Old man with a cigarette (Charcoal on board)

A photograph of my older charcoal drawing of an old man smoking a cigarette (2000).

The real story behind this drawing:

He sat quietly on a park bench that smelled of one of the first spring days. He watched the events around him with a searching gaze, his eyes slightly closed. Maybe he was squinting because of the sun, maybe because of the cigarette smoke, or simply because of the weariness of the years. When he noticed that I was looking at him from the bench opposite, he smiled. I took that smile as an invitation and sat down next to him. Since I don't smoke and I don't like cigarette smoke, every time I wanted to take a breath, I turned my head in the opposite direction. He noticed it right away. "Does the smoke bother you?" he asked in a low voice. "No," I said, even though it wasn't true. I didn't want to lie, but I also didn't want to miss a potentially interesting conversation. "But you know that smoking is bad for you, right?" I said, even though I rarely get into other people's business. "Yes," he replied with a laconic smile and yet he certainly thought of himself. I knew from the wrinkles on his face that his life had been one of the hardest, and each wrinkle was a painful memory of what he had experienced. I didn't have the courage to ask him, but I wanted to draw him. When asked how old he was, he answered very briefly, "A lot." He looked at the paper crumpled in my hands for a moment and after a while said - "If you're doing some research, I'm not interested" and took a hard drag on his cigarette. Then he blew a wisp of smoke towards me, as if he wanted to punish me for it. He must not have been a bad person, because he immediately apologized to me with his characteristic gesture of waving his hand. "You won't die from a little smoke," and he grinned. "Okay," I said. "I want to draw your portrait," I added. "My what?" he asked in surprise. "Your portrait, your likeness" I replied. "And what good will that do you?" he asked, taking another powerful drag on his cigarette. "It's my hobby, drawing interesting people," I say. "I'm not interesting," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "No one has ever told me that before," he added quietly."I've worked and lived hard and honestly all my life, that's all"."Well, you see, and that's why you're interesting to me," I said, and slowly made a sketch on paper, thinking I'd finish it at home. "Hmm" .."Well, living honestly is obvious, the strange thing is that it's actually interesting" he said it as if to himself. His cigarette burned out and he began to look for something behind the bench. He took out two crutches from there, stood up, and put them under his armpits. "Could you wait a little longer," I tell him..."I still need to make a few moves". He just shook his head and said sheepishly, "I can't, because my unruly son is at home, whom I'm taking care of, and when he sleeps, I go out to smoke. When he wakes up, I want him to see that I'm still with him."He walked away slowly, using supports. After a few steps, he stopped. He turned his head towards me, smiled again, as if he was grateful to have someone to talk to after a long time, and said, "You will have to finish that portrait of an interesting person according to your imagination," and nodded his head in greeting.

I really had to draw it at home from memory because I never saw it again. It's my tribute to this guy and people like him.