When you draw or paint in public, people become curious. Whether working in a café, or in a waiting room at an airport, or on the corner of a street, you attract onlookers. I’ve been menaced by street thugs in Barcelona, but encounters with onlookers are usually pleasant. Sometimes sad, such as meeting a woman one morning in Valencia. I was drawing the decrepit husks of vacant apartment buildings that were about to be demolished. She told me that the 3rd floor flat of the building I was drawing had been her home. After the structure had been condemned by the city, she had been forcibly evicted by the police. They threw me out onto the street, she told me, “con golpes y patadas,” with punches and kicks.
My usual reaction to people who stop to watch me is to ask, “do you like to draw?” In all the years I have worked in public, I have never yet encountered a child who answered, “No.” With adults, however, the responses are mixed. The funniest exchange happened on the island of Formentera, when I was drawing these cliffs at twilight. The island, with its lively nightlife, transparent waters, clothing-optional beaches and mild weather attracts visitors from everywhere, especially from the less-temperate climates of northern Europe.
I had been working for a while and had been aware of the presence of someone standing behind me. It was an elderly gentleman, quiet and attentive. I asked him the question. Embarrassed, he backed away. “No,” he said sheepishly, “I’m German.”
