Physiognomies and counternances (show us yer kisser)

"At the sight of that placid and bland physiognomy, when he sits in the sun on the vicarage wall" Old Deuteronomy, T.S. Eliot.

Old Deuteronomy is one of my favourite poems and thanks to Cats, also one of my favourite songs. I can just imagine his furry old face relaxed in a deep sleep behind the vicarage, while burly workmen tip-toe past him in fleecy shirts and clunky boots. Eliot has so poetically allowed me to open this blog with my current topic: faces.

I have just finished sorting almost 20,000 digital photographs, many of those framing faces of those I love. Some of them are of me in all sorts of poses and contortions. This is because I decided last year that I would post a new profile photo weekly on Facebook (those of you on this social networking site would already be aware of Christine's jibes about me taking photos of myself in the bathroom). I did this partly from creative boredom and partly to keep my hand in Photoshop; that incredible piece of photo editing software in which the advertising industry makes Penélope Cruz and Giselle Bündchen (and others without grave accents and umlauts) even more gorgeous than they deserve to be.

Kirsten has the face bug too, and is madly completing her third pencil portrait for her schooling. Elle McPherson and Halle Berry now grace her folio and I am trying to encourage her to look at craggier, and less Photoshopped (yes it is a verb) characters for more interest. In fact I believe that Kirsten has a latent artistic talent that she may well unleash on the world if she feels the need.

I think the prize for best fizzog goes to the woman I met on the train on Friday. Not only because she had such a fantastically interesting face, but because she lightened what is normally the equivalent of sitting in a dentist's waiting room: train travel on the Pakenham Line. For those unfortunate enough to travel it, you know exactly what I mean. For those who don't, it is a cramped, rickety and soulless journey that takes place for an hour, generally twice every weekday. Trains are regularly cancelled or delayed and the manners and/or tempers of some of my fellow commuters might have rivalled Genghis Khan's disposition if he had access to Methamphetamine in the 12th Century.

The best way to describe this woman would be in a single name: Yoda. I'm not trying to be funny or cruel, this woman looked just like the Jedi master in the Star Wars saga. She was extremely short, wizened and very old looking. If she had sported a green complexion I would have placed my bets on a light-sabre in her handbag. The shape of her ears was in question as they were covered by a shawl, although this gave her that hooded robe look to complete my bizzare mental picture.

She originally sat across the isle from me with two very pretty, bored and vacuous looking gum chewers (how come they are always pretty? Is it their accessorised and make-up versions of Photoshopping?)

I must admit she caught me looking at her amazingly Yoda-like countenance. The best I could do to cover my guilt at being so rude was to smile. A reasonably toothless grin was returned and she moved to the seat across from me (I was waiting for "Ooh, take this seat I shall" but it didn't eventuate). Maybe she felt I was better company than the 'Buffys' she first sat with.

I need to digress for a moment and explain the term 'Buffys', so named after the Sarah Michelle Gellar character Buffy Summers, in Joss Whedon's clever series about a beautiful young vampire slayer. My friend Ivanka coined the phrase in regards to several very pretty girls in our TAFE Editing class. They were all fashion model material, but their only interests were: themselves, boys, themselves, the Herald Sun gig guide, themselves, oh and themselves. If they ever learnt anything about editing it would have been through an accident.

My new commuting friend and I shared a brief conversation where neither understood a damn thing the other said (but nonetheless felt happier for the interlude) and then she promptly fell asleep mashing her almost toothless gums in the process. I am reading an interesting text at the moment, but I had my friend to engage my attention this trip. This woman's face was straight out of National Geographic with crags crisscrossing her face in every direction. Her skin was like leather and her Asiatic eyes were jammed into tight slits in her repose. I would have loved to have the courage to ask to photograph her. In black and white I believe her portrait would have been award winning.

A young man sat next to her. Tall, slim and slightly pale, he served as great visual contrast. Furtive glances in their direction kept me amused for most of the trip to Clayton station, where this woman departed from us. However the thing that clinched it for me, and really made my day was when she fell asleep on the man's arm. She really snuggled in and in desperation he tried to concentrate on his graphic novel. In the end it was too much for him and he started giggling. Silently, but almost convulsively. Of course this woke the woman up and she sat bolt-upright. Rather than outward embarrassment she opened her mouth into a wide grin and giggled as well. Both myself and the guy next to me nearly lost the plot and all four of us ended up, nigh on hysterical at the situation.

After Clayton I put my nose full-time back into my book, but I really couldn't concentrate on British history. All I could think of was the lines:

And the oldest inhabitant croaks:
"Well of all things,
Can it be really,
Yes, no, ho-hi, oh my eye..."

I don't know why, I just did.