There was an artist down on the beach today. He was drawing lines in the sand.
I’ve seen him here before. His drawings are intricate and sprawling, patterns and shapes crashing together to somehow create a seamless picture. As my knowledge of art history is entirely limited to the realm of French Impressionism, I can’t identify the style, but that doesn’t matter.
It’s beautiful.
The man appears on the beach at random, staking out several dozen yards within the shadow of the overhead pier that stretches far out past the breakers. He wears faded shorts, a loose buttoned shirt, and a wide straw hat that would look at home perched on an old southern woman tending her vegetable garden.
He begins working without a pause using a piece of driftwood scavenged from the beach. He drags the driftwood through the sands, lines, then shapes, then patterns. People gather on the pier to watch him drawing below, speculations pass between them. Everybody whispers like they are in church. They throw dirty looks to people who walk by without noticing, talking loudly.
This is now a sacred space.
The man works for over an hour. He doesn’t stop, he doesn’t consult any sketch or plan. He paces back and forth within the drawing, stooping to rub out a line or draw out another. Sometimes he draws in short quick swipes at the sand, some he cuts in long smooth swoops. Whenever you think he might be done an entire new dimension to the piece blossoms.
You know he is finished when he finally steps back. It’s then that he pauses for a moment before scrawling his name at the bottom. Then, without looking, he throws his driftwood into the whitewash and goes to sit on a rock. He pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around his legs.
It’s his turn to watch the show.
The art is more than the lines in the sand, more than the picture. It’s not art, in the traditional sense, it’s a performance. You watch the sand transform into something new and wonderful, then you watch it fade away again.
It starts slowly at first. Kids wandering by kicking at the small ridges in the sand, parents barely taking notices. Couples walking hand in hand trailing footsteps right through the center. Joggers, dogs, Frisbee players, they all take a piece of the image with them. The people on the pier above shout and wave their hands, trying to stave off disaster. They are furious at how people can be so oblivious.
The man just watches.
He sits on his rock, his knees tucked up, hugging his legs. He might be smiling but it’s hard to see beneath the long brim of his hat. Finally, the tide rolls in and with each caress of sea foam it washes the sand clean. When there is nothing left but a smooth stretch of beach, the man gets up and leaves without a word.
I’ve never taken a picture of his work, that spoils it. The fragile, temporal nature of it is just as important as the drawing itself. Like watching a play, what you are witnessing here and now will only happen exactly that way once, then it is gone forever.
I’ve seen him several times before, I don’t know his name, I don’t know who he is, I don’t know what he does. I suppose I could find out if I took a little time to research or ask around, but I would rather leave him a mystery. For me, I’m happy that he remain the guy who draws lines in the sand.
All we build all we
are, lines in the sand.
We slowly build shape,
until there is naught
to add. Then we fade
piece by piece until
nothing remains,
And we wash away
to rejoin the sea.
Weasel Tea 