I’m always surprised whenever I look at my sketches of people around me, especially my friends. A finished sketch is more than a mere copy of a real person; for me it is somehow similar to an exploration of the thoughts that I cannot use words to describe. Even when I close my eyes, I am only able to imagine their faces vaguely. Only by drawing can I know how I see people – what parts of their face I always focus on and what parts I overlook.
For many people, the image of the picture they want to draw is engraved in their heads and they just have to move their pen to follow their thoughts, creating the exact same image they have imagined to the smallest details. But I never think while I’m drawing. My pen traces edges, creates forms and casts shadows by itself. I slowly discover my instinctive observation of people I draw: if my eyes are attracted to one part of the face, that part will be distinctively embellished with pencil lines. Once, for example, I drew my best friend. The sketch, finally, looks more like a photo using soft focus effect: the eyes stand out, carefully ornamented with lines, shapes and depths, shining on the center of the page while the profile, hair and mouth blur in the background. Another friend of mine, nevertheless, has all the shapes and waves of her hair flowing on my drawing of her from the back. In another picture, the person's dark thick eyebrows stand out. Having drawn many people, still, I have never been able to imagine myself even when my eyes are closed.
Soon I am assigned to draw a self-portrait for my art class. It is a scary yet exciting assignment, like a revelation of a me who has always been hidden. Though I have seen many photos of myself, I believe photos can tell lies since different photos give me different senses about myself. When looking into the mirror, I can also feel I’m not always the same person. But a sketch is solid, and unchangeable. It will tell me directly and genuinely if I look better or worse than I thought. In other words, the face that will appear on the page in front of me in the next two hours will be the real me.
I find myself sitting in front of the biggest mirror in my room, with a blank page, a pencil and an eraser, looking solemnly at another self reflected before me. It is a different self from yesterday, even from this morning. The tonight self is looking at me with an inscrutable defiance. Spending some minutes to get used to it, I start by drawing an ellipse for my face and locating the position of the eyes, nose and mouth. Then I go into smaller details, marking sunken parts of my skinny cheeks, adding space for my big forehead. Drawing the eyes is the most challenging part, since I must not only prevent myself from drawing huge anime eyes, but also remember that the eyes of a portrait contain its soul: a picture could not “come to life” until the eyes are done.
The self with the defiant look is still there, but it is transformed as I move my pencil on the hard surface of the paper. What it will be transformed into, I have no idea. I keep drawing, lines after lines, adding some shadows here and there, erasing and fixing. For two hours, I do not leave my seat until my little sketch comes to life. Tired yet sharp eyes, a slightly tightened mouth and untidy hair create a genuine image of me at 1 A.M., in my pajamas, trying to finish homework.
Now, for the first time, I am able to imagine myself through my own eyes and mind. Strangely, however, whenever I see those eyes – my eyes – looking back at me as I flip back to that page, I can still feel from such an authentic picture an inauthentic feeling: the lines and curves of my face, the shades of my nose and the blank space on my forehead all seem to pull me closer to the drawing as if to merge myself with the other me on it.