If I consciously felt anything when I looked up from my work, it was mostly anxiety and guilt about having been so derelict and left everything until deadline yet again. But during the time I was actually focused on drawing—whipping out a perfect line, fluid but precise, gauging the exact cant of an eyelid to evoke an expression, or immersed in the infinitesimal universe of cross-hatching—I wasn’t conscious of feeling anything at all.
