Eye of the Appreciator

Part 1

Art has been a hobby of mine since I was a child. I guess drawing and painting comes naturally to a man when he is a connoisseur of beauty. I've always been a visual person and everywhere I look I see the scene before me transforming into a sketch or a painting. The ugliness fades away and even the homeliest of scenes can become beautiful in my mind's eye, or in my sketchbook. I can often conjure up images in my mind of people I've met or scenes that I saw earlier that day while walking down city streets. These memories serve as inspiration for me when I draw later that evening.

I don't go anywhere without my sketchbook. Anytime I have a free moment I pull it out and start drawing. I work on one book until it's full, then get another. I can go back through the years looking at all the books I've kept since childhood when my Mother gave me my first as a gift. That way I can see how my style and interest has evolved over the years. At times I've drawn buildings and city-scapes and other times I've drawn comics. But lately I've been interested in drawing human anatomy. I suppose I'm always eager for a challenge of any kind and drawing the human figure is something that's always eluded me.

At first, the people I drew would come out wonky, disproportional, or ugly. Their hands and feet would look morphed or twisted into impossible positions and their faces looked harsh and alien. That has changed over time, but I still need practice. These days I am trying to draw live models more often. I even go to drawing classes where live models pose for the students, usually in the nude. I like these classes a lot, especially when the model is cute.

Helping me to find a passion at such a young age is something I've got to thank my Mother, Maria, for. She encouraged me to work on art when I was a kid and would often get me whatever art and painting supplies I needed. We were really close back then, but that changed as I grew older. During my teenage years we fought a lot. It was mostly over the usual teenage stuff - me wanting more freedom and privacy or to go out to more parties. I was never in trouble for anything serious, but the school principal had to call home a few times when I acted up in class, which my Mother was not happy about. Our fighting changed things between us and I pulled away from her and also from my father, although I had never been close to him.

My father didn't show much emotion or affection and I had been used to his coldness since childhood. Come to think of it, my parents made a pretty strange match - she a warm, loving woman, and he a distant workaholic. Anyway, I think those years of separation contributed to her mood because she started to seem more withdrawn into herself, almost like she carried a melancholic aura.

My Mother is a shy and gentle woman. When people meet her they come away feeling refreshed and like they've been exposed to a source of free-spirit and non-judgemental energy, though others might find her naive. She's the kind of person who wouldn't judge anybody for how they lived, no matter how strange it was. She just accepted people. She always taught me to be the same way, accepting of people and emotions. She certainly isn't an aggressive person, but she carries herself with a quiet defiance that leaves people sensing her open nature. And yet, she often wore a look of mysterious contemplation and you were never quite sure what she was thinking.

Mom never worked and always enjoyed staying home to keep the house, a task she took immense pride in. Our home was always immaculate. For many years, she derived her purpose in raising me - her only child. Being from a conservative culture, Mom and Dad married young and had me quickly. Now that I'm nearly 20 years old, working full-time, and preparing to move out in a few short months, she feels a bit withdrawn. She's certainly not depressed, just different.

She continues to keep the house clean, vacuum daily, and cook for Dad and I, but there is something missing. Nowadays, she spends her time sitting on the couch flipping through magazines. Sometimes I notice a distant look on her face, like her mind is miles away.

I'm not sure what changed, maybe it's just what time does to a woman when her child grows up. As far as I know, her marriage with Dad is okay. At least, it's the same as it's always been. He still gives her the same robotic kiss on the cheek each morning when he leaves for work, but that distant look remains on Mom's face.

A few years ago, when I was in the middle of my rebellious phase and usually bickering with her over one thing or another I couldn't have cared less how she felt or how sad she looked. But lately things have been different. Nowadays, I hate seeing that look on her face. It's weird to admit, but I want my Mom to be happy. I guess I'm growing up.

One Saturday afternoon I was home alone with her. Dad had kissed Mom's cheek like normal that afternoon after lunch as he left, muttering something like, "I'll probably be late tonight, we're going for drinks after the golf game. Don't wait up for me." Then headed out the door without waiting for a response.

"Alright, dear," she had quietly said while he was too far away to have even heard.

