Tabula rasa: a new pose and a new sketchbook

I performed my Sunday routine: all my pencils have been sharpened and ready for another week of drawing. Tomorrow in Michael Grimaldi’s class, I start a new pose, pose number 11, and a new adventure. Tomorrow I also start a new sketchbook. I already miss the familiar tattered sketchbook and I am getting a little nervous about being without my notes from end of July to end of Oct. I am, however, ready meet another set of sketches, demo notes, quotes, and thoughts… a chronicle of my artistic development and obsessive fretting.

At the end of my outgoing sketchbook, I am a different student artist than I was at the beginning. There’s the fact that I was introduced to so many new and exciting ideas such as constructing the ribcage and the pelvis, and modelling. But more importantly, somewhere between the pages, I have decided to take my studies more seriously and become an artist. Who will I be at the end of the new sketchbook? I don’t think I can trump all the exciting firsts that happened during the reign of the outgoing sketchbook… and yet, somehow, based on my experience with drawing & painting so far, I know that more wonderful than imaginable things will happen between the pages of my new sketchbook too. And for that, I am thrilled and terrified.

Tabula rasa: daily painting woes

Since I last wrote in this blog, I started painting in oil. I paint almost everyday now… although that doesn’t mean I get to paint hours and hours each day mainly because painting is hard, makes me hungry, and gives me a gigantic headache. So there are days when it comes down to a 30 minute session, most of which is spent playing with my palette and admiring the new funky sheen used wooden palettes acquire.

Drawing is painful but painting is a whole new torture. There, of course, is the issue of seeing color but there is also the material… all those pigments, solvents, brushes, and surfaces. It is incredibly hard to stare at the subject, take five minutes to make a color that isn’t even close, try the color anyway to find that it actually looks different on the panel, and start all over again. I feel stagnant: like some Greek myth character, I may have been condemned to try all combinations and permutations of value, hue, and chroma until I die.

I paint daily and daily I want to quit. Yet the next day, I would be going about my day and then get this feeling that I want to paint everything. In the midst of that euphoric excitement, the finished painting is palpable… then when I actually sit down to do my color studies, the overwhelming frustration returns. But it is ultimately that feeling, the desire to paint everything, that causes me to try again.

This is a feeling I do not understand. And it does bother me that I do not quite know why I want to paint. A short, lovely, and profound book I read this week, Hawthorne on Painting, started giving me some clues. He never answers my question directly, but he does show me the enthusiasm of a painter as someone who is forever a student who searches for beauty and aims to represent it with utmost integrity. And maybe I want to paint because I want to be a painter.

Tabula rasa: the acceleration of time in art class.

One of the reasons why I felt somewhat iffy about taking Michael Grimaldi’s life drawing class at the Art Students League is the way time is marked off in this class: the shorter pose is two weeks and the longer one is four weeks. I could not fathom drawing the same pose for two weeks, let alone the logistics of setting that up (there is tape to mark of the placement of the feet).

And indeed it was initially quite challenging to adjust to the passage of time. The twenty minutes drawing increment felt like an eternity filled with starring at the model, making tentative marks, and scratching my head over why the marks don’t add up to the living breathing model in front of me. The breaks are then filled with starring at other people’s drawings and feeling completely inadequate. The timer goes off while I furiously erase away the remnants of failure. The silence descends on the huge studio and the process renews.

What the other people do in that hushed hollowed silence was a mystery to me. Seemingly random lines come together and the paper pulsates with life. My own enormous 18 x 24 in sketchpad, however, felt overwhelming and oppressive. I thought I would surely have a nightmare about gesture, proportion, and perspective.

Then today, a month later, I noticed an acceleration in time. 20 minutes pass before I have finished my train of thought. And I am anxious about finishing my drawing by the end of the week, the end of my two week pose.

During the long break, I got antsy about drawing and worked on the shading. By habit, I held my pencil out to check the tilt of a shadow shape. The model was not there and I was profoundly embarrassed. But I was mostly shocked at these new habits being instilled in me without my noticing them.

The seductive nature of the drawing process scares me. Drawing was something I always wanted to learn… I envisioned myself carrying a sketchbook around for the rest of my life and putting down some visual thoughts. How cool is that? I can have a great excuse to buy Moleskine sketchbooks. Oh I had no idea that drawing is an all consuming vortex.

