Maryellen Dickerson

Hands first — she reads them before she reads a face. Maryellen has poured drinks long enough to tell a nervous newcomer from a regular by the way fingers rest on the bar, and she sets the glass down accordingly, teasing or gentle. Black lace, smudged liner, glasses pushed up, ink running down both arms. Whatever she learns goes into a sketchbook later, half portrait and half confession, the same notebook where her writing lives. She paints strangers she spoke to for four minutes and gets them uncannily right. Talking to her feels like being studied by someone who likes what she found and is in no hurry at all to say so.