For those who believe emotional proximity is the first meaningful occurrency.
French Connections was made to be read like a letter—slowly, personally, and with someone in mind. The stories stay close, even after the last line.
You’ve already experienced it. The acute feeling of being intently observed, even for a second. One, two, three… a second too long, lingering in the everyday. Even from behind, it ticks and sticks. You steer toward it. And then—there it is.
A feline lurking, gauging the perfect moment to lock in. Something powerfully vital and primal occurs in these elongated moments—pausing, watching, waiting. It deepens if the onlooker is of the creative kind, their gaze carrying more than curiosity. An artist, feline-like, attuned to movement and stillness. A snow leopard, elusive and rarely seen, yet keenly felt.
The snow leopard as the artist, the white canvas as its terrain. The way an artist studies a subject mirrors how a snow leopard studies its landscape—waiting, observing, and then striking with precision.
It happened to me. Once, at a café. I was completely engrossed in a new book, unaware that a budding artist was watching too—diving into the moment as deeply as I was. She might have been an artist in the making, but in that instant, she realized—she had looked without asking. Caught in the chase, prey to her own hunt.
I said nothing, yet she understood. A silent retreat. A shift in presence, awareness changing hands like a dodgeball passed mid-game.
It happened in an instant, yet it stayed. It made me wonder—what if that gaze lasted longer? What if the roles blurred? How would it feel to draw and be drawn?
To Draw and To be Drawn
To be truly looked at shifts something deep in us. Not in the passing, indifferent way we glance at strangers on the street, nor the half-held, already-fading gaze exchanged in curiosity—that magnetic pull Baudelaire grasped in his “Un éclair… puis la nuit!”. This is something else. A gaze that studies, that holds.
We rarely experience it. The kind of attention that doesn’t drift, that stays. It happens in precise, suspended moments—a lover’s gaze that latches onto ours, a child’s stare, too young to know restraint. To draw someone extends that moment. Minutes stretch into hours, and in that stretch, something changes.
The observer observes. The observed settles. A silent exchange takes form.
Unlike photography, which captures in an instant, drawing occurs gradually. Its slowness is its warmth. An invitation rather than an imposition. At first, the subject feels exposed—aware of their own presence in a way they weren’t before. Their mouth stiffens, their hands become objects, unfamiliar in their weight. Where to place them? The body hesitates being seen.
But over time, that resistance eases. They sink into the gaze that holds them. And then, something rare happens: they let themselves be seen.
A drawing is more than a likeness—it’s a dialogue. The subject is not simply captured but considered. It invites participation. Some lean in, watching themselves emerge in graphite and shadow. Some comment—on their own image, on the way they are perceived. A simple sketch can evolve into something deeper—a discussion of identity, of self-perception versus how others see us. To be drawn is to witness oneself through another’s eyes.
And yet, the process is not one-sided. For the artist, the act of drawing is equally revealing.
It begins with broad strokes, reducing a face to simple planes of light and shadow. But the more you refine, the more you notice. The way the mouth curves at rest. The asymmetry of the eyes. The tension held in the jaw. How presence itself takes shape.
A person is never static. A face is never neutral.
The final drawing—what remains—rests as a testament. Not only of how someone sat, but how they held themselves in that moment, how they existed.
Yet all drawings are interpretations, not representations. Some lines sharpen, others soften. Some exaggerate, others erase. A portrait reveals as much about the artist as the subject.
We rarely afford each other this kind of attention. And yet, that is precisely what makes it a form of connection. And I do find myself returning to certain faces more than others.
Lining and Aligning with Men
There was no deliberate decision to draw men. It simply happened.
At first, I didn’t question it. I reached for certain faces, certain features—structured yet open, sharp yet softened. The pull was instinctive, almost automatic. But then I realized: I returned to men.
Why?
Maybe it’s aesthetic. Masculine faces, with their planes of light and shadow, carry an architectural clarity—lines that carve themselves onto the page. Strength without excess. Precision without rigidity. There’s something in their balance that feels composed, contained, almost sculptural.
Or maybe, it’s something else.
Men aren’t often looked at this way. They’re seen moving, speaking, holding space—but rarely still. Rarely just there.
But when I sketch them, there’s no expectation. No need for assertion, no demand for presence. Only a face, a moment, a trace of something unspoken.
And that’s what stays with me.
Maybe it’s the tension—the mix of structure and fluidity, restraint and ease. The weight in a gaze that isn’t asking for attention but holds it anyway. The sure energy in stillness.
And maybe, drawing is the perfect way to catch that.
It brings someone close, but not too close. There’s space—enough to see, enough to understand, without needing to define.
Only presence. A moment. A line.
Sketching People, Seeing Men
A drawing is more than an image. It is an act of recognition.
To capture someone on paper is to spend time with them—tracing the weight of their gaze, the way their features settle, the presence they carry. A face, a moment, an imprint of existence. In drawing, we do not simply replicate; we recognize.
And yet, what we see is shaped by how we look.
Beyond the page, the way we observe others defines how we understand them. Do we glance, assume, categorize? Or do we allow presence to take form, without rushing to impose meaning?
At their core, art and human connection intertwine.
Whether through portraits, quick sketches, or imagined faces, the act itself creates a tether—between artist and subject, between perception and reality. Drawing demands patience, but so does truly seeing someone.
What if we afforded each other the same attention?
What if we approached people with the patience of an artist—letting the details emerge, noticing without intrusion, witnessing without demand?
Perhaps then, we would not only see, but understand.
✒️ For those inclined
When was the last time you allowed yourself to be seen?
Would it feel different if someone studied your presence by tracing your features, shaping you in lines and shadows?
And what if the image they created felt truer than the one you see yourself?
✦ Your move.
Practice any kind of art and see who you return to.
French Connections is build on intended presence.
Thank you for being here.
