Albrecht Durer

Durer holds his steelpoint in his bony right hand. He spreads the
parchment, stretching it out so it will not move and, forcing the point
to the paper, etches a fine, dark line onto the surface. The following
lines take from this central one, failing, imitating curve and
thickness, until the paper holds the weft of ink and drag. The eyes are
scratched out with the edge of the point and the pupils are silently
inked black. Time passes.
He inks the nostrils, the interstices of the nose, the furrows in the
ears, draws in the lines and angles of the cheekbones, inks the
shadows, hatches around the light, blinking his eyes, holding the point
close to the end. His head tight by the paper. His left hand edges
around the area. His fingernails catch on the parchment sometimes and
he nervously rubs the calluses in the inside of the fingers of his
right hand, point in his mouth, and dries the point on his thigh before
continuing.
As the face pushes out from the paper, Durer stops a moment and looks
up, over the parchment and the points and bottles of black ink. The
shadow pushing dark thumbs into his eyes until he appears blind.
It is nearly dawn: he puts down his pen and wipes his eyes and
forehead with the blunt ends of his fingers, and pulls them down his
cheeks from the corners of his eyes. He takes down his right hand,
takes himself a drink, puts his cup back down and grips it. Durer peers
at the face on the paper, the glove of fine hair he gives its temple,
the raising cheek. He falls to scratching again, shortening and
scratching until the picture is of somebody. He works all day.