Drew Draws—if that even was his real name—had opinions. About everything. And he had no qualms about making them known.
“It kills me to give away my trade secrets, but since forty percent of nothing is nothing, I’ll give you an important tip.”
“Thirty percent,” I grumbled.
“Tourists are eager to spend their money, but they expect something in return. Plus, you’re competing with the keychain kiosk and the magnet shack. Getting your bayside portrait drawn might be all about the experience—because, let’s face it, the silly things all look the same—but you’ve gotta give ’em a keepsake, even if they just end up sticking it in a scrapbook and forgetting about it the second they get home. There’s no way you can charge twenty bucks for a tiny little slip of paper like the ones you’ve got there. You’ll need to go bigger.”
We approached a purple sun shelter with “Drew Draws” painted across it in big, cartoony letters. It was an impressive stretch of canvas, many meters wide. The structure was set parallel to the air currents so as not to fall in on itself, though the surface had bowed and distorted into a permanent curve from the wind coming off the bay. Beside the huge purple sail, Drew opened a small locker and pulled out a drawing board, which he brandished self-importantly and waved under my nose. His paper was cheap. Not the sort I usually painted on, unless I was desperate. But I wasn’t painting a Seen, I reminded myself. I was insinuating myself among the so-called Boardwalkers.
“Lucky for you, I have an extra pad. And that teeny-tiny paint set of yours? Precious. But it’ll take you forever to fill the page with that dinky little brush.” He thrust a fat marker into my hand. “Do yourself a favor. Broad strokes. Work fast. And compliment the tourists while you’re drawing. Works like a charm.”
When I painted a Seen and the volshebstvo flowed through me, my left arm felt like it had a life of its own. A separate being…though I felt every last stroke of the brush down to my core. Sometimes, even touching the brush brought back a shiver of memory. But when Drew shoved that marker into my hand? I felt nothing at all.
Could I even render an image without the help of the volshebstvo? I would soon find out.
“You know the basics of composition?” Drew asked me. “The golden ratio? The rule of thirds?” I narrowed my eyes, though whether he took that for affirmation or ignorance, I could not say. “Doesn’t matter. Throw it out the window. Can you draw an oval?” I nodded cautiously. “Good. Then here’s all you need to remember.” He swept open the tent, and I saw the back wall was lined with example portraits.
None of which looked like anyone in particular.
“Oval head. Big smile. Tiny little vestigial body. That way, you don’t need to worry about offending any plus-sized folks by drawing an accurate portrait. And unless someone’s got a shaved head, like you, make sure you give them plenty of hair. People like to think they have hair.”
He gestured toward the water.
“A brown boardwalk, a few blue waves, and a sketchy approximation of the Strangeberg bluffs across the way, and you’re good to go. Any questions?”
Only existential ones. Was this actually happening to me? And how did I manage to get myself into these situations? But since I would trust no answer coming from a man in a sequined apron, I merely shook my head.
“Good. Because every moment I waste getting you up to speed is a handful of tourist dollars getting away.”
Drew turned to the crowd, and abruptly, his annoyance turned off. His public demeanor was expansive. Welcoming. Even jovial.
“Welcome to the South Dock Boardwalk, my fine folks! Enjoy the water! Enjoy the scenery! Enjoy the sun! And when you’re done riding the rides and sampling our delicious fried perch, be sure to stop by for a portrait to commemorate your stay! Or, better yet, grab that portrait now—while there’s no waiting!”
Drew’s patter did draw people in. I cringed inside as a few individuals peeled off from the crowd and came over to inspect the gallery of smiling, oval-faced portraits. Surely no one would pay twenty dollars for a simple, generic cartoon that took all of five minutes to create. But then a frumpy woman in a pink T-shirt marched up to me, thrust a twenty-dollar bill into my hand, and said, “Which do you think is my best side—the right, or the left?”
“They are same. I will paint from front, anyway.”
She pawed at her neck. “Just be sure you don’t accentuate my double chin. And don’t make my nose look too big. And not too many freckles, either.”
Oval head. Big smile. Tiny body. I was beginning to see the wisdom in this advice.
Still, one cannot simply forget thousands upon thousands of hours of practice. Although my Seens came from my internal landscape—gestural things which found uncanny counterparts in the real world, but only once they were Scribed upon—originally, I had taught myself to paint by observing the world around me. Could I capture the particular expectant angle of this woman’s head with an oval? Could I render the distant Strange Manor in a few jagged strokes? Could I do justice to the bay, and all it meant to me, with a few wavy blue lines? Unlikely. But I must have felt compelled to at least try.
I was so focused on capturing the woman’s likeness in a few simple shapes and gestures that I belatedly realized I heard the murmur of someone talking behind the tent—and I most definitely caught the phrase “buy up another lot.” But when I rounded the canvas wall, the person was already gone. I made a mental note to quit losing myself in the drawing. After all, I was not here to appease the tourists. I was here to see what Crouch was so upset about.
As cartoon portraits went, that first portrait I did was…passable. But though I mimicked the smile from Drew’s portraits, there was something almost melancholy in the way I’d canted the mouth. With only the simplest of facial features, I’d rendered something elusive, even poignant, in the oval’s expression.
I kept my expression carefully neutral as I turned the drawing to face the woman. She was clearly unimpressed. I could hardly blame her. Who would wish to be reminded that happiness was fleeting? That the face we show the world is so often a facade? That even within pleasure, it is so easy to experience disappointment?
The woman said, “My hair looks a little flat.”
I scribbled an extra few lines around her head then showed it to her again.
“Great! Now can you tell me where to buy sunscreen without paying an arm and a leg?”
Soon, another tourist took her seat—this one a man who insisted on removing his shirt. I couldn’t imagine why. His flabby physique had me itching to drop to the Boardwalk and do a few sets of crunches to stave off a similar fate. I assured him I did not have to shade it pink, that he could choose any color he wanted—so he could put his shirt back on anytime. He insisted the open air felt good on his skin.
I scribbled plenty of hair on his head and quickly moved on to the next customer.