Photographs, magazines, old movie stills, Rey searches in vein...He walks into his make shift studio. Rests a Jack and coke on the dining room table, as he plants his butt on a worn stool. A newly purchased canvas, rests, waiting, on the cheap pine easel, I surprised him with last week.
A single easel, a clip-on light, burning into the white...the dam white is glaring at him. He furrows his brow. Grips his fingers, tightly, around a freshly-sharped graphic pencil.
And, unconsciously, picks up an over-worked, misused, rubber eraser, just in case.
The blinding white light dances, creating shadows, on the now, taunting blankness.
He adjusts the light. Roughly, tugging on the shade, swearing at his misfortune.
Rey squirms, uncomfortably on the wobbly stool. He stiffens his back, then relaxes. He stretches his confused fingers and drops his unused pencil in defeat. The eraser remains tight in his grasp.
He cracks, his knuckles, allowing the eraser to crash to the floor. He cracks his neck with his eyes squeezed shut. He twists his back with one hand remaining on his hip. He scans the room looking lost.
He catches me watching. A quick, unsure smile flashes across his conflicted face.
He picks up the pencil and glances at me with intrigue. I'm pretending not to look. He studies me, I grow self-conscious from his eager stare.
I can sense a mixture of caution and creativity pouring through him. He scoops up his pencil and feverishly drags the lead across the white space. Creating swooping circles, long straight lines and tight ovals.
Fast and furious, as inspiration clearly rings in his ears.
A wide smile parades, as the music of his magnificent muse sings, and his gifted hands produce.
I leave him alone to create. Daydream. Transcribe and discover. I leave the room knowing that he'll find the clarity to the picture so desperately trying to sneak it's way out.
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