Who is this sitting on a bench in Potternewton Park in Leeds some years ago? I can hardly see who it is - there is no detail. Does that make him not exist? He never knew that I looked at him and drew him. What was he thinking about? What was his life like? Is the space he is sitting in more important than the man?
This is Ron, a man I knew all my life. He lived alone. He was kind. Can you see him in the drawing? Will the consequences of his many kindnesses roll out into time like little waves enriching wherever they land, passed on further by the people to whom they were given? Or is Ron finished, his acts finished with his life?
What of me is in these drawings? What of you is in the seeing? How do we all combine?