Subway sketches, November 15.

I draw on both side of the sketchbook's pages, seems more space for learning, even sketches getting dirty from touching each other, even destroyed.
 I went to get more paints in the City, in few stores, because all of  them had limited quantity. Met few nice people, who were kind to me and I was very nice to them. It is so easy to say something sweet, to erase ugly impression, left by one woman in her at least fifties, who threw bucket of gesso at a young cashier  girl, barely missing her.
 I was thinking how hard it is now to find work, and so many people with degrees working simple jobs behind the counter, because they need to pay bills. We have to respect each other and remember that one word can spoil the rest of the day for someone, who struggles enough to meet ends, that this person is someone's child, by hurting him, you hurt people who loves him too. Anyway, being kind is mandatory.

By drawing people, I carve their faces and imaginary stories in my memory.This young musician on the top with such spiritual expression on his face, even delicate white hand against the black case of the instrument,  seems, still playing, I don't even know what instrument it was. Or this girl with blond hair and prickly blue book bag and skinny legs, looking a bit goofy because of the big Mary-Jane sandals. Or a very good looking gay guy in tight black clothes, with doll's eyes, who didn't get into the sketchbook, but stuck in my memory.