I myself had retreated to my bedroom in the basement to play video games but grew bored after a few hours. I had a nagging thought in my mind and I decided to go see what Mom was doing. It was weird behavior for me considering how I had purposefully avoided her for the past 3 years. Do I miss her? I wondered. Whatever. I wasn't one for introspection of my feelings. I went upstairs to find Mom.

Our house is a single-story with a full-sized basement. It's not big, but it's perfect for the three of us. The basement consists of a large, unfinished laundry and storage room with my bedroom in the corner. On the main floor is the kitchen, living room, and my parents' bedroom, which, thankfully, is located at the opposite corner of the house.

Our rooms being far apart means that, as long as I keep my door closed, I can watch movies as loud as I want during the night and they don't hear a thing. The house is decorated beautifully, thanks to Mom. She gave each room its own personality. The kitchen is practical and minimalistic, while the living room is quite the opposite. A large L-shaped couch sits in the corner around a big square wooden coffee table. There are a dozen, or so, plants and candles laying around and large draping white curtains over the windows. There is a large mirror and a few lamps, which my Mom uses to create a warm mood in the evenings.

There is no TV in the living room. Mom insisted it be a wholesome place to relax, talk, or read - nothing more. I don't think Dad is a big fan of that policy but he seems content to watch sports in the bedroom most nights.

Rounding the corner above the stairs, I saw Mom sitting on the couch. Her shoulder-length brown hair sat lightly on the back of the couch. She was flipping through a magazine. Probably something about fashion or interior-design. She wore that distant, almost disappointed look again. The one I was starting to hate. Why did I care so much?

I leaned against the wall and looked at her for a few moments before continuing to the kitchen. As I passed she looked up at me for a brief moment, raising her eyebrows. "So Tyson has emerged from his cave?"

"Mmhmm," I murmured.

In the kitchen I brewed a pot of green tea, then brought two cups out with me and set them on the big table in front of the couch along with a couple of cookies.

"Here, Mom," I said, sitting down beside her. "Mind if I join you?" I pulled out my sketchbook.

"Not at all honey, I'm glad to have you here. Besides, I need to soak up all the time I have left with you before you take off and move out, Mister." She gently teased.

She had been making comments like that a lot lately, masking them in joke, but I knew there was a deeper meaning beneath. She really would miss me.

It was a bit awkward just sitting with Mom. It felt abnormal. But I settled in and started drawing the room around us, the plant on the table, the lamp in the corner, the curtain-covered window and the chair on the other side of the room. While I drew we made small talk. The conversation came surprisingly easily.

Every once-in-a-while I would look over at my Mother. She had put her legs up on the table and was still absently flipping pages while sipping her coffee. Occasionally she paused on a page to admire a certain dress or decoration style.

After about 15 minutes, Mom pulled one of her feet from the table and tucked it against her butt on the couch while leaving the other extended. I think she had just got back from a run and was yet to change. She was wearing tight, black workout shorts and a white top. The entire outfit showed off her body wonderfully. Paying attention to her left leg, the one she'd pulled into the couch, I noticed the definition in her calf muscle. She had been exercising most of her life and it had paid off. Her legs looked smooth and recently shaved. Mom really did take care of herself. Suddenly, an idea popped into my head.

"Hey Mom, can I draw you?" I asked her.

"Pardon me?"

"Let me draw you, Mom."

"Draw me? Are you kidding?" She responded, sounding hesitant even though the corners of her mouth tilted up slightly as she considered the idea.

"Yeah, I mean... I need to practice drawing the human body and you're here, so... why don't you be my model?"

"Um... I suppose so. How do you want me to sit?" She asked.

"Just stay exactly where you are now. You look great just like that, Mom."

I turned and leaned on the arm of the couch so that I was looking directly at her. She looked back at me a bit awkwardly, like she didn't know how to pose or what she should be doing.

"Just keep reading like normal, Mom," I encouraged her, putting her at ease. "And keep your left leg bent on the couch."

She did as I said and seemed to relax, then I got to work.

