flowers in boxes

I was thinking about making a still life using pictures of flowers from a calendar.  And I took it a bit literally.  I kept the flowers inside the pages of the calendar and imagined the pages laid out above the vase.  Makes prisoners of the flowers.  And yet a drawing on a sheet of paper with the square edges is a little bit like this idea.  To see the world around you as material for drawing.  Everything being laid down into the square edges of the page.  Lines around everything.  And the pen lines being like thoughts that put them there.

Off white

I’m painting the kitchen.  The walls will be white.  The colors here are effects of the camera and the photo editing software.  But you can see the texture.

This is the blank wall, like the blank sheet of paper.  Only this blank sheet is much larger than a sheet of paper and I won’t be putting any pictures onto it — not any permanent ones anyway.  I might look at it and imagine my drawings.  Or I might daydream about some other summer day.  It’s my personal movie theatre upon which I can screen the films I have inside my head as I work.

I think it’s good to imagine something there.  To project.  And it can be the beginning of the impulse to draw.

In the moment

The ball point pen’s ink gives off a sheen.  Sometimes it looks faintly purplish.  The paper I draw on has it’s own sheen.  It feels smooth like a similitude of water.  My hand is not steady, nor is my brain steady, late at night while I gaze at my invented pond.  I can watch the pen produce the marks and fish appear, and except for the fact that of course these fish don’t swim away, each line forming — while it forms — has inside it some of the uncertainty of watching the real pond.

Then to darken the shadows, I make these hatch marks that are not water.  And the pond becomes a drawing.  The make believe of it swims in front of my face.

I like its being a drawing.  I like the difference between the reality and a picture.  I like its being flat.  The sheen of the ink, the wavy unsteadiness of the lines, unsteady echos of the uncertainty in my head.  Scribbles that are like innocent moments of time suspended and hanging in memory.