i looked at mikki moore’s face, its curves and structure, the perfect symmetry, like a tribal mask. one the warrior, one the shaman. i wished i could paint him. in my mind, my fingers traced the angles and lines of his face, his eyebrows, the drop from his cheek to the rise of his lips, trying to commit everything to memory. suddenly, he breaks out into a smile, his eyes meeting mine, exposing me, an artist caught by the muse who was aware of her all along. we smile at each other as though sharing a private joke.

November 28th, 2009 | Comments Off on

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