I also hadn’t realized how much time it takes to actually learn how to draw. Here are the things people in my class have said to me in separate occasions over the past month and yes, I gasped to all of these statements:

It takes:

• 1 year to see that you are not seeing.
• 1-2 years to start managing anxiety.
• 2 years to learn the basics taught in this class.

I honestly though I would “learn to draw,” whatever that means, in a few months, ya know, give it a summer. Now I can totally envision myself learning to draw for the rest of my life.

Drawing seems to me not a set of skills or a craft, but a method of analysis, one that you cannot exhaust the use of in a lifetime. Besides, art is so insidious. It is permeating all aspects of my cognitive world. For example, I carefully avoided physiology in college (not all that easy as a biology major) only to learn anatomy in an art class. I see shadow shapes everywhere. Drawing is becoming and obsession. And I am not sure if that is a good thing.

*****

Yay—two books were waiting for me when I got home: Atlas of Human Anatomy for the Artist by Stephen Rogers Peck, and The Art Spirit by Robert Henri. When I first started this class, I found refuge in the recommended reading list because even though I can’t draw, I can read. I mean why draw when you can read all about it? I am somewhat kidding, yet it is still true that books are way less intimidating than the easel.

tabula rasa: learning to draw; learning to see.

I drew for one month at the Art Students’ League. It’s been a rollercoaster. Initially, I was anxious and exhilarated by a new craft. Then when the newness wore off, I started despairing at my inadequacies. I got paranoid thinking my brain was just wired in a funny way that prevented me from seeing what everyone else was seeing. How else do I explain that I see only the light and the dark when everyone else sees myriad values?

Dare I say that I am beginning to see some progress both in my observations and drawings? Not only that, drawing has been a good exercise in managing my anxieties and insecurities. I am still not sure if I will ever be able to have a holistic understanding of the drawing process. But I like this process of putting down line after line with intention, and analytically and strategically putting together the multiple languages.

The other thing I learned was to calm down a bit. It is so embarrassing to be in my class full of talented and/or experienced people. And it is so daunting to stare at the living breathing model and then at my blank paper which progresses into incoherent lines which then progresses into deadening tones. Still, after a while, things work out and the joy of correcting even a tiny thing and making the drawing better is incomparable to any other highs.

I was off this week from drawing in the studio. So I drew simple objects to my heart’s content… and even that wasn’t super successful. So I am already a little anxious about Monday when I go back to figuring out the figures.

Still, I think I will stick with it. I am not quite sure why. I can go into five six reasons why I decided to start drawing… but then I wouldn’t know which answer is the true one. I think for now, I won’t overthink it, which is really hard for me to do. All I know is that I find drawing to be way more interesting, challenging, and exhilarating than I had ever imagined it would be. In fact, this is probably the most intellectually and cognitively arduous process I have ever attempted. So I will get my pencils in varying hardness I have no idea what to do with, and continue to make some bad lines that I hope will turn out decent as time goes by.

In the meantime, I will chronicle my experience of drawing here… and label those posts “tabula rasa,” which is what one of my classmates called me. She said it’s good to be a beginner and learn to draw in our class. I hope she’s right… that all the good instruction isn’t wasted on me. So here I go learning to see the world anew.

April the poetry month: reading Pablo Neruda’s “The Captain’s Verses.”

It’s another April which means pollen and people abound. I have been consoled, or at least distracted, by poetry.

For three years, I have been celebrating the poetry month by reading a poet I have not previously read at length. Last year I read every poem written by Emily Dickinson. Although I was highly motivated, that project took the entire spring, not just the month of April, to accomplish. Although reading Emily Dickinson made me sneeze at the contemplation of imaginary pollen, it was nonetheless a wonderful ride.

This year, I want to actually finish a book of poems in April, so I have decided to read a short book called “The Captain’s Verses” by Pablo Neruda. And frankly, that was my only consideration (the length of the book) and the constraint was to pick something lying in my house because I really couldn’t justify buying another book after my insane book shopping phase for the past couple of months (I may have a problem here, people).

I picked up “The Captain’s Verse” at a used bookstore back in college when I was at the height of my love of Spanish literature. So one unexpected treat this year was that I had selected a book with two languages, the original Spanish poem juxtaposed to its English translation.

So I found myself reading Spanish again after many years of hiatus. And once I got over the initial shock and shame at how much I had forgotten, I found myself reading the Spanish portion out loud. I love the taste of the Spanish language at the tip of my tongue. And the rhythm of the language even with my awkward pausing and pronunciation. The English translation filled in the meaning, but it was the Spanish version that I felt in my heart. Reading in a language gives you a different cardiac rhythm. And if you are one of those people who seat the soul in the heart and not in the brain, it may make perfect sense to you why engaging in a different language makes you feel like a different person…

First try: reading an art book.

