One of my many hobbies is figure drawing. There’s something meditative about spending a couple of hours intently focused on another human being, the contours of their body as they take different poses, the shadows and nuances of their muscles … I could go on and on. I haven’t done a lot of figure drawing over the past twenty years because it’s difficult to find a group of artists to join. And trust me, you don’t want to ask a friend, neighbor or spouse to strip and pose.
In the first session the five minute poses really killed me! But I had fun making messes.
A lot of people don’t understand that drawing naked people is not the same thing as creating pornography. Figure models generally belong to guilds that have strict rules and regulations. (Everyone can take off their clothes but not everyone can hold a poise for five minutes!) Successful figure models can earn up to 100 dollars per hour and the hours are generally mid-day or in the evening. Perfect for professional dancers.
Here I went a little crazy with a variety of pencils and chalks! I’m still trying to figure out my tools.
When my children were young I lucked on to a sculpture class that focused on the human form. Thus, my children were accustomed to seeing sculptures of naked people all around the house. However, every now and then I’d hear a new playmate snickering over the sight of “naked boobies!” and worry that the local vice squad might be showing up at my door.
This sculpture was done so long ago I can’t remember what I was thinking. We certainly weren’t beheading children and using them as props.
The group I was lucky enough to join meets in a room at the local community center that is also used for children’s art classes. It’s delightful to see their drawings posted all around … however, last session I needed to leave early and inadvertently left behind my sketches. Whoops. Naked boobies in the children’s art space.
Experiments with chalk – it’s soooo delightfully messy.
I hope the janitor finds them and throws them away before the kids show up for their class! I don’t want to get arrested for warping young minds with naked boobies!
Twenty years pass and children become adults. They grow facial hair and start wearing glasses. Their voices change. That’s what they do, Sandy told herself, and if you miss the process, you miss the process. There’s no going back.
“Ian … of course.” She always thought he would grow up to look like his Uncle Chad, tall and slender with delicate features and smooth skin. But he looked like his father. Not exactly but close enough. She’d heard that he’d become a doctor, which was not a surprise. As much as she detested his father, the jerk had slept walked his way through school and still gotten straight A’s. At least Ian has more sense than Bradley. Or perhaps it was less arrogance? “And that’s my daughter Angela.” He pointed to the trio of preteens crowding a table where crackers and cheese and veggie platters were spread. Two of kids were short and stocky with curly brown hair and ruddy complexions. The third was tall and thin with aquiline features and creamy white skin. “The tall girl with long black hair?” “Yes.” “She’s the spitting image of your mother at that age.“ “Aye, she is. And she’s artistic as well. ”
“And her mother?” “We’re divorced.” “Oh.” “It was amiable. She didn’t like Alabama and that’s where my residency was.” “Oh.” An amiable divorce. Imagine that. Nora had never talked about her children in the same way as other parents might. Were they happy adults or were they suffering? Did she get along with their spouses? Sandy had no idea. Their attention turned to the images now being projected to a screen on stage. All of the benches set up for viewing purposes were empty, except for the woman running the slide projector. She wept as Nora appeared coyly in the woods, followed by Nora defiant on a mountain ridge, Nora mellow next to her lake and so on. Always staring into the camera as if to say: “There is nothing you can do to hurt me now. All the magic has died and I’ve bled out.” They watched in silence. It was not the memorial of a life but another art installation.
“You know, your mother always told me she’d die before she reached forty and in a way she did. She went to that place in Marin and became Leonora.” “Ah yes Leonora. You have to remember that, by the time Mom turned thirty-eight, Iris and I had left town. Iris had moved to Alameda and and I’d joined the army. So she was free. No more kids to take care.“ “I hadn’t seen your mother in so long that I was really, really surprised to get the invitation. And, a phone call from Iris.” “Mother specifically requested that Iris track you down and persuade you to come. She said when you saw her final pieces, you would understand — Oh God she’s on the move.” “What?” “Dorothea’s coming in this direction. She’s had a few strokes you know. If you’re lucky she might not remember who you are.” “Dorothea?” She turned and sure enough. The grande dame of the Seagrass clan had risen from her seat of honor amongst the mourners and had aimed her walker directly at her grandson. “I heard that Katie moved back into the River House and is taking care of your grandparents.” “Yes.” “Nora said Katie was a saint.” “Did she?” Ian glanced at his watch and then back at his grandmother. “I think it’s time to check in with my service. Listen, we caught a break. It looks like Dorothea’s spotted another soul who needs saving.”
Jesus is Number One by Nancy Motley Came
“My cue to leave as well.” She’d circled the art exhibit three times, stopping in front of each piece to take in Leonora’s disturbing visions: men with wolf-like eyes ripping the clothing off prepubescent girls and raping them with long barbed tongues. Witch doctors gleefully ripping babies from their mother’s wombs, beheading them and dropping the remains for hyenas to feast upon. All this on twelve foot high rolls of butcher paper in vivid oil pastels — violets, neon greens and blood red crimsons. (At one time, blue had been her color.) Every corner, every edge of her canvases was filled with pagan symbols. In the end, Leonora decided to leave no breathing room.
