Boxwoods & Company / graphite on paper
I’d like to share the creation process behind a particular piece, which involves both the technical and spiritual aspects of my work.
Early dawn, fresh air, light. I woke with a vision in my head: the boxwoods and the seatless, wrought-iron chair around back, on the pile of castaways waiting to be picked up and sent elsewhere into the world (the haulers were coming tomorrow). I fetched the chair, set it there with little thought other than what I had envisioned — its concept, mostly. Sitting opposite the scene, I first drew the outline of the bushes, with the shadow areas more developed, and the chair. I had sipped some water on rising, hadn't eaten a thing, and hunger called. Do a sketch, quick, capture the sense, go break my fast. But, no. That would be lazy, and an artist will rather starve and delve into his work, than be full and wanting.
My eyes said look, and I saw it was not yet the boxwoods. Certainly not those boxwoods, and I had certainly not captured my first love, so to speak. I kept going, and going, trying to avoid drawing all the leaves alike, which is quick and easy, but ends up looking mundane. It isn't true. This far in, the drawing looked too controlled; there was little authenticity. I don't knowingly think these thoughts, I just respond, feel it. I got a bristle brush, dipped it in graphite powder, and flung that onto the drawing. Randomness with individuality makes a far more interesting piece. Call it nature or science or art — they share similar, if not the same, qualities. I took a small knurled knob I'd found on the ground when I was getting the chair earlier, and ran that over the graphite in places. Modified randomness. I drew more lines, more leaves, added the pot to the left, with its dying plants.
All artists know how it goes. When do you stop? When you know it's breathing on its own.
I’d like to share the creation process behind a particular piece, which involves both the technical and spiritual aspects of my work.
Early dawn, fresh air, light. I woke with a vision in my head: the boxwoods and the seatless, wrought-iron chair around back, on the pile of castaways waiting to be picked up and sent elsewhere into the world (the haulers were coming tomorrow). I fetched the chair, set it there with little thought other than what I had envisioned — its concept, mostly. Sitting opposite the scene, I first drew the outline of the bushes, with the shadow areas more developed, and the chair. I had sipped some water on rising, hadn't eaten a thing, and hunger called. Do a sketch, quick, capture the sense, go break my fast. But, no. That would be lazy, and an artist will rather starve and delve into his work, than be full and wanting.
My eyes said look, and I saw it was not yet the boxwoods. Certainly not those boxwoods, and I had certainly not captured my first love, so to speak. I kept going, and going, trying to avoid drawing all the leaves alike, which is quick and easy, but ends up looking mundane. It isn't true. This far in, the drawing looked too controlled; there was little authenticity. I don't knowingly think these thoughts, I just respond, feel it. I got a bristle brush, dipped it in graphite powder, and flung that onto the drawing. Randomness with individuality makes a far more interesting piece. Call it nature or science or art — they share similar, if not the same, qualities. I took a small knurled knob I'd found on the ground when I was getting the chair earlier, and ran that over the graphite in places. Modified randomness. I drew more lines, more leaves, added the pot to the left, with its dying plants.
All artists know how it goes. When do you stop? When you know it's breathing on its own.
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