We continued chatting and making small talk as I sketched. For some reason I felt that this was important and put extra effort into it. I didn't spend much time on her face - only drawing quick hints of her nose, mouth, and dark eyes. But I put extra effort into her body, especially her legs. I was thankful for the excuse to stare at them for so long.

The drawing was turning out great. I captured the tone of her legs, the curve of her thighs and hips, and her belly leading into the swells of her breasts. It felt a bit odd concentrating on and drawing my Mother's body that way, especially her boobs, but I pushed through the discomfort and ended up really enjoying having the chance to ogle Mom. I even slightly exaggerated the size of her breasts to make her look extra sexy. That was becoming a habit when I drew women.

When she looked at my drawing her eyes went wide and a giant smile appeared on her face. She stared for several moments and then turned to me, her eyes twinkling. "It's lovely, honey."

I set my sketchbook on the coffee table open to her drawing as we finished visiting. Some ice had definitely been broken between us and the conversation started to flow more and more. I noticed that every minute, or so, Mom's eyes would glance down at the drawing and she would look at it, no, gaze at it for a few moments. Then she'd smile and take a sip of tea. She looked... happy. Mission accomplished.

Eventually she told me she needed to get some groceries before dinner, inviting me to come shopping. When I declined she leaned over to me, and for the first time since I can remember, gave me a wet kiss on my cheek.

"Thanks for making me feel beautiful, Ty."

I watched her ass intently in her tight shorts as she walked away, not realizing that she could see me in the mirror on the far wall. Maybe it was my imagination, but she seemed to be giving her hips a little extra swing on her way to her bedroom.

---

Dad ended up getting home from his golf game around 8 o'clock and the three of us sat down for a family dinner - something we did frequently at Mom's insistence. Being in a small house without much space, we usually ate at a small dining table in the kitchen. I sometimes asked if we could eat in the more spacious living room, but Mom shut that idea down instantly. She had firm rules about what was and wasn't allowed in her house.

Our kitchen had both white walls and a white stone counter top. Everything was white except for the gray metal appliances. The counter was U-shaped with a sink in the very middle of the end and a window above it giving a view of the front driveway.

As usual, Dad more-or-less yammered on about his day and how well he had golfed. I hadn't really noticed this before, but he didn't ask Mom a single question about her day. In fact, I don't think he ever did. But, nevertheless, Mom smiled and listened to him brag. When his beer was empty she stood up and dutifully got him another.

I'm not sure if it was accidental because our kitchen is a bit cramped, but as she passed behind my chair to get back to her seat her left hand slid lightly across my shoulders and upper back. I glanced up from my plate to see her looking at me. We made eye contact and she smiled before turning back to my Dad. Given the way our relationship had gone for the last few years, moments like that had been rare.

Dad finished three beers before he was done regaling us with tales of his greatness on the course. Then he announced that he was going to bed to watch sports. "See you in the morning, kid!" He slapped me on the arm on his way out of the kitchen.

By then Mom was already cleaning up and doing the dishes. I watched her for a minute from my seat at the table. She had changed her clothes since our interaction that afternoon and now wore a green house dress which came down to just above her knees. The top of the dress had thin straps and showed a lot of skin on her shoulders. The fabric was tight against her hips and for the second time that day I got a chance to admire her butt as she faced the sink and began scrubbing a pot. Suddenly it dawned on me that she took a lot of pride in taking care of, not only her home, but also herself. How had I never noticed that before?

I thought about a few of my buddy's Moms. Yeah, some of them had nice faces, but most had really let their bodies go. Plus, they always seemed to be wearing old, loose-fitting clothes, as if they didn't care so much how they looked. Not like my Mom, who often wore clean and pressed dresses and did her hair, even when home alone. Not to mention the fact that my friends' houses were usually messy, with stacks of dishes in the sink and piles of laundry laying around. Suddenly I realized that I was a pretty lucky guy.

Standing, I approached and stood beside her. I picked up a dish towel and started drying the plates she'd already cleaned.

"Well this is a first. Since when do you do dishes?" she asked.

"I guess I'm in a good mood," I responded.

I helped her for a few more minutes and then said, "why don't you go relax in the living room, Mom? I'll take care of the kitchen."

"Okay, now I'm curious. Are you about to ask me to buy you a car or something?"

