The Lines I’d Forgotten

How returning to drawing at 44 taught me to see the world through new eyes

A sketchbook rests in the grass at Villa Frei, capturing in charcoal the distinctive modernist stairway system that defines this 1960s architectural landmark

“You’re still here?” Prateek’s voice crackles through my headphones, his face pixelated on my screen. He shares his screen to show me a dashboard — a numerical assessment of team contributions. My number stands out: 70. The rest of my teammates range between 300 and 500. The stark contrast tells the story before he does. “Your contribution metrics have been concerning lately.”

I nod, knowing exactly why those numbers have plummeted. For the past month, I’ve been disappearing for hours at a time, driving to architectural landmarks across Santiago, standing for fifty minutes at a stretch or sitting on public benches, grass, even sidewalks, with a leather case of carefully selected pencils, trying to remember how to see.

This moment — this conversation about my slipping performance — is the end of my story. But to understand it, I need to take you back to the beginning.

Three months earlier, I’m scrolling through an online art supply store, my cursor hovering over an expensive leather pencil case. I feel like such an impostor that I can’t even bring myself to visit an actual store in person. I’m 44 years old. I haven’t drawn seriously in nearly a decade, not since before my daughter was born. Yet something…