It all began with the need to paint a face. Any face. I was looking for a connection, searching through my memories for one that might show up in my mind. 

Sometimes I want to do it "the right way": I trace lines, use conventional head measurements, and put the eyes where they belong. For this one, I did it my style. Everything goes where I see it. Period. As long as the corners of the lips align with the irises, and the edges of the nose meet the start of the eyes, everything is fine. 

Those who draw might understand me, and I wonder if they feel the same: that once you start drawing the eyes and the irises are already pointing at yours, everything changes. From that moment on, someone is watching you. Someone is judging you.

This guy is already staring at me. He asks me why I’m drawing him. Why I’m distorting him; why I’m making him look so sad when what he feels is anger. The anger of working in a factory, of having no time... while I draw him. He asks me why I’m not in the factory working alongside him. 

I feel guilty, drawing while listening to music. I tell him I’m in another century, -I invite him to travel through time, to come and draw with me, telling him that on this side, we can have a better time. But he tells me he can't, because they are preparing a workers' revolution. 

I tell him I understand, and that I admire his fight for a better world; that thanks to their struggle, workers have more rights today than in his time. Then he asks me what I do for a living. I tell him I sell my drawings.

—You must be a famous painter! —he says.

—No —I reply—, actually, nobody knows me. It's a weird future. People in my century are connected by imaginary phone cables, but they are less connected with the people who are closer to them. I´m not looking for fame. I´d rather be anonymous.  I just want to find ways to create and explore new things. My way of doing the revolution is through art. That’s how I found you and, in a way, how we connected.

Perhaps I’m going too far in this imaginary dialogue as I mix the watercolours and search for the colour he’s asking for. I mix sienna with red and start with light strokes, looking for where the light hits. 

His cap casts a faint shadow over his eyebrows. His features are sharp. He keeps staring and asks me to give him more life with warmer tones. His blue uniform suggests the wrinkles of hard work. The layers of watercolour finish their goal. The light places strokes of shadow in the corners of his form.

—That’s me now —he tells me—. I'm better there. Leave it like that. My face looks sad, but I'm still angry.

I’m sorry, my friend. I’ll try to tell the world.