Drawing is Hard

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Damn, drawing is hard. I was talking (internet chatting) with Kimmie last night about the difficulty of reproducing an image of something by hand. I think that the conclusion we came to was that drawing depends more heavily on the ability to observe, rather than the ability to touch pencil to paper. It's easy to think of drawing as this active process full of movement as your pencil glides across the paper. But I think I've realized how much of an internal activity it is; I spend the bulk of my time staring when I draw.

Thinking back, I realize now how much drawing aided me in learning to identify plants. I had this internship with the National Park Service a couple summers ago, and my boss gave me a handy dandy little Write in the Rain field notebook. Even if I made just a quick sketch, the process of drawing still challenged me to make a careful observation and pick out the identifying features characteristic to a particular plant.

I remember this one sketch of a naked lady that I was especially proud of. I spent probably a good half hour on it, but found the result rather pleasing. I wish I had my old field notebook with me right now. I should go out and buy a new one.

Day 111

"Boom and Bust"


I got high and played some Pictionary(tm) yesterday. My team (the stoned one) was doing pretty well most of the game. Actually, we were kicking ass. We had some telepathy going on. Then someone joined the sober team mid-game and messed with our energy and they made it halfway around the board to catch up to us. In all, we made a good account of ourselves.

But the act of drawing itself was pretty awesome. The lack of an internal critic definitely made it a lot easier to put stuff down on paper, and I feel a rekindled desire to doodle now in my everyday life. Thanks, marijuana!

Day 33

It started as a moustache. Everything else radiated out from there.



I had no idea that I was going to draw a mustachioed man in a drug-induced stupor when I stepped into chemistry laboratory today. I think I originally intended to draw either my chemistry professor Dr. Nitsche, or the philosopher Nietzsche, both of whom wear mustaches. I made an error in the perspective of the drawing, causing our friend to end up on his knees in front of his favorite sitting chair. It's a habit of mine to doodle men sitting in armchairs and holding pipes, and most of them come out so-so in terms of perspective. But this time, that mistake led to the creation of something that I couldn't be more pleased with.

As soon as he was on his knees, it all clicked together: now I had a title for the book on the end table (The Doors of Perception by Aldous Huxley); now I could explain his vacant stare and dilated pupils; now I could interpret his holding onto the armrests as a drugged man's desperate attempt to clutch onto the reality that is rapidly slipping away.

From there, the embellishments just drew themselves. A drinking vessel, knocked over, it contents pooling on the parquet floor. What poison might this glass contain? A caged bird, quizzical in its unblinking, uncomprehending gaze. Is he a statement about free will, a mere object of the creator's whimsy? He does not know how to trouble himself with such thoughts.