WRITE TEAM: Drawing a memory

My pencil touches the paper lightly. My hand moves in a slow, careful arc. The sound of the graphite gliding along the page drowns out the world and focuses my eyes on the single grey curve. My hand stops of its own accord. I take a breath, steel myself, and continue, cold sweat running down my back as I fight to remember her — not just her face but her character.

The key to making great art is by first observing the world around you, learning how things move, how the muscles stretch and twitch under the skin, how the shadows play and how light manipulates them. When drawing a particular subject, you should make yourself familiar with every aspect of it.

So many portraits seem empty, as if they’re missing something, and sometimes they are: Life.They are dead portraits of long dead people or dead portraits of living people. I don’t want her portrait to be like that. I want it to be true to her. Alas, it has been so long ... so very long ...

I rip the paper off the desk and set it aside for a different project, moving quickly to the next sheet. The curve was all wrong, not good enough, not true enough. I make another, willing my hand steady. My wrist aches. I am holding the pencil too firmly. It careens to the right, and I bite my tongue. I angrily shove the pencil and the sullied sheet of paper away. I tell myself to calm down. Her memory should not be tainted by the rage I swallowed.

I start again, more gently this time, holding her in my mind lightly. I had been thinking too hard. I had chased the ephemeral memory of her away, scared it into the shadows. Not again. Lightly now. I call on other memories to coax hers out. By remembering the sound of her laughter, I suddenly remember how she smiled.By remembering the scent of homemade pancakes in the morning, I suddenly remember her hands on the whisk, churning the batter. Her skin is tanned, sun-kissed, woven by the light. Her movements are bold, rarely shy. Her thoughts are pure, her dreams clear, her heart enormous. There she is. I remember and keep my hand moving, my tears brimming as the memories unfold, but I don’t need to see for this: My hand moves to the feel of the memories.

She was a burgeoning artist and writer who loved too freely. My hand trembles unexpectedly as the memories turn darker. No, stick to the light. Remember her as she was before the abyss of time, experience, and space swallowed her.

My hand halts. I set my pencil down and wipe my eyes. Once I can see again, I turn my eyes down to the paper. My heart stutters, stops. Grief overcomes me. I had attempted to sketch her portrait, and I fear that I’ve struck too true. On my paper is a headstone surrounded by flowers. I look across at my mirror and wonder if she really is dead, murdered by life. I throw the picture away. I hope I’ll find that little girl again, that she’s only hiding, not gone forever. She certainly isn’t forgotten.

KAYLA COOK has lived in Ottawa since 2012. She can be reached by emailing tammies@mywebtimes.com.