As we send the pen across our paper, we make stories visible, even if at times they are unintelligible.
We walk our own story line. The inner selves with which we meet outer events becomes etched on our own faces, in our bodies, via the posture with which we carry our selves through the day to meet circumstances, and our habitual expressions.
My grandmother had a wonderful collection of lines, and I loved watching them, mobile as her face played and replayed the emotions that belonged to the story she was telling me at the time. She used to shrug at all the creams and lotions advertised to minimize wrinkles. Yes, but then how do folks know what kind of person you are? It's not having a line-free face that is desirable, after all. Just the right kinds of lines.
We read the characters here by their postures, what their faces tell us, and as they are depicted in the same space, we join them with invisible, imagined lines of story.
