Tuesday, February 27, 2007
I was in a bit of a tither earlier today. I was working on the next Fat Camille and all sorts of critical words kept popping into my mind. Nasty words orbited around my head like mean little asteroids. It got so bad, that I started incorporating them into the story, as if I had Tourette's, where the more I wanted to ignore them, the more impossible it became. Then I felt even more retarded. This wasn't a part of the story. I didn't want this here. 'Cuz its My Fucking Praxis Usually when I am working, its Deep Camilleland, and my voice is the only one I am hearing. I create a safe bubble where things can crawl out, do their funny dance and leave their little tracings on my pad. Then later, when I am editing, photoshopping, or wielding the mighty white-out, I can be critical, brutal and be concerned about larger issues of flow and coherence. I have gone through The Artist's Way about a half dozen times over the past six years. I used to always skip the part where she asks the reader to list out all the critical things that have been said, that have created a "block." After twelve years of pursuing my art, I have developed a rather thick skin, and outside criticism hasn't been much of a hindrance (not to say there aren't plenty of other internal hindrances). I was feeling guilty for the first time and so crummy that I thought briefly about scrapping the whole book. Locus of Control I had forgotten about the Rule of Silence-- the idea that while a project is in its proverbial infancy, it shouldn't be exposed to the harsh florescent light of judgment. It should have a nice warm place to gestate. Otherwise, the artist will start picking on warts that aren't even there, and there won't be anything left of the original idea, and it will, actually, be lame. PS Hey H, I want to see this in book form at APE. Let me know if you want some scans, or the original.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Fortunately, we have much time, little Happygoaters, to get the paperwork in order, for now, To your Drafting Tables!
Monday, February 12, 2007
I'm thinking I might make books of art therapy directives. Or I will publish scribble drawings. Or other fabulous things I have ideas for but little time to execute. Next week is vacation, I will get those things done next week! YES! I MUST! I WILL! Wait... I have vignettes to write up next week... Maybe I'll publish a book of my students drawings.
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
1) I can draw hair
2) In spite of drawing in a cartoony fashion, I can also draw people who don't all look the same.
I saw this guy in the Valley. I am not sure that he was really French, unless I actually heard him speak that language, which I don't remember.
This guy really exists! See him in Big Shaft. I dare you!
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
I drew in Muttonham last night for the first time in a few months. I was delighted that another one of my favorite models was there. Beautiful Conundrums The model was so beautiful that he was difficult to draw. Artists often prefer drawing ugly things because then no one is going go judge us for failing at some standard of beauty. We love the fat, the rolls, the dimples, the hair and the scars. No inner voices are going to accuse us of misrepresenting that mound of flesh. But when we have something beautiful, all of a sudden, it is Eric Satie falling at the Altar of Beauty. Auguste is staring over our shoulders snorting derisively. Not only am I uncomfortable joining the worshipers, but I have enough doubts about my own skills. The horror of coming up short is something that can't even be looked at in the face. Just think of all the terrible, hack portraits of beautiful women floating around, at the garage sales, behind people's couches, on the walls of adolescent boy's rooms-- its a ring of Art Hell that should remain unspoken. Muttonham Beauty When I drew him in April of '05, I didn't even try to transcend. There was no way to get around it, so I embraced being an awkward 12 year old girl, overtaken by swoony, day-glo, heart-dotted waves. I couldn't take the situation seriously. Not only did he look like he was chiseled out of caramel, but he was bald! All he needed was some rose petals and the rapturous vision would have been complete. Nearly two years have passed since the last time, and last night I was able to avoid putting hearts all over the paper. I have graduated to some hack homo-erotic level. The reasons to never do erotic art just keep piling up. A few years ago, I was vaguely tempted by the whole genre, but my native inertia and the fear of dying too early to destroy all the evidence in case it fell into the wrong hands prevented anything coming to fruition. NB Notice I am not blaming the model for being beautiful? The ridiculous situations I am relating here took place entirely in my head.
Saturday, February 3, 2007
Life drawing is a collaboration between the model and the artist. The model is putting on a performance with their body, just like an actor. Unfortunately, sometimes they just sit, and the artist has to compensate with her imagination. That is how fat camille's body was born. I was drawing a bored, overweight model. She was not engaged at all, and for hour after hour, she sat, lumpen, in the middle of the room. Her head got smaller and smaller as her body reached enormous proportions, and soon I was drawing the fat camille body, complete with the featureless face and buns. These drawings, on the other hand, are of Paul. I have drawn him a couple of times over the years, and one time I actually hired him to come to Flip Flop. He always brings a bag of toys. The contents vary. Sometimes he's got a phone or a ray gun. This time he had a cigarette, a turban and a toy pistol. He makes faces. He tells stories. I hadn't seen these drawings since I did them, and it was a pleasant surprise to see Paul gracing the pages of my book. Wisteria For the last few months, my private student and I have been drawing the trunks of old Muttonham wisteria vines. She is 14, and embraces the dynamic membranes of the twisting plant with unselfconscious gusto. We usually draw together, and this is one of mine.