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.