I finished reading The Checklist Manifesto by Atul Gawande today, and started the next book on my non-fiction queue: Magritte by Jacques Meuris.

I am excited to read such a beautiful and fragrant book (yes, the paper smells wonderful!), yet I am also very nervous.

This is the first time in my life I am reading an “art book.” And I will be terribly disappointed at myself if I don’t finish and/or enjoy this book, but since this is an uncharted territory, that is a very real possibility. Of course it’s fun being pretentious and maybe I want to be the kind of person who enjoys reading art books. But I still deep inside secretly think that art books are more for enjoying the glossy reproductions of  artworks more than for reading the text. So the real reason why I want enjoy and finish this book is to be able to justify to myself why I should buy more Taschen books.

I have discovered these lovely Taschen books at the Strand bookstore. And by “discovered” I mean after walking past them for years, I finally took a moment to stop between the first and the second level of Strand bookstore and tried to figure out why there is always a crowd going crazy over these oversized coffee table books. Turns out, the shelves held really affordable yet well made Taschen books on art, architecture, and design (and maybe other things, but I am not sure).

My head started spinning so I spun together a compelling vision: I can read all of them (and more importantly, own all of them) and learn all about the artists I am interested in. They will complement my drawing sessions so well. And I will live happily ever after as a fabulously interesting person who can draw and can talk about drawings. Ah, I chided myself for not noticing them earlier!

Come to think of it, one of my art teachers from a few years back suggested we buy some of these and study the reproductions for proportion and composition. I obsessed a little over the choice of my first Taschen book and finally decided on the Magritte book, one of the hard cover 25th anniversary editions. It was exciting peeling open the plastic wrap and holding such a beautiful book.

But the problem remains: will I read the book? Otherwise, I will not get more of these. And my knowledge of art will come solely from those little cards mounted next to art pieces at museums.

I very much want to read and enjoy these books, but what worries me is the size, yes literally the physical dimensions of the book. I have never successfully read a really big book before in my life, with the exception of picture books. Maybe it’s because they are not portable or because they hurt my wrists that have the strength of a tofu. But since in a way, I am reading a picture book, I hope to get through this book. And then get another one… maybe on Chagall.

Additions to my library: “Beat the Reaper,” “2666,” “How Fiction Works,” “The Sickness Unto Death,” and “A Book of Sleep”

A wonderful way to spend a Sunday afternoon: getting five books all for me!

I bought two novels (Beat the Reaper by Josh Bazell and 2666 by Roberto Bolano), two nonfiction essays (How Fiction Works by James Wood and The Sickness Unto Death by Soren Kierkegaard), and one picture book (A Book of Sleep by Il Sung Na). I love A Book of Sleep. Besides being super adorable, as all children’s books should be, the artwork was superbly intricate. But what compelled me to get the book is the owl character. This night owl totally resonates with me and it’s a good book to hug and comfort one’s insomniac mind at 3 in the morning.

I also considered these books but decided not to get them (this time): The Checklist Manifesto by Atul Gawande because I thought the book, although exciting, may worsen my obsessive list making nature; Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell perhaps because I am too ashamed about still not having read the book; The immortal life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebeccas Skloot because maybe I am being cheap and waiting for the paperback edition to come out; and All things Shining by Hubert Dreyfus and Sean Dorrance Kelly because when I am truly honest with myself, even the prospect of reading this well-reviewed and serious book gives me a headache. Besides, having already chosen The Sickness unto Death, I didn’t want to parent another philosophy book.

Then I noticed that every book I bought that day (with the exception of the children’s book) have some sort of red in the cover. I wonder if those four got picked and not the others mainly because, hmm, the covers match and create a nice visual set. Did I pick my books ultimately based on their covers? The calculations a reader makes when selecting books to buy may be complex (someone should do a study on this), and it is often an unconscious, arbitrary process. But I believe the desire to create an aesthetically pleasing set plays a significant role. A support for this random thesis: there WAS an alternate green cover for Beat the Reaper but I got the red one even though green is my favorite color. And looking back, the books I buy together tend to go together. I like to set new books on my coffee table and just stare at it for a few days, maybe take some photos, before giving them permanent homes on my bookshelf.

