Scars

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http://matadornetwork.com/community/olivebeard/scars/attachment/133/

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Following a run-in with some barbed wire, a friend once told me, “Chicks dig scars.”

A few months ago, during an interview with Ben Schumaker for the Matador piece “Portrait of Hope: Lessons from The Memory Project”, I expressed a personal interest in participating in the program.

About a month later, after speaking with an old friend and art teacher about her involvement in the project, I was looking through a batch of photographs. They were mugshot-style pictures of orphans of Nuestro Pequenos Hermanos out of Mexico City. Amongst the 15-20 pictures, I was immediately drawn to one in particular. I’ll call him “Jose Vargas”. I wanted to draw him.

By pure serendipity, the art teacher emailed me about the pictures. She asked if I could do Jose Vargas. Why? Because he bears a scar.

This sparked a discussion that remains unfinished. The teacher felt that the high school students would be intimidated by this facial anomaly in spite of–and this is important–the rules stating that small changes can be made to the portrait. (page 2, section 4)

Is it ok to just erase what we deem to be imperfect? I asserted that there were two schools of thought on the matter.  One is that he may be ashamed of the scar and appreciate a photo of him without; the other is that removing a scar may reaffirm that a facial scar is something to be hidden and indicate to the child that beauty only exists through perfection. My thought was, to erase this scar was to reinforce that the world–random strangers in particular–would like him better without. At approximately 9-12 years old, I wouldn’t think him stupid enough to be blind to the harsh judgments of the world. The teacher agreed.

Jose’s scar is noticeable–it spans his upper right cheek and moves across the bridge of his nose. I reflected upon this feature and began to wonder about its nature. Was it simply a childhood accident or was it of a more sinister nature?

But I wasn’t drawn to Jose because of his scar. I didn’t choose him because I thought that I was such a great artist that I could do the scar justice. I chose him because of his pride.

The cold confidence in his eyes ages him well beyond his years. Delicate depressions at the corner of the mouth give a subtle smile that indicates, not jubilance, but apathy. His eyes sit half-mast, as if sleeping would be a more important venture at that moment.  He not posing for a picture–he’s staring down the photographer.

Perhaps I’m inferring too much. Regardless, I can’t help but feel those eyes burning at me from the drawing table. I feel as if his scars run much deeper than those he wears on the outside; I’m powerless to erase them.