An Amazing Opportunity
You rehearse, rehearse, rehearse, and you’ve got one crack at it — don’t blow it! — Nathan Fillion
I’m not prepared. I’m frantic. I can’t move fast enough. I can’t see clearly enough. I can’t think. Start with a brush or with a pen? The crown of his head? Forehead? Nose? Chin? Don’t forget the shoulders. Oh, look at the cheeks! Where is the shadow that is usually right there? The haircut! Amazing! Every hair falls into place. Texture of the skin: sun damage, yeah, the lines, whiskers. Oooo! The upper lip! Puckers his mouth as he writes. See it, Yow. Hmm, definite weight loss…fullness gone there, and there, and there…hello, jawbone! Pale curve of neck into shoulders. Seams in the face define the chin clearly. Draw them…No! too aging! Damn collared shirt. Too loose. Where are his arms in those big sleeves? Yeah, real arms. Watch that muscle. Wow. Try another brush.
I’m listening to the patter of his voice: “Hi, I’m Nathan, and you are? And who is this? …and this? … Nice to meet you. Thank you.” Again, “Hi, I’m Nathan, and you are? And who is this? …you made this? … Nice to meet you. God bless you.” And another, “Hi, I’m Nathan, and you are? And who is this? …and this? … Nice to meet you. Thank you.” I’m so used to hearing that voice, so intimate, so expressive, so in-my-ears, so in-my-heart, so used to it every day from speakers in the studio, in the kitchen, in the bedroom, in my sleep; now it’s his voice, this man’s voice, friendly and approachable but…he’s still over there. On the other side. Still on the other side of an invisible barrier.
He never looks at me. I’m right here, but he gives me not a flicker of attention. I’m dismayed. He’s angry? He’s disappointed? He’s uncomfortable? He’s resentful? Eventually, I realize what it is: he’s working. When he works, there are always people standing and staring at him: at his hair, at his clothes, at his skin, at his light, at his words. I’m just one more of them; another worker busy extracting value from his performance. He works with the best. Thinking of that, I feel even more on the spot. I’m not prepared. I’m not ready.
Three weeks earlier, I’d concluded I’d have to pass on seeing him this year. It’s just too expensive. A VIP ticket is $350! and me worried when I spend one tenth as much for groceries! I have no job anymore, and no contract work. Nothing but burnt bridges. Life is constricting around me. All I have is #FillionDrawingOfTheDay and the faith that it will lead, eventually, to… significance. Spending so much—add gas and hotel and meals—for a handshake and a photo isn’t wise. I’d regret it. It’s not enough.
But…
Could I make it worth a hefty credit card balance? What if I didn’t wait another year, didn’t wait until I’m really ready to draw him from life? Twitter buddies said, try asking his assistant, she’s nice, she’ll get it, she’ll help. So I did. I tweeted Michelle Chapman asking if there was any way I could have that chance, and—once I explained—she said yes. So here I am, having an amazing opportunity. And I’m blowing it.
I said, “Could we NOT look at the camera? Let’s look over there!”
“I’m Nathan, and you are…?” he says to the last fan in line. The autograph session is ending. Instantly, Michelle and the other helpers pack up and file out. As he passes through the curtain, he looks at me (at last!) and says, “See you in a bit” and vanishes. What does he mean? What? What? Does he mean at the photo-ops due to start in a few minutes? Or—dare I hope—at the autograph session after that? I thought I’d be allowed only this single chance, but maybe… As I flex my stiff knees to trek upstairs to the photo-op booths, I feel a rising excitement. A second chance! And after that, perhaps a third! Just one decent drawing is all I want. The sketchbook so far has nothing but botched monstrosities.
