She looked to be sixteen or seventeen. I couldn’t tell because she exhibited the typical unsure-of-themselves behavior of a kid out on her own. Her hair looked like she hadn’t learned the tricks that older women know to make it pretty. Her body was also smaller like she hadn’t finished growing. She wore a black crop-top, black jeans, and white sneakers. And here’s what I didn’t get: she sat on the asphalt walkway and leaned against the chain-link fence. Why not in the grass like everyone else? Surely the asphalt and the fence were less comfortable. But perhaps she was aware of the aesthetic. She knew her black outfit would look better in contrast with the grey than the green, the industrial feel of the metal fence would complement the dirt on her sneakers, and the sketchbook she pulled out of her backpack would cohere all the elements into the image of a young artist already aware that discomfort is sufferable for good art.