Josh clears the scattered anorexic tubes of paint from the centre of the bench. He pulls out a sketchpad and opens to a fresh page. The charcoal feels pregnant in his fingers. He awaits what will be born from the six shots of whiskey and two joints.
Breathing in to calm his pulsating stomach, he gently swings the clack tip across the page. The line is thin and wispy, as if a ghost slid over the page. He follows the shape as it dances before him. When his eyes loose focus, he bends his wrist to blur the harshness of the black tip.
There is something within the figure, something worth exploring further.
Josh clips a larger sheet onto the wall. This time, he dips a brush into black ink and lets the same silhouette emerge. There is a scream echoing from the curving lines, desperate calls from the abstract demanding to be made more distinct.
The sound of the paper being torn from the mounting brackets quickly falls to silence as Josh begins again, needing to find the lines that matter, and discarding those that don’t. He begins this sketch by flinging the brush upwards. The weight of the line transforms, bringing with it the anguish he feels within the original sketch. A smaller brush then adds to curvature, until he sees the bent skeleton of a starving man. He’s crouched in the corner of a cell and his eyes cautiously look back at the viewer, accusing them of incarcerating him.