January 12th
Dear Diary,
Mum came into my room at seven-thirty today with the intent of waking me up to find that I was already dressed in an outfit Steven had chosen the previous day and sketching in the new sketchbook.
"How long have you been up?" She asked me.
"Six-thirty-seven, then stayed in bed for exactly eighteen minutes. I then opened my sketchbook and began sketching," I answered.
She sighed. "You should have been resting."
"I was," I answered. But not talking. Why should I? These are reasons she would never understand. "Then it was six-forty-five and I had to get up." I showed her the sketchbook. Quite a few pages were now filled.
"Are those all Steven?"
I nodded. "Different angles." I returned to sketching a closeup of his chiseled profile.
When drawing, I always started with the broad lines, the way a sculptor would begin, then worked in finer and finer details until my piece was complete. You have to think of your art as a whole, rather than separate parts; two eyes, cheeks, lips, nose, hair. There is one body. With drawing, you draw out a snippet of a soul.
Mum didn't bother me until it was time to leave.
I'm grateful. Otherwise, the drawing would never have been finished.
Sincerely,
Charles David Barnes
YOU ARE READING
He Was My Everything
General FictionCharles David Barnes has always been, well, different. And he's upset now, more than ever, because his mother moved the two of them from their home in England to New York in America. But of course, Charles doesn't get to live in the city. It's an ol...