Oh but before granting permission to gift myself with new books, I did make a self-promise not to start reading a new book until I finish a book I am currently reading. This, of course, is to avoid reading ten books at once. I read multiple books at a time. I don’t recommend this to everyone, but it works for me with my lack of concentration and promiscuous interests. Also, it gives me the only chance to really commit to and finish reading long books (as defined by me to be any book over 500 pages). Anyway, I finally finished Descarte’s Error and allowed myself to start How Fiction Works.

And what a treat that book is! Admittedly, I wanted to own How Fiction Works more than actually wanted to read it. It’s a pretty petite book and I really like the cover and the font and the paper. But I was afraid such a literary book may be too abstract for me. It seemed like something my friends who major in English and see a metaphor every other word might read. But it’s not! I mean it is literary and academic, but the writing is so clear, so unpretentious and so captivating that you simply cannot put it down. I pick up the little volume meaning to attempt it in bite size pieces, but cannot put it down. The great mystery of fiction unfolds layer by layer with rhythmic writing that never loses momentum. What an addictive little book. I chide myself for not reading it earlier.

Now a little mishap. I do not keep books in little bubble wraps. I believe that a book should be read, and in that process, it acquires character… via little rips, and folds, and smudges. But I still go through the pile looking for the most pristine copy at the bookstore because, oh I dunno, I think a book should acquire personality and become unique only through use as a reading material, a pillow, or an instrument to avoid eye contact in public. So as I was looking for the most perfect copy of some book, I drop the copy I had picked earlier of How Fiction Works. And it was quite an unfortunate drop: the cover folded. Eek! I bought that copy though because 1. I think that’s the right thing to do; but 2. I figured I had already picked it, and so committed myself to that copy. I couldn’t orphan that book even if the store had let me… it was already mine. Since then, the book has gotten other signs of uniqueness. The cover is peeling… and there is a little hole in the back cover, probably acquired as it tumbled around my gigantic bag. But it’s mine mine mine.

Will these books outlive me as children generally outlive their parents?

Children’s books as a refuge.

When reading becomes impossible, I turn to poetry. I let my mind wander over the words, though I am barely grasping what’s going on. Still, I ride the word rhythms over my reading funk. I take cover under the clever arrangement of words until reading becomes feasible.

Recently (maybe it was the holiday blues, I don’t know), the familiar fog descended on my mind, and I couldn’t muster up enough concentration for adult books. Intrusive thoughts wedged themselves between the words, so it as impossible to read Descartes’ Errors that demands my excess focus to be devoted to neuroanatomy recall.

This time, however, I didn’t turn to poetry. Instead, a children’s book provided shelter and allowed me to keep reading.

The book was Walk Two Moons by Sharon Creech. It wasn’t my intention to read this book to weather the storm. I pick up the book because I felt guilty. Guilt can be the only motivator when you are in a funk and I was feeling particularly guilty about being a terrible reading role model to the sixth grader who lent me this book weeks ago. I figured I should demonstrate that books—even the lent ones—get read and perhaps more importantly, returned.

The sophisticated and intricate plot pulled me in. I was intrigued by the caricatured yet still three dimensional characters. Then at the end, when the sorrow of the character became too palpable, the tears came, at first slowly in a dignified stream, then in an uncontrollable cry. Getting a good cry over the piles of misery that young protagonist faced actually made me feel better.  And in some simple yet clear words in this children’s book, I felt encouraged to confront the complexities of life.

Now I am back to reading “grown up books.” But I am getting more and more hooked on children’s books. There is something really immediate and urgent about the plots in children’s books. They provide a wonderful refuge when reading becomes hard or when you just want a concrete plot. So poems and children’s books: they are my refuge and they keep me reading even when reading is impossible.

A new reading year…

I have written 2010 enough times today to show me the power of a habit. Of all things I want to establish when I am still young enough to think about “the rest of my life,” I want to have a deeply ingrained reading habit. So as I obsess about that once again this year, I have made the following New Year’s Literary Resolution:

Instead of fitting reading into my life, I'll fit my life around my reading. This is not because reading is the most important thing in my life, but because the latter approach will more likely give me both, the reading and the living, than the formal one.

I said something like this back in 2009. Nothing makes me happier than to swim in words, yet I often find the literary air thin throughout the year. Here I go again, trying to live a literary life…

Happy Reading Year everyone! Be sure to set a literary resolution, perhaps one a little more creative and doable than mine…