Eye-hand coordination is what takes so long. Just look, not watch, the figure. Let my hand move along the same lines as my eyes. Let my hand go where my eyes go. At this rate I may be finished drawing this young man, maybe, next year, when twin full moons hang outside my window. This is not the most ethical of experiments. I don’t have any idea who this young man is. I am indulging in anonymous sexual stimulation. Does that make me as venal as that stoop-shouldered Greek deli-delivery man I stood behind at the Rite-Aid counter? His face couldn’t have been more than two inches away from some sleek girlie magazine centerfold. Made me wonder, if this was one of those scratch-and-smell bonuses I’d heard about at an antiporn meeting not too long ago. So, here’s this grown man with his face up inside this centerfold. From where I was standing, all that was visible were two ankle-height boots with very very high, come-fuck-me heels fitting into both of his hands, like in the circus when acrobats balance flying women in their hands. Then, two equally parallel legs creep from his rather stubby fingers to his forehead, so he looks to me like a fellow growing tawny calves and suede boots from his skull.

He must have felt my eye disclaiming his behavior as the activity of a healthy adult. He dropped the magazine, featuring the legs that belonged, it turns out, to a smiling white woman holding her backside open where the staple was. He jumped back, looked up at me, smiled. With aplomb, I said, “Sir, you’ve dropped your magazine.” He replies, “Oh?” I point directly to the stapled anus, “There.” Blushing, the deli man brushes his hand across his mouth, mumbles, “I’m finished.”

Eye-hand coordination. Eye-hand coordination, that’s what makes a certain kind of painter. This guy is definitely not going to be a painter. He’s still looking at his magazine, now.