drawing (5)
Boobman
He was hard to sketch. He had a wicked sexy face, but his body had feminine qualities, so it was hard to make him look masculine. I tried….
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The Sculptor
Some drawings from previous classes. This was a fantastic day. The
model failed to show up. We waited about a half hour. Nothing.
Then, the organizer, got one of the artists in the building to do some
modeling. He was a sculptor, and he knew how to pose. I’ve been having
a lot of trouble capturing some form of “gesture”. But… when he started
to pose, it was like magic. Suddenly my pencil took control over me,
and started to do things I didn’t know I could do. The “gestures”, the
dynamic poses, it all made sense now.
Here are a couple of the sketches:
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Blind Contours
Blind contour is an exercise where you draw the life model, as slowly
as you can, without looking at the paper, in one single stroke. The aim
is to equate the sense of touch with drawing. And it’s hard. It’s
really hard.
One sketch is supposed to take a half an hour. But my eyes deceive me,
and before I know it my sketch is done, 5 minutes later. Everything is
everted, the hand touches the leg, the legs cross the head. Sometimes
you can’t even tell what the model was doing. But.. once in a blue
moon. I get this sensation of my pencil being my eyes, and the paper
being the model. It’s like something inside my brain clicks, and
connects the experience. I’m sure that this is the ultimate aim. But
hours and hours of sketches have produced few of those moments. Still,
I must keep trying.
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Practice makes better?
There is something about the gestures that is hard to grasp. I know I’m
missing something, something integral to understanding the concept. I
did switch to a felt pen though, it seems scribbling is more natural
with it.
these sketches were done about a month ago. It was the first class we had two life models posing instead of one. Twice as hard.
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The first class
The task seemed weird at first. Gestures. One minute sketches. Not of the shapes, the lines, nor the gradient, but of movement. One scribble, one giant mess of pencil marks done so swiftly that it could not possibly make a fine line. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t look right. But, I think it’s that good old low confidence talking. That feeling that when you look around the room you just don’t measure up. How quickly I moved from the confinements of my previous classroom innocence to a court room of charcoals, conte, and graphite, where the air is tainted with unpure thoughts.
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