Portrait

I’m at home up north, in the house I grew up. I’ve established some kind of business here - people come to see me at the house to have their portraits done. There’s a bunch of prostitutes in the waiting room, which is actually the dining room.

I’m doing a rough sketch of a man. We’re not sitting down or relaxing in any way; he’s walking nervously around the house, and I follow him with my sketchbook, trying to capture his face. His face is weird, it’s lumpy and twisted, and it’s twitching all the time. I tell the man to stand still for a moment, and he stops. I manage to draw a really nice little sketch of his face, with all the lumps and whatnots. The man’s face seems to change constantly, and I draw more. I tell him again to please try and be still, but he can’t. I feel sorry for him but I’m also angry.

A woman apperars behind me. It’s his wife or something. She wants me to draw him differently. This makes me even more angry as I am perfectly happy with the drawings as they are - in fact I think they’re the best drawings I’ve ever made.

I wake up.