I can remember so clearly, as a kid, watching the concentration in my mother's face when she was at the piano playing the most intricate and demanding pieces. She was foreign to me then -- so muscular and exact. Her mouth, in particular, would tighten in a specific way -- fiercely.
I've never thought of myself as making a face when I concentrate -- but these are the moments when your body disappears and your mind is its own machine. But I recently noticed this wrinkle, just on one side, below my mouth and I knew it immediately -- the only face I know that would create that odd, upright line. I knew it not from my own visceral understanding of self, but by watching my mother while at work on her own art. So strange to see it there and know it and realizing that I don't always know myself.