lornamatic

via Arts & Letters Daily, an interesting commentary on the life of Rembrandt…

Come on over to the TAG Gallery in Santa Monica. There’s a reception on Saturday August 19, from 5-8pm. One of my drawings is in the show. (more info)

One of the funniest things about watching babies grow is the squash / stretch effect. Suddenly the baby starts looking REALLY pudgy, and you know it’ll only be a few more days before the next growth spurt. Round and fat gives way to tall and thin, and before you know it, you’ve reached another milestone. And then it happens all over again. It’s all a big growth curve.

One of the most painful things about making art is the squash / stretch effect. You’re working along, doing fine, and all of a sudden your work starts looking, well, kind of pudgy. Squat and flat, metaphorically speaking. And you hope it will only be a few more weeks before the next growth spurt, where squat and flat gives way to long and lean, and before you know it, you’ve had a breakthrough. And if you’re lucky, and you keep at it, one day, eventually, it might happen all over again. It’s all a big learning curve.

Another way to look at this is rise over run. Remember algebra? Graphing was always my favorite. One step over, two steps up.

You’re speeding along in your world, having a grand time of it, and suddenly you’re face first with a big wall. All you can do is scale the wall. But sometimes, it’s too high, there’s no end in sight, you haven’t got the right tools, or maybe you’re just tired, so you just stay put, for a while.

Oh, the nice graphing programs anti-alias it, so you’ve got a lovely ramp to stroll along. But, usually the real world isn’t quite so polished, and you’re stuck. Rise or run.

Art and algebra, same thing. In my curve, improvement in skill is the rise, and emotional context is the run. If things start to stall, that means it’s time to get to work.

Back to basics.

Rise.

Chip away at what’s wrong, improve those skills, refine that technique. Then run with it, as far as you can.

And if you work hard, and if you’re really lucky, maybe the whole thing might happen all over again.

So I’m taking the introductory figure drawing class at UCLA Extension, with Joseph Blaustein. I’ve taken this class before, with a different teacher, (I’ve also taken Joe’s intermediate and advanced classes), but I’m really lucky to be able to take it a second time. It’s so worth doing it again.

Joe’s one of my favorite teachers, ever, and if you live in Los Angeles and you are interested in figure drawing, you’d be doing yourself a big favor to sign up for one of his classes.

Watching the progress of my classmates is amazing. People’s work is growing tremendously and it’s only the second week so far. I noticed a change on the first day - between the first and second rounds of drawing. It’s impressive and inspiring how fast it happens, and that kind of thing you can only blame on Joe. A working artist, he manages to create a safe place to play and explore, but the thing that’s priceless is that he finds the perception or style unique to each artist.

The thing that’s catching me, though - is that most of the students are unaware of their progress. They have no idea how much they’re learning, they can’t see how far they’re progressing. They don’t know because they’re so deep in the middle of it.

When you’re driving down the freeway, things don’t change so fast. It doesn’t look so different whether you’re driving 20MPH or 80MPH. You’re focused on the horizon, not on how quickly the roadside trees are zooming past. Everyone can see how fast you’re moving, except you.

This class is just like that. I’m learning and growing, but this time it’s at a slightly slower pace. Now I also have the privilege of watching the progress, because it’s not new to me - I’ve done a lot of this before, so I’m seeing all the growth that’s happening around me much more closely. It is happening and it is incredible.

Between breaks, I chat with the other people in the class. They are focused on the exercises, and while I try to keep to the basic excercises, I certainly play around more.

Today I was chatting with some classmates, and someone said something slightly wistful, I don’t remember what exactly. It doesn’t really matter, but it made me suddenly realize, they don’t know! THEY DON’T SEE IT YET! They don’t even know how much they’re learning. They don’t know how good they’re getting. They have no idea - when you’re moving that fast and staying that focused, you are not watching the trees on the side of the road.

That little leap made me further realize, not so long ago, THAT WAS ME! And I didn’t see it - the growth was there, and I definitely felt it (it felt great), but at the time, I didn’t have any clue how much and how fast. Sometimes you can’t recognize it in yourself until you see it in someone else. The realization floored me, because suddenly I got it. I realized I’ve been growing, and growing a lot.

There was a moment for me, when the ceiling cracked wide open and let the endless sky shine through. And this is how it happened: Once, I happily spent hours and hours focused on a single drawing. I would start a single drawing, and put everything into it. I’d be devastated to smudge a line, or later realize a little proportion was off. I was precious about everything I did. I didn’t do drafts, I knew where I wanted to do before I started. It was the most paralyzing approach I could have taken.

The first figure drawing teacher I had was not a bad person, nor was he a bad teacher, but he would, once in a while, pop out with something like “Ooooh. You should just stop, now, and call that done. Because that’s pretty good, and if you did something else you might mess it up.”

