I used to doodle in the margins of my notebooks endlessly. I always drew the same things: luscious women in profile – they always had beauty marks and sunglasses and lipstick and crazy hair … I don’t know why I drew them – but whenever I was bored in class, or had a bit of free time … out would come the ladies. Over and over and over and over. So I’ve got notes on theatre history, and the burning of the Globe, and Moliere’s career, and the theatrical theories of Antonin Artaud … and all along the edges are ladies in profile. It was mostly unconscious – just something I liked to draw.<\/p>\n
10 years ago. In class.<\/p>\n
Wade<\/a> asked, out of the blue, “So. Who’s that lady?”<\/p>\n “What lady?”<\/p>\n He looked at me like I was stupid. “Your lady.”<\/p>\n “Huh?”<\/p>\n He gestured at my notebook where I saw 300 ladies in profile, crawling through the margins.<\/p>\n Even back then I loved that he didn’t say “why do you draw that lady?” Or “Nice doodles”. He asked, “Who’s<\/strong> that lady?”<\/p>\n “She’s nobody,” I answered. “I like drawing ladies, I guess.”<\/p>\n “Uh-huh.” He rolled his eyes at my insistence on it having NO meaning.<\/p>\n I glanced at Wade’s notebook and saw a drawing he had done. It looked like a medieval woodcut. A man’s face, looking straight at us – with lines etched into his cheeks – over and over and over … and deep dark circles under his eyes – the circles undulating outward, over his whole face. I had noticed that drawing in Wade’s notebook before. It was his version of my “lady”.<\/p>\n “So,” I said, in a challenging voice. “Who’s THAT?” Thinking I would catch him out, make him stumble in his certainty.<\/p>\n He said calmly, “I’m drawing myself.”<\/p>\n Needless to say, Wade did not look like a medieval woodcut with etched-in circles and frown lines. But it was his doodle, his ruminative way to spend time when he was bored or distracted.<\/p>\n “Oh.” I said, and I looked back at the proliferating ladies on my page. Some had curly hair. Some had blunt asymmetrical cuts. Most of them had barrettes. Some had shaved heads and cat-eye glasses. Some were blonde, others raven-black. All were in profile. Some had Roman noses, some had button noses … some were obviously ready for the runway, others would be more at home in a lecture hall.<\/p>\n For the first time I asked myself, “Who the hell IS that?”<\/p>\n I had been drawing her since I was in high school. It seemed to me that they were all different people. But Wade seemed to think otherwise.<\/p>\n Class was about to start, and Wade said, in a tired “Okay, I’ll give you the answer, Sheila” voice, “You’re drawing yourself, Sheila. All the different sides of you.”<\/p>\n “No. I don’t think so.”<\/p>\n “Sheila. Gimme a break.”<\/p>\n “These girls are glamour girls.”<\/p>\n A resounding silence greeted my comment. Wade looked at me. Shook his head at my stupidity.<\/p>\n “I’m not a glamour girl.”<\/p>\n “Whatever.”<\/p>\n “You’re not a medieval woodcut.”<\/p>\n “But it’s what I see, what I feel like.”<\/p>\n I was in an anti-beauty period in my life. No makeup, I had short hair, I wore flannel, jeans, and clogs. I did not have a beauty mark, I did not wear lipstick, I did not have a flaming mane of curly hair. But it seemed to me that Wade might be onto something.<\/p>\n Who’s that lady?<\/p>\n Two days ago, after years of no contact – he texts me. “I was just thinking about you the other day, weirdly. I was thinking about those lady doodles you did and how cool they were and what they represented.”<\/p>\n I’m not sure what it is about being remembered … about having specifics about me withstand a decade … but all I know is it made me so happy he remembered.<\/p>\n I don’t draw those ladies anymore. I wonder why. Maybe Wade will know.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I used to doodle in the margins of my notebooks endlessly. I always drew the same things: luscious women in profile – they always had beauty marks and sunglasses and lipstick and crazy hair … I don’t know why I … Continue reading