Tuesday, August 9, 2011

picture book


Both my parents are the creative sort -- my dad with music, and my mom with art. When I was younger, I felt like I had to choose between the two, so I decided to do art classes for a couple of years and then music for the next. My mom used to critique my drawings dispassionately and "correct" my projects (as in, draw over them to show how they could be better). I stayed with music for the rest of my adolescence. My mom acknowledged that although I was good at music, I would never be great. She also flatly declared that I could have been great at art had I kept at it. Tiger moms really build a special kind of character.

I decided in adulthood I would try to explore more of the "art" side of things -- ceramics, photography, and finally a reintroduction to drawing. I took a class at the local adult school. I really hated my teacher; she was the type to keep talking through the drawing session, and never really let us draw in contemplative silence. I also openly resented the push to draw true-to-life. My thinking was, if I wanted something that looked like reality, I would take a photo of it. This is because I hate failing at things. Also, I am a brat. Also, I was going to label this post Peter Keating.

Poor Whit (who took almost as many art classes as physics major classes in undergrad) bore the brunt of my insecurities. When he would gently try to guide me towards blind contour technique, I wept in frustration. I could only endure that class for a semester. These are the some of the landscape drawings from my sketchbook.


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