils tight. She looks up at me, steady. “OK, I’m gonna try this too.” Pencils hit paper. One hand mirrors the other: left right, right left. Her eyebrows knit: this is hard. Just let your left follow your right. Don’t mirror. I advise. She nods. She tries again: left left, right right. It’s faster this time. The wrinkles dissolve from her forehead. “You’re right, this is easier!”

Everybody is watching. She apologizes every so often: “I’m sorry this won’t be as fast as yours!” This one isn’t done in three minutes. But we all look on as slowly, my face comes to be recognizable on the paper, here on the table we share. She holds it up and stares: first at me, then the paper, then me, then the paper. “It’s done!” she exclaims, before snapping a photo. “Here you go! It’s my gift to you, now.” She is so proud. I hold the paper in my hands. It was a good job. She matched my format: I see her signature, the date, and at the top left, something special: a number one. I am portrait number one.

​I hope she drew a portrait number two. And I hope by now, she’s had the joy of marking down a one-hundred, five-hundred, or even a one-thousand, on the corner of her portraits too.

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Number Ninety-Two

8/10/2017

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A dozen tiny pieces of paper flutter to the ground. They fall at my feet. They fall at his feet; his girlfriend’s. “What did you think you were doing, huh?” He shifts around in his blue plastic seat. I was only drawing. “Yeah, but why’d you draw me? Why’d you draw me, huh?” Because I just started drawing people. I want to draw one-hundred people, and I’m really close. You were number ninety-two. I only need eight more to draw one-hundred. “Yeah, well, you should’ve asked. It’s rude. You’re rude, man. This guy, this guy, he tried to draw me. He didn’t ask, he just started drawing me. That’s rude, right?” The gentleman is nervous, but angry—two emotions that don’t normally go together. He looks to others in the bus for confirmation. “…hey, I thought it was kinda cool…” his girlfriend said. She doesn’t like that he had torn his unfinished portrait into all those pieces. “Yeah, well, you’re lucky we’re in a bus, man. I might just get up and beat your ass. Drawing me? This guy was trying to draw me. That’s rude. It’s really rude. You need to ask people before you just go around drawing them. That’s rude, man.”

The back of the bus is quiet now. I don’t want the situation to escalate, and I really don’t want to get hurt. So I tell him I’ll ask next time. Looking at the tiny shreds of his portrait on the floor of the rocking bus, I start thinking maybe he was right. Maybe I need to ask everyone before I draw them. Maybe somehow what I’m doing is rude. But when I ask…people say no. They don’t know why you’re asking; if you’ll want something in return; why you chose to ask them. It’s just too weird and random—so people just say…no. It’ll take me a lot longer to reach one-hundred this way.

I get off the bus. I have to wait for another. A friend of mine has taken the same bus from school. He had heard the noise. “What was that all about on the bus?” I explain what happened. He can tell it affected me. “Don’t worry about it. Look, that’s one guy in what, ninety people you’ve drawn? I think it’s pretty cool that you draw people anyway. Look, if you want to draw somebody, draw them. Don’t worry about this one person. He probably just got out of prison and was already in trouble again. Just don’t draw people that look like ex-cons, and you’ll be alright.” Others, waiting at the bus stop, had seen the whole thing play out too. They were warm and encouraging. “Yeah, he just crazy! Just keep doing yo’ thing, baby.” I was still a bit shaken, a bit depressed. But I drew a few of them too: ninety-three, ninety-four, ninety-five…

That week I reached my goal of one-hundred portraits.

That was a few years ago. Today I reached portrait number five-thousand-and-twenty-five. Five thousand…I cannot imagine how different life would be had I stopped at ninety-two. Sometimes, the coolest things in life grow slowly, randomly, without a real reason. A love of music, fashion, cooking, writing, comics, drawing: these things need time to mature. They need time to become rewarding. With enough time, they flourish and grow into some really cool things.

At the I House, my dorm in college, I grew this hobby. I drew every one of the six-hundred residents there, two years in a row. Six-hundred students from Lebanon, China, Israel, Argentina, Guinea, Finland, Kenya—eighty different countries. And through drawing all of them, I got to meet and talk with each of them. I got to learn about the lives of people from every corner of the Earth. I had an excuse: I was just drawing their portraits. “I want to draw six-hundred people at this dorm, and I’m really close—you’re number five-hundred-and-ninety-two.” I met many friends I never would have had this way. I wrote a few of them just today.

I still draw people on buses. I still draw people on trains. I still remember the face of a homeless man on a subway with a great big beard, who grinned from ear to ear when he saw his portrait. He folded it neatly and kept it in his coat pocket. I still remember the smiles and fascination of three school boys who I drew one by one on a train while commuting. They compared their portraits and talked with cheerful voices as they got off the train. I still remember the stories and the struggles I’ve learned from others I’ve drawn.

No, I don’t always ask first. I often don’t ask first. Even so, every now and then, I get a message in my inbox from one of these strangers. Here’s one I especially like:

It was on the morning commute, Valentine's Day 2017, when you drew my portrait. I had been watching you surprise individuals on the Expo Line heading to Santa Monica with their exquisitely drawn images (each one being completed in the travel time between one metro stop). Amazing work! I was happy when you settled upon my pate, knowing that you had recognized my interest in your work. Thanks, again!
Portrait #3,484

This person wrote me two months after her portrait was drawn. Some write me the same day. Others six-months after. But I’ve been lucky enough to see a lot of smiles. A few thousand more than if I had stopped with number ninety-two.

…

A bit of advice for you out there getting started with candid portraits:
  1. Draw old people first. They know they have no reason to be worried. If there are no elderly around, draw women, draw children, or draw ‘geeks’ next. Once everyone understands what you’re doing, they relax. Then you can draw anyone, sometimes even those who look like ‘ex-cons.’
  2. If someone asks if you’re drawing them, be honest. Say yes. Let them know you don’t want money. Let them know you’ll give them their portrait when you’re finished. The more they know, the less they worry.
  3. Be kind and respectful. If you mean well, most people will mean you well.
  4. Draw only when you’re in a public place with many people. It’s safer.
Those are just a few rules I learned. I don’t need to follow some of them anymore. I draw with both hands now—it’s so out-of-the-ordinary, most are too distracted to think of anything else (one high schooler spent three minutes alternating between “wow” and “voll wow,” German for “totally wow”). I’ve seen a lot of mouths hanging open, a lot of speechless people. With time, you get better talking with people. You can put them at ease more quickly and even get some good conversations going. Remember that some things take time. Never let one bad experience—or two—stop you from starting something new.
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    Hi there! I'm Morgan. I'm American, lived in Germany, and now work in Kuala Lumpur. I draw people with both hands at the same time. I studied math and now work in as a Product Owner in app development. While I love learning new things in math and art, I think people are the most interesting subject!

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