I remember this tree, a sugar maple that stood right outside the back door. I loved drawing it. The tree was full of romance. In 2003 hurricane Isabel damaged all the maples so badly that we had to have them cut down. We were lucky that none of the trees completely uprooted. None of them fell.
However the storm left them all tilting precariously. It was clear that any ordinary thunderstorm could finish them off. They had figured in paintings and drawing over the years. These two drawings are ones I found in an old notebook. I ignored the leaves in these and fixed all my attention on the graceful trunks and branches.
I found these drawings of leaves and branches in an old notebook (the same notebook mentioned in the previous post). I don’t know whether I drew from life or from a photo. I don’t remember a photo with an image like this, and the trees that I could have drawn from are gone now. However at the time these drawings were made, the yard was full of sugar maples. They’re all clearly the same motif, drawn again and again.
I was rummaging through an old notebook and found this drawing. And I add it now to my idea(s) about a still life painting that’s in the works. I can’t use this angle for the picture I’m planning, but I like the idea and so I note that it might work well in another, future version of the motif.
Thus it joins this drawing.
And this one.
And joins the idea catalog for this motif below which is still just an idea in the mind so far.
It’s a good thing I have this blog to help me keep track of this stuff.
Someone on my twitter feed posted a marvelous painting by Pierre Bonnard. Perusing a link further, I found this wonderful “Fish on a Dish,” above (Poisson dans un plat). The title is catchy in English.
As soon as I saw it, it makes me want to paint. I have a fish that I like to draw, one that I found years ago at random around the time that we first got an internet connection. It was an image I found while looking for a fish cam, and from a pixelated photo I discovered, I have drawn many forms of that fish, one of which appears below (a detail of an acrylic painting). Many of them depart dramatically from their random photographic source.
Now I am wanting to do something in pastel — something — I’m not sure what. A picture with blues, something with squares — maybe the fish, maybe some koi. I don’t know.
But seeing Bonnard’s picture makes me want to paint. I don’t know how it affects you. But for me, it’s as though he put both the sky and the sea on his kitchen table and then this fish in a dish.
Not only the directions of the folds, but the textures of the pencil become the subject of the picture. I made tones with hatch marks and their directions create a kind of movement inside the details, in the lumps and folds like lichen growing between rocky ledges. Through the different tones, a spectator can savor distinctions between one shadow layer of darkness and another.
You can enter into the music of the image. What bass or treble are to music, light and dark are to drawing. A drawing like this one is not made in a rush, and an observer ought not to rush either. Linger here a while. It was a spectacle seen that captured my spirit. At the edge of the mind’s scenic overlook, standing over the chasm, feeling the breeze at the altitude, I paused. I caught this view. I found this mountain of cloth. Lewis and Clark never surveyed it.
If the cloth was metaphorically a mountain, then in drawing it was I climbing? And each small pencil stroke is a foot hold. And the whole is a meditation. What Mont Ste Victoire was for Cezanne, this can be a Rockies that tumbled out of the laundry basket.
I am so far away from real mountains that I am reduced to creating my own from the materials lying about the house. And yet art can be real and imaginary in more ways than we suppose. After all, I drew this mountain from life.
Minimal lines to form trees, spirals to be ripples, a grid that is the tiled pool sides, and a few trees’ silhouettes formed by spare marks. Pale blue of water and the sky’s reflection. Pale green of new grass. The white of the paper as the light of day.
Trees that stand straight like sentinels. A curve that leans inward. The basin at one’s feet, and its depths below.
Squares in rows, edges and corners, dislocated swirls — for there doesn’t really seem to be any water in the pond. Lots of empty space. Lots of differences between a real pool and a drawing of one — or an idea of a pool.
On a hot day, each is welcome. A real pool most welcome of all, but even an imaginary pool is better than none. For where there is imagination, there is still something.
Well, here I was pretending to draw on this thing just like in the art books! But this was just a photo op. It provides a sense of the drawing’s size, the picture’s scale. The lines, the smears, the hatchings are all fairly largish. Many of the fishes are the same size as the actual koi — the “little guys,” that is. There was a fish that we nicknamed “Moby Dick” who would require an extra-large sheet if one portrayed him in his full grandeur!
These are heavy, weighty matters. Sometimes the fish are big.
And sometimes they are small. These fish in a notebook below are very small, but they are quite musical. One might say that they are ascending scales.
Sometimes a sense of scale implies a sense of SCALE — get it.
Above leaps the fish whose scales I stole, and beside him the Hiroshige print from which I stole them.
Sometimes the drawing is small but the idea is grandiose when fish swim in the skies. And then sometimes the clouds swim like kois in a koi pond.
I like the various permutations of the fish. And I don’t know why I like them so well. I just do.
Usually people go out to catch the fish. But in my case, it’s the fishes who have caught me.