One Lucky Dog

I completed this drawing of Edison last month, but never got around to posting it as right afterwards I got caught up in that other drawing of him that I decided to work on in stages. It looks exactly like the photo of him I used for it, yet every time I look at it only one thing comes to mind: that picture of "Lucky," the drawing quiz dog in the ads for the Art Instruction School that advertises on matchbook covers, in TV Guide and other shitty publications. You know, draw him, or the parrot or the pirate and they'll tell you if you're qualified to study art with them through the mail? I know Edison doesn't really look like that stupid drawing test, but the tilt of his head in this piece is identical to that ad and to me screams nothing but "Lucky."

Head Drawing of Edison Jack, graphite on paper, 2009

The Art of Letter Writing

I was recently talking with someone about pen pals. I have very fond memories of the ones I had in my early teen years, some from around the States and some from across the ocean. Letter-writing is a very beautiful and personal art form. I love to write letters and send them by mail. There's something exquisite about it that is utterly lost in emails and text messages. In one respect it's similar: in thinking one's words through ahead of the actual writing, choosing them with care, and nurturing a thought or a story until it has taken on a life of its own. But the physical act just isn't the same when the words are sent electronically. And taking the time- that precious and rare commodity that it is- to write to someone is a wonderful gesture.

I love the paper, the decision of which stationery to use. I love the sheets of paper held between my fingers, the thicker homemade papers, the crisp modern papers and on down to the thinnest onion skin of traditional airmail stationery. I love the smell of ink of any kind and the little dent I get in my right middle finger from holding the pen too long, pressed between my itchy fingers. Sometimes instead of a regular pen I like to use a delicate nib and a bottle of india ink in shades from deepest black to midnight blue and even the occasional sepia. I love to carefully fold my letter, with all its many pages sharing my life and soul with its recipient, into its envelope and then put on all the lovely stamps. One stamp with the proper postage isn't nearly as beautiful as many smaller priced stamps in different colors, sizes and designs filling the upper corner. For years, when I was more ambitious and had loads more free time, I would paint or color the outsides of the envelopes turning them into small, intense works of art in their own right. But now it's hard enough to find the time to write even a simple letter, let alone design a one of a kind envelope.

And receiving a letter is an equally fulfilling experience. To go to the mailbox and find something inside it that is meant just for your eyes, to share in another's life stories written in their own hand, to smell the ink and paper now a bit crunched from its journey, and even get a hint of the smell of the sender in it, now that's lovely. I'm not talking about the contrived letters of Nick Bantock's "Griffin and Sabine" trilogy here, but true art that is sent privately and from the heart.

As an artist I love having a real letter in my hand, one that is leaving me on its trip to someone I care about, or one that has just arrived from elsewhere for me to enjoy. It's a very visceral thing for me: to hold the thoughts and feelings of another in my hands, written in their own hand, inviting me into their life. There is nothing more personal and intimate than this. Letter writing: an ancient art form that is rapidly disappearing. How sad because there is nothing its equal to replace it.

Two Japanese Pears

I bought David some little japanese pears that caught my eye in the market. He loves sandwiches made of big fat slabs of sourdough bread grilled with goat cheese and pears, and these little guys looked like they would be very sweet and yummy (they were). But they were also far too lovely to not spend a little time drawing them before he sliced them up and sent them to their tasty demise. One chubby one in particular just begged to be preserved forever with its vibrant reds, patches of lime green and its jaunty little stem. These are the two relatively quick studies I did of it.

Japanese Pear, graphite on paper, 2009.

Japanese Pear, pastel on paper, 2009.

Anatomy of a Drawing: Final Photo

Okay, so I cheated a bit here. There is over five hours of work on this drawing since the last photo, which should really have been spread out over about three more photos and stages of work, but I started to draw last night and well, it was one of those nights and I just kept going until it was done. I really did intend to stop about an hour and a half or so into it, but then I thought, 'just a bit more will be okay' and that turned into a bit more and then I realized that I had been at it for almost five hours and the drawing was basically done. And then I put it down and took a shower and got ready for bed but kept flitting in and out of the room I had left it in, tweaking this detail and that until another half hour had gone by and I told myself that this was exactly what I had been trying to avoid in drawing slowly and consciously: stopping that part of me that keeps wanting to work just a bit more, to make the piece just a bit better, to not be able to stop once I start even when it's hours and hours and hours of working on something. I could keep drawing until my back is hunched and my fingers are cramped and gnarled. And sometimes I do.

There are still some things on this drawing that need to be reworked, but for all intents and purposes and for the sake of this thread, it's done. If I took a photo of every little change I'll make to it- until I'm mostly satisfied with it- that the average eye could never discern (but mine can see as glaringly obvious), there'd be no room for anything else on this blog. So consider it done. Time to move on to the next thing.