Sunday, June 1, 2014

Good Morning Jacob...

Letter to my Son
Sunday, 1 June

B u s

Good Morning Jacob…

I never learned how to draw so my struggles with it contributed largely to my style.  Accidents and missteps were all part of the picture.  There wasn’t much to see that depicted a plan.  I enjoyed drawing because images from life were only the starting point.  Drawing for me was a refuge.  I wasn’t looking for a discipline.  My picture world was about assembling geometric shapes.  I could do rough squares, circles and triangles.  Then I gave them features suggesting something like a face or maybe a tire.  It was the pleasure of exploring trifles.  It was fun.

Everything one draws starts with an emotion.  The quality of a line reveals one’s state of mind as their hand delivers color to paper.  The thought behind a cleanly etched thin line is nothing like the impulse that strokes something rough, thick and textured.  The same holds true with one’s choice in colors.  Some colors provide resting points while others stridently demand your attention.  Drawing that mirrors one’s interior world is like penning music to the page.  Reason is lost to all those rhythms and blues.

Art of any description settles into the complexity of one’s own feeling.  Emotions can be powerful and nuanced, together.  It is an expression not fully described.  You can’t spell it out for me.  I am moved by something that has no obvious source.  It isn’t the tumult of specific everyday experience.  I am for the moment filled with an appreciation that may have forever eluded me save for a sense captured in the gesture of another.  I’ve somehow briefly become simply more than myself.  Art involves a resonance from one to another of something beyond direct human fathom.  It dallies with the curious mystery that is beauty.

My words are useless.  It’s just better to draw.


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