A portrait of the artist as a precocious girl in the park
She wore a black midriff top, black jeans, white sneakers, and a teal backpack. She looked to be about fifteen or sixteen, maybe younger, but she did not move in the unsure-of-themselves way that kids typically do. Her walk was like a businessman’s on his way to a meeting. Her glances were blasé as those of a princess, aware of but indifferent to me and her other subjects.
She dropped her bag, sat down on the asphalt walkway, and leaned against the chain-link fence of the tennis court. Why not in the grass like everyone else? Surely the fence was not a comfortable backrest, nor was the asphalt a cushiony seat. And people were walking by, almost having to step over her legs.
But perhaps she was aware of the aesthetic. She knew that the gray asphalt was a better background for her black outfit than the green grass. The industrial-ness of the metal fence complemented the dirt on her sneakers. And the sketchbook she pulled out of her backpack and opened in her lap cohered all the elements together into the image of a precocious young artist already aware that discomfort is sufferable for good art.