Untitled oil pastel by Connemoira
“Do you know why Mother wanted you to see her final pieces?” “Yes, I think I do. There’s a face in each of the pieces, generally in the background … It’s been so long but … yes, I think I understand.” “The face of my father?” “No,” Sandy chuckled. “Nor is it Chevy. Although I ran into him and his sister in the parking lot and he told me all about Alison. Gads, it’s only been a couple of months.” “So you can understand why it’s hard for me to come back to Reno as well. Chevy thinks he martyred himself and now … well he’s full of justifications.” “Yup, he is.” She worried that Ian might ask about the face his mother had repeatedly placed in the background of her horrific scenes but he just nodded. Perhaps he knows the story, she thought, perhaps he’s heard it many times before with that special twist that only years of Seagrass religiosity can add. It wasn’t a story she ever told her children. It wasn’t a story for children brought up to believe that the Devil didn’t exist and that good could overcome evil. However every October when the weather changed and the fog rolled over the coastal hills, she remembered Daniel.. Everything else grew murkier over the years but she remembered Daniel.
Ian hugged her and said how glad he was to see her again and then he slipped out the entrance, passing Chevy with a nod. Why was Chevy still lingering at the reception table, she thought. He said he was only going to make his presence known and then leave? Was he waiting for her? Did he think because she understood how difficult life with Nora could be she would absolve him?
Praise the Lord and pass the biscuits! She remembered that the banquet hall had a back door.
Renwick Ruin – and excellent place for an Art Exhibit.
Y’all will be happy to hear that I’ve given up attempting to analyze the greatest American short stories of the last century (according to John Updike). Apparently Americans were screwed up then and guess what? 2020 has proven that the first twenty years into a new century, we ain’t getting any better. What would Updike say? Do I care anymore? Nah.
And … with uncommonly good weather forecast for the remainder of the week, I’m off to the teahouse.
My attempt at the fields of Tuscany – looks more like the black hills of Mordor
I am a mediocre artist who’s been awfully lucky. My husband, son, and father built this teahouse so that I would have a place to paint far from the house, the television, the telephone and the internet. It wasn’t a hurried project. I think it took them four years of working primarily on the weekends and holidays. For years it was their man time while I entertained my stepmother who loved to shop. Their reward would be a big meal and nice glass of wine in the evening. (my step mother also loved to dine out so a home cooked meal was a real treat for Dad)
The grossly over-engineered ceiling … built to withstand even an attack by Godzilla
Then I decided to write. Such a great idea, follow one mediocre career with another, hey? But I never totally give up painting. Every now and then, going down to the teahouse is like taking a sanity break.
My sane place
Sometimes I’ve taken out my awe on the canvas. Sometimes my grief.
Done shortly after a friend’s death through tears and much guilt.
Today I decided to take on my view.
View to the westA rough sketch
Maybe tomorrow I’ll be brave enough to add some color! What do you think – purple branches? A marmalade sky?
By pure coincidence, in the last couple of months I’ve seen two movies based on Truman Capote’s life at the time he wrote the book IN COLD BLOOD: Truman starring Philip Seymour Hoffman and Infamous starring Toby Jones. Both excellent movies. Hoffman had the more difficult role because he had five or six inches on Capote and didn’t really look that much like him. However, he did an amazing job of capturing the angst of a writer trapped by his ambition.
The late, great Philip Seymour Hoffman as Capote agonizing over what he knows he must do to get the story.
Writing about an actual crime must always bring angst. Will you get the details accurately? How will the victims be affected by what you write? No doubt there are cold-blooded writers and journalists out there who put their own ambitions above the feelings of those affected by what they publish, but, both these movies suggest Truman Capote was not one of them. However, he was keenly aware that in order to finish his book (which he called a“nonfiction novel”) the killer he’d come to know would have to die. He also knew that his book would have more authenticity if he could pry the details of the Cutter family’s seemingly random slaughter out of a death row convict. Not an easy job. It would take Capote four years to cajole and dance his way into the man’s heart and soul until finally gaining his trust. His passion to create a masterpiece overrode any moral objections to duping someone into believing that you care about them when all you really care about is improving your story. Of course, there’s no way of knowing how Capote actually felt but as the appeals process dragged out the execution day, he was forced to face the ghoulishness of the situation and his own “cold-bloodedness.”
I know writers who believe that this sort of ambition, this willingness to sacrifice all – including one’s self-respect – is necessary to write great fiction. I must admit when I create a character based on a real person, I shudder and stammer and fall all over myself with dread. I don’t have it in me to befriend someone just so I could expose their story to the world, even for that coveted Best Seller status. What do you think? Are there limits beyond which you will refuse to go? Or, in the pursuit of art are there no limits?
Saying nothing in particular 