After the photo-ops, the second autograph session begins, and yes! Michelle says I can have another go. Back in my position next to the security guard, calm confidence comes over me. I realize that the key is not to draw more quickly than usual, but more slowly and deliberately. Choose the feature, observe it carefully, make a stroke. Then another stroke. Flub a pose. Deep breath. Start over. Keep doing it. It works. In even the skimpiest attempts, I see him, I feel the connection. I’m blessed with flow: his voice is flowing, my ink is flowing, the time is flowing, the line of fans is flowing. Then the flow ends. It’s over.
“You’re going to let me see?” he asks. “You’ve got to let me see!” So I hand him the sketchbook. “This is why I’m jealous,” he says, flipping the pages. “This is me, and this is me…” The farther back he looks, the worse the drawings are, and I’m embarrassed. Thankfully, they’re in a hurry. Off they go to the Firefly panel. I make my own way to the panel through the noisy crowd, discovering stiff knees are only the first complaint. My hands ache. I’m hungry. My feet hurt. I’m tired. It’s a long way. The escalator is broken. I reach the top, panting and blowing and spent. I can’t wait to sit down.
The final autograph session won’t begin for hours, but I stand outside the booth, waiting tensely, for the whole interval. I sense my blood sugar dropping, so I munch a few peanuts from the bottom of my backpack. There’s no energy—no inspiration—left in me except the determination to make the most of this day.
I think about the phenomenon I’ve witnessed thus far. Last year, I remember, I left my encounter with him convinced we’d made a personal connection, that he’d really seen and valued what I’d shown him, but now I wonder if I should change my thinking. I’ve not paid much attention to what people have said to him, only to what he says, but each of them leaves—I’m sure of it—with that same conviction in their minds. And there have been how many fans? one hundred? two hundred? many more? passing through in just two sessions today. To each fan he was attentive, present, professional. He teased the children, complimented the costumes, praised the drawings, and marvelled at the exquisite models of Serenity presented so proudly and shyly. He bent over every photo, every poster, every box, every t-shirt, and drew the big loops and laggard dots of his signature with the same care every time. I wondered if, behind that familiar ritual, his mind was as busy and as disconnected as mine is when I’m drawing—speculating, dreaming, planning, and yearning. I realized that as personal, as physical, as immediate, and as real as his presence here is, what I see, what we fans see, is still a performance. There’s still a screen between us and the real man.
It turns out I’m correct about my energy reserves. When the Fillion crew return at last to the autograph booth, I take my post for the final autograph session. The signs of bankrupt creativity are soon apparant. The brush pens are dead in my hands. The fountain pen scratches the paper lifelessly. I can’t even see him clearly anymore. I edge father back in the booth, until I’m nearly behind him, because I don’t want him to see me in his peripheral vision, wilting, an empty husk. I try drawing his whole body, now that it’s in my view, but I’m too close. Everyone makes a fuss about his robust backside—I’d rather contemplate his spine and shoulders—but even with a good view of all those assets I can’t do more than scribble. I worry that I won’t make it to the end. My knees are burning. Hands shaking. Head swimming. What if I faint? I entertain myself with a vision of waking up in an ugly heap on the floor while he exclaims in a high-pitched voice, like Castle, “Is she dead!?”
As the end of the line comes into view, I reach shakily for support as I try to move more forward for one last try at his face. In the stream of his voice, I hear, “You okay there, Artifex? Do you need a chair? You should have had a chair!” I explain that I hadn’t wanted a chair, but now, yes, I need one. The assistants wrangle one of the tall stools over to my corner and he helps me up into it. “The world’s most uncomfortable chair!” he calls it as I swing my legs and he laughs. I try to concentrate as the last autograph seekers take their turn, but the best I can do is attempt to imprint on my memory, as deeply and thoroughly as I can, the details of his physical presence. How will it affect my work? This experience will permeate everything; it seems that nothing will ever be the same.
It’s a week later. Nothing has changed. Yet everything has.
You made me cry. I'm sitting in a bar just after taking my picture with nathan and I have tears! You are a special person and for him to have one of your pictures at his signing booth!.... he gets that you are special!
