When I was a small girl....maybe six or seven... we went over to someone's house. At that house was a framed picture of a face. My mother told me that someone had drawn that face. I was stunned. The idea that it was possible for someone to draw so well had never occurred to me. My mother told me that if I practiced, I could draw faces well, too.
So I did practice. I drew faces, over and over again, in my growing up years. When I left home, they were my favorite thing to doodle. I find faces in peeling paint and in the cracks of the ceiling; watch how the light hits a face in real life and the changing of the shapes of it with changes in angle; marvel at the treatment of faces by other artists. I am not an especially fast learner, but I don't ever stop. Little by little, I get better.
Even one person's face is a study of variations on a theme. The baby, the child, the youth, middle age, old age. The face changes from moment to moment with the sweeping effects of expression, and from year to year with the slower but deeper effects of time.
A face may reveal much about a person, and it may hide much.
And whether a face leads me to observe or to wonder, there is no end to its fascination.