Sketches.

As I stood there waiting for Fernanda to ask her question or show me whatever she wanted to show me, I saw her stop and freeze, her head down, eyes looking inside her backpack and her fingers turning white from how hard she was gripping the sketchbook.

Fear. Crippling, heart-stopping fear.

Whatever resolve she had conjured went away the moment she actually had to do the thing she wanted to. It wasn’t like I didn’t understand it, having felt that way myself plenty of times, but it was awkward to think I was anyone to get nervous about.

…

“Is that a sketchbook? I think I remember your dad telling me you like to draw,” I said. “He said you were pretty good.”

“...” Fernanda bit her lip and fully brought out her sketchbook from her backpack. “I’m… I’m sorry to be a bother, but… I’ve wanted someone’s opinion for a long time and… You… You make music, so I thought maybe…”

That maybe I’d understand what it means to create art. I think that’s what she had in mind, but she didn’t, or couldn’t, finish her sentence. I felt my own stomach churning with second-hand anxiety. I could totally understand why she’d freeze up.

I sighed and rubbed the back of my neck, maybe trying a bit too hard to seem casual. “Ugh, it’s hard to show anyone what you make, isn’t it? It’s hard to believe them if they tell you it’s good because you think they’re just being nice, but if they say it’s bad it hurts like a knife to the gut.”

Fernanda’s eyes went wide as plates. “Y-Yes, that’s exactly it!”

I chuckled. “Do you mind if I have a look anyway? It’s only fair since you’ve listened to my music, don’t you think?”

Fernanda pursed her lips and offered me her sketchbook. “Y-You don’t need to say anything, but… don’t hold back, okay?”

I took the sketchbook from her and saw the date written on the cover. It was recent, from just a couple of weeks ago. I flipped it to the first page and saw… a page full of straight, vertical lines.

“Hm?”

I flipped the page and saw more vertical lines, Flipped to the next one and saw horizontal lines. In the following pages were diagonal lines, circles, squares, cubes…

“Um…”

“W-What?” Fernanda asked.

“Is this… your practice sketchbook?” I showed her the current page I was seeing and her face went full panic-mode.

“Oh my God! That’s the wrong one!” She covered her face in shame, gasping into her hands.

Now understanding what I was looking at, I continued flipping through it. Pages and pages of monotonous practice. There was nothing ‘creative’ about this, just pure hard work to polish the basics of what is needed to actually ‘create.’ I saw the shifting thickness of the lines, the perfect circles, the unwavering hand that drew it all.

“S-Sorry, sorry, sorry!” Fernanda said, digging into her backpack for the correct sketchbook. “God, how did I even mistake these two!?”

“Hey, these are literally the same sketchbook. Same brand and black cover, even. No wonder you keep them labeled. That’s cool.” I handed her over the practice one and she immediately put it away. “You’re pretty serious about drawing if you’re willing to put all that effort into that kind of practice.”

I think I saw her blushing, but she hid her face by looking down as she handed over the real sketchbook she wanted to show me. This one had a date, too, only this one was from a couple of months ago instead of weeks. I opened it to the first page and couldn’t help but let out a genuine, “Oh, wow,” at what I saw.

It was a street. A full pencil sketch of a busy street. Cars, tall buildings, shops, utility poles…

I’m not an expert but I do have a very basic understanding of art. Guess I’ve never told this story, but when I was 16 I tried to learn to draw for all of two weeks before giving up. It was fun to make something that resembled… anything at first, but as I tried to get better I understood the kind of skills I needed to train. I made my choice and decided to continue using that time to practice guitar instead of drawing. Never looked back.

This… This was just a sketch. The lines were a little rough, two or three passing over each other. But everything else… Perspective, composition, detail… It was all high level, I could tell that much.

The next drawing was of a lake in front of grassy hills. Even in pencil it was easy to tell it was water, and the fact I could call those ‘grassy hills’ with a single glance was also telling of the level of skill. The rest of the pages were also of various environments and sceneries. Bird-eye city views, lush forests, dry deserts, post-apocalyptic wastelands… No people, though. Not a single human figure in sight, but considering how thematic the sketchbook was, she probably had yet another one where all she practiced was human shapes.

Now… How to tell her this is good in a way she’ll actually believe me and not think I’m just trying to be nice?

“How did you get the perspective so well? Did you draw from reference?” I asked her.

Her eyes brightened up, and her lips curled into a small, shy smile. “Y-Yes, actually. The street sketches are from different spots around the city. A couple are from my neighborhood and others are from my university. The deserts and forests I looked up online.”

“I like these trees. And the shading is really good, too. Did you do it with a charcoal pencil?”

Fernanda’s eyes widened again. “Y-Yes, actually. D-Do you know how to draw?”

“Nah. They tried to teach us to use charcoal pencils in art class but my drawings always ended up a mess,” I told her with a chuckle. “Which is why I know that using them is pretty difficult. This is all really cool.”

She smiled. It was an honest, genuine smile. “Th-Thank you. Really.”

It was the best I could do. Thankfully I had some knowledge of art, so praising concrete things and asking questions instead of just saying it all looks good was the best way I could show her that, yes, I really did believe there were really good drawings.

“How long have you been drawing for?” I asked her.

“S-Since I was eleven, I think.”

“It shows.” I closed the sketchbook and handed it to her. “I’d like to see more some other time. If that’s okay, I mean.”

“Y-Yes! I… Um…” She cleared her throat, let out a drawn out breath as if she’d been holding it all this time and composed herself. “I mean… I’d be happy to show you more.”

I looked at my van as Fernanda put away her sketchbook and zipped her backpack. I mulled over an idea for a couple of seconds before saying ‘fuck it, let’s ask.’

“Are you going home now?”

“Hm? Ah, yes.”

“Want me to drive you?”

“Eh?”

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