Mornings.

He sits, his fingers playing the strings of an imaginary instrument. For now he is absorbed in the world inside his head - the plink and plonk of emotion that draws something from within. Crescendo and diminuendo play out in his eyebrows. This is how he enters the day.

Beside him sits a model in all but job, caught in his thoughts and dreams. Brooding eyes and angular features reveal his worry and anxiety, while his labourers clothes hide his feelings. Sporadically his eyes flash with the passion of anger that gives a glimpse into the argument that rages internally. On the outside arms and forehead are scrunched defensively, threatening a protection, in fear of the world that looks in. 

Standing to my left a woman bites her nails as pensive eyes flicker around  the carriage aware of who and what lies around. Maybe she seeks to avoid missing her stop again - a second time being too embarrassing for an office that has not yet embraced her worth. Or maybe she is being followed and she has seen him on the carriage and seeks to make her escape from the door. As we pull up to the stop she readies to bolt. 

The crowd disperses as we draw out of the tunnels, and the signs of dawn are conveyed by the slow drawing of a watered brush across the night, thinning the black to a bluey grey; broken by light yellows creep into the sky - mingling to reveal blues and reds and whites. The camera pulls back on the streets turning closely lit pools to wide angle panorama of terraces and slowly waking commerce. Curtains are drawn back, shops are opened, cranes begin to move and people begin to stretch.

Is there insight to all this? I suspect not really. Though this week I start work early, so the painting is lost to the evenings - maybe I need to wake my imagination at day break and indulge myself with creative nourishment? Without the flourish of my fingers and wrist with pencil and brush I find the dancing words and idle speculation my best hope for a satisfying breakfast that will see me through the day. I tuck in.