I laughed, "No, Mom. Just trying to help out. Seriously, go relax."

"Okay, sweetie. Thank you." She put her hand on my bicep and gave it a squeeze before going into the living room.

I finished up and started heading down to my room. I really wanted to beat the next level of my video game.

I had to pass through the living room to get to the stairs and while walking behind the couch Mom said, "Tyson, could you make me a cup of tea?"

I stopped. "Sure, no problem," I replied, turning back toward the kitchen.

Then Mom added, "Why don't you make one for yourself, as well? And visit with me a bit?"

I thought. If I took Mom up on her offer to visit I could check out her legs a bit more! My video game wasn't going anywhere. Shrugging, I responded, "okay, just give me a minute to get the tea ready."

I returned to the kitchen and prepared a pot of loose-leaf green tea - the kind Mom often drank. I put a few cups with the pot on a tray and carried it out to her, setting it on the coffee table. I had even put a couple of cookies on the tray as an added touch.

"Ooo, thanks, Mister Fancy," She teased.

We chatted for a few minutes about this-and-that while waiting for the tea to cool. She seemed to be in a much better mood than she had been in the morning. I guess a little bit of appreciation goes a long way for a woman. It made me feel good to know that I had the power to cheer her up.

"So, are you going to get your sketchbook?"

"Huh?" I responded dumbly.

"You're always drawing in it. If you were down in your dungeon you'd probably be drawing right now, wouldn't you? So go grab and it and bring it here."

"Um, alright." I ran downstairs and returned a minute later with my book and a few pens.

By then the tea had cooled enough and Mom began to sip hers. She took out another one of her chick magazines and started to flip through it, pausing to admire a picture of some garden.

I opened my book to a page close to the front. A large Mandala that I'd been working on for a few days. I didn't need a reference to keep working on it. It was just a big symmetrical, circular design which I was going to continue adding to until it grew to the edge of the page. Traditionally, monks would create Mandalas out of colored sand over the course of days and then destroy them after they were finished. It was a lesson in the impermanence of all things, meant to teach one not to hold onto anything too tightly. If you asked me, it seemed like a waste of time to make a cool piece of art and then destroy it. I had no plans to rip out and burn this page. I guess I prefer holding on to beautiful things - maybe even keep continuing to build on them forever. Once I get my hands on something important to me, I'll never let it go.

We sat together in comfortable silence for about 15 minutes while finishing our tea - her reading and me drawing. We had never just sat together like this before today. It was weird but comfortable at the same time, like we were establishing a new basis to our relationship.

Then Mom brought her feet up from the floor and rested them on the edge of the table, flexing her toes back-and-forth a few times. I couldn't help but stare at the smooth white skin of her legs. After raising her knees a bit her dress slid a few inches up her thighs, letting me see a little higher up her leg. I stopped my doodling.

Without saying anything, I flipped to the page I'd drawn on earlier that day and started a new sketch of my Mother. I started by outlining her shoulders and upper-body so that I could continue downward toward her waist, hips, and legs. I wanted to make sure that I had everything in the right place before adding any details. After structuring her body, I went back to her shoulders and started to outline her head and face. First, I put down a bold outline for the far side of her face, curving it outward over her cheekbone and then back in toward her eye. The closer side of her face was framed by her hair hanging down across it and stopping at her shoulders.

As I drew her hairline, she brought her left hand up to her head and brushed the hair back behind her ear. Then she picked up a few strands and twirled them before letting her hand rest on the magazine again. The tiniest grin formed at the corners of her mouth.

After drawing her now visible ear and getting the bold boundary lines on the paper, I drew the softer features of her face. I started with her small nose, drawing a slightly upward pointing base and then following the bridge as it curved and became her far eye brow. After her nose I drew her lips, slightly exaggerating the fullness of them, though they didn't need much. It's good to compliment your model. Finally, her eyes. I wasn't able to capture their true intensity, but I gave it a good shot. I don't think I'd ever paid that much attention to all of the details of my Mother's face and body. I could have closed my eyes and still seen her sitting beside me, like a photo in my mind. It felt like a one-sided type of intimacy.