For Yasmine Hamdan, singer
When I was watching and listening to you perform last week, Yasmine, I had an impulse to draw you — an absurd impulse because it was too dark. I couldn’t see the sketchbook on my knees. At moments I scribbled without looking down or taking my eyes off you.
There’s a rhythm in these scribbles — as though my pen were accompanying your voice. But a pen isn’t a harmonica or a drum, and now in the silence my scribbles mean almost nothing.
You were wearing red high-heeled shoes, black leggings, a dark-brownish, half-transparent T-shirt with padded…
