Funny how some fragments of life become lodged in that part of the memory that keeps rolling back round to the front.
This was part of the conversation in my interview for art school 2 years ago…
Me: I’d really like to learn to draw
Tutor: Huh?
Me: Yeh, I can’t draw, y’know like real things
Tutor: Bullshit! Fuck, I’m not meant to swear in interviews…
This was the point I knew I was going to fit in.
In class with same tutor some while later we were drawing the music that was playing – the topic came up again: But you are drawing a real thing… or are you saying music isn’t a real thing?
But I still have this resistance towards drawing. I accept I can (to a degree) do it, but something inside me chooses not to. But I want to. But I don’t.
The inner-squabble continues, meanwhile I splosh and splatter and doodle inside the familiar comfort zone, rarely stretching out to sketch and interpret shapes and objects.
Page 32 began with ink and coffee dregs – the ideal background for some drawing of real things! I started out with some stuff in my immediate view – scissors, water jug, paint brushes, my left hand.
Over this I drew some of the imagery from a vivid dream I had the night before. (After all, dreams are real things too, right?)
I will endeavour to do this again. Art is like all exercise – remember to stretch!
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