We have a cute little bunny in the garden. I decided that whenever I hear notification that there’s a bunny sighting, I will leap away from whatever I’m doing, grabbing pen and notebook in mid-volt, and draw the little fellow.
Guess what? He has exactly the same idea! Everytime I appear at the window he disappears!
I got off maybe six lines up there? Six lines in 2 seconds. Poof! Empty space where a bunny used to be.
Once upon a time I had my OWN bunny. She was much more cooperative.
The new rabbit is too frisky. His momma told him always to be frisky in the garden because the gardener doesn’t like little bunnies. Alas, he always takes his momma’s advice!
Let’s say you don’t know what to do. What if you had to survey all the stuff of your life just to find out what it was that mattered? You catalog your stuff — your mental furniture — one thing at a time. You reexamine each still life object, or your garden at various times of day, you look at your own hands with new questionings, you carefully study the jar of rocks on the window ledge, your creamer, your house, even your weather.
We’re not talking about casual glances here. What if each thing needed really careful scrutinizing? What if your being an artist depended upon it!
Perhaps this is beginning to sound scary. (I don’t wish to frighten anyone.) Let’s walk this back. We’re not urging millions of drawings on anyone. And anyway to catalog your world could be wonderful.
I am merely suggesting that if you did need to revisit all the reasons, to retake your bearings, that you would just have to do it. And you’d start from scratch. You have to start somewhere. Anywhere.
That first decision — I bet it would be interesting — wouldn’t that gesture take on a whole new meaning?