During 2025–2026, I began drawing faces.
For 100 consecutive days, I drew one face each day.
On the metro, in the middle of sleepless nights, even during meetings—I kept going, without missing a day.
I sketched a colleague, a friend, an imagined neighbour, a teacher I once feared, a wicked stepmother, a flawless athlete, an overly thoughtful nephew… but never myself.
When the 100 days were over, I tucked the sketchbook away in a dark drawer.
Months later, I opened it again.
And then I saw it clearly:
they were all portraits of me.
A hundred faces—
a hundred versions of myself.
During 2025–2026, I began drawing faces.
For 100 consecutive days, I drew one face each day.
On the metro, in the middle of sleepless nights, even during meetings—I kept going, without missing a day.
I sketched a colleague, a friend, an imagined neighbour, a teacher I once feared, a wicked stepmother, a flawless athlete, an overly thoughtful nephew… but never myself.
When the 100 days were over, I tucked the sketchbook away in a dark drawer.
Months later, I opened it again.
And then I saw it clearly:
they were all portraits of me.
A hundred faces—
a hundred versions of myself.