I was at Joe’s class today and I was down to my last three sheets of paper, so I had to maximize space on the page. I was using soft vine charcoal, and for the last few sets of poses, I just wiped away each drawing after I finished it. A few of them were, I think, not so bad, and at one point as the figure met the chamois cloth, someone said “Oh, you don’t have to wipe that away!”

Aside from the part about having no more paper, I realized I’d made it to a whole new place. I wasn’t precious about my work, anymore, not even a little. Smudges happen, things don’t always go in the controlled, careful way you’d like. Just like life, drawing is transitory, and sometimes the smudges are the best part. There’s no reason to be precious. If I can’t do another drawing again, one that’s just as good, then it was an accident, and that means it probably isn’t worth keeping as a representation of my ability. And maybe that’s the biggest breakthrough so far.

I’ve been taking an intermediate figure drawing class at UCLA. I love the class, I love the instructor, the models are always fantastic, the lighting is good, I’ve learned a great deal, and it’s been a very positive experience.

Except.

Every week, there is one homework assignment. A SELF PORTRAIT. The parameters vary, one week it might be using chiaroscuro, sfumato, or simply black and white chalk on colored paper, but it’s always the same assignment. Another SELF PORTRAIT.

I find flow looking at things outside myself, most especially in the natural world. It quiets my mind in the most amazing and restorative way. I can get lost for hours looking at the contours of a shell or a skull - even at the face or shape of another person.

I don’t have quite the same reaction to mirrors, though. An hour of self contemplation, even with really interesting light, only results in my mind wandering.

“Hm, I should get a haircut. Something different. Maybe I should go back to that place in Brentwood. I liked that place. I want to let it grow out, though. Maybe I should try a different color. Hm, interesting. My eye teeth are not totally level. I wonder if I should call an orthodontist. Orthodontist? HA. I haven’t even found a dentist I like in LA. I should start with a cleaning. Tooth whitening, too. I don’t want to look like one of those scary super bleached out Xenon headlights people, though. I wonder if their teeth fluoresce under black light. I probably should drink less coffee. If I lightened my hair, I’d definitely need to get those Xenon teeth treatments. I need to get my car smogged too. I really need a better todo list. Someone should write a program for that. Oh wait, someone already did… I should really check that… I wonder what my password was…”

So I never leave the analytical world. Bad monk, no Zen. Consequently every homework assignment I bring in ends up looking rather like a technical illustration: flat, analytical, literal. Distracted.

From Diary, by Chuck Palahniak :

When they were in school, Peter used to say that everything you do is a self-portrait. It might look like Saint George and the Dragon or The Rape of the Sabine Women, but the angle you use, the lighting, the composition, the technique, they’re all you. Even the reason why you chose this scene, it’s you. You are every color and brushstroke.

Peter used to say, “The only thing an artist can do is describe his own face.”

You’re doomed to being you.

This, he says, leaves us free to draw anything, since we’re only drawing ourselves.

Your handwriting. The way you walk. Which china pattern you choose. It’s all giving you away. Everything you do shows your hand.

Everything is a self-portrait.

So my teacher has been bemused by the vast difference between my loose and more abstract style in class and that of my homework.

“You are too careful about how you look,” he said. “Just look at the form, at the light. This week, when you draw your portrait, use charcoal, and wipe it down. Draw it again, and wipe it down. Keep doing it.”

So last night I set up shop in front of the mirrored door in Mike’s office. I have one in my office, too (I live in Los Angeles, where there is some local zoning ordinance requiring every room in every home to have at least one floor to ceiling mirror), but I decided a change of scenery would help.

So I sat down at the mirror, face to face for a friendly fireside chat with my nemesis. Armed only with a sketchpad, sanguine and black charcoal, a pentel click eraser, and a dirty old chamois cloth, I drew. And wiped. And drew it all back in. And wiped it all away.

Self-portrait, Sisyphus.

It worked. After the first awkward line drawing was wiped away, I started right in on the next one. With each wipe down, the paper got dirtier, I got dirtier, the surface got more interesting, and the proportions got easier. The slightest hint of drawings past remained, a charcoal scent trail, refined with each generation. Just like the ants do. Do the hard work this time - it might be mostly washed away, but it will be easier the next time.

Draw. Wipe. Do it again.

Almost an hour passed. I didn’t notice. I forgot to obsess over unrelated details. There was even a decent rendering of my own face on the page - far more interesting and rich in texture than the work I’d done before. And the most unexpected thing? I really enjoyed it.

I actually enjoyed doing a self portrait.

It’s a truly magical thing when you find a teacher gifted enough to not only recognize a problem, but to also prescribe a solution. The kind of person who can still teach you something, who can surprise you, days later and miles away.