Windows.

No excuse. I always think that if I can find a peaceful place, where there are no "you suck" messages seeping out of the walls or the internet or the phone, then I will be able to scrape myself together long enough to write something publishable. I know I am repeating myself here, but it is really frustrating when all the writing teachers say "it's great! don't know what you could change!" and all the publishers say "form rejection." (ok, a couple said "it's highly creative/original/had fun with it BUT," which is better than "fr," i admit.)

*Anyway,* (I seem to have a severe case of the post holiday babbles, here) above is the view from my office window, as of this morning. Note the violas, the nasturtiums, the cool welded chain sculpture in the neighbour's garden (big wooden thing is neighbour's house). And check out the picture below that, the view from our holiday cottage. There were grapes growing inside the winter garden there. Grapes!

I ought to be writing fucking masterpieces. I mean, any normal writer would have written a Pulitzer prize winner or a Nobel candidate by now! (I would just like to record that the temptation to go off on another HHGTTG babble here is almost overwhelming. Instead, you can see what I would have babbled about the idea of "normal" here, at about 1:30.) Just look at those views! You should see the view from my office when the roses are blooming!

Still. There is something amazing about windows. I love their symbolism. Not the "normal" exit. A hole built into a structure to let in light, or air, or chase a stray bee out of. But not for people. The temptation to climb out the window and not the door just to see if it changes anything, to see if I wind up in a different place, is very strong.

The Big Whine

Maybe I should just cross out 'writer.' It would take some of the pressure off. Or 'Artist.' Nevermind that these are things I have always wanted to do, and have always enjoyed doing. But my attempts to get published (and actually, my attempts to even get an education as a writer) have been frustrating. I know it takes a long time. I know it takes a Teflon-coated solid steel heart. I find it so difficult, though, when I'm never even sure I'm on the right track.

At the moment, it's more like a hollow heart. Like the next person who manages to hit it, it's going to go "BONG." (and echo a lot.)

Pout. I need a hug.
Then I need a writing teacher who actually knows what he/she is doing.

For the moment, a picture will simply have to be worth a thousand words. I'd just like to say, though, that I never enjoyed hanging out the wash so much.

Holiday Quiz

Brownie points to anyone who can guess the exact location of this place. It's where we are going next thursday. Yay!

Not Feeling Like an Adult Today

Creepy creepy creepy.

We have had a wide variety of excellent models in my life drawing class. In all my life drawing classes, actually. Today for the first time, we had one I just plain didn't like, and it's making me feel really juvenile, like I'm 13 again.

He told us all about how he'd been fired as a secondary school teacher (I think this is what he said, but he was speaking german with a strong french accent, so I'm not sure) because he had been very vocal about the overly harsh punishments for students caught smoking, so now he is working as a model. He kept shifting his feet as he said this. We've had some models that are a bit nervous or shy, but this was something else.

Then he told us about some artsy photographs he had posed for taken by Big Famous French-Speaking Artist (of whom I've never heard, but that doesn't mean much.) He offered to show us these pictures on his laptop (which he just happened to have with him) and my Excellent Art Teacher said ok (perhaps EAT has heard of BFF-SA.) So the pictures are dragging on and on and scary model keeps saying "oh, this is the last one" and EAT is starting to itch, I can tell, and making 'we should get drawing' noises and so on.

So when the guy has finally finished looking at a dozen plus naked picture of himself and taking us along for the ride, he takes the towel off to pose, and voila, his penis is purple and standing out parallel to the floor. Hey, I guess it can happen.

He assumed one difficult pose after another and always told us what he was doing. Javelin. 100 meter dash. Bow and arrow. I wouldn't have minded his playing olympic athelete if it made him happy, but he couldn't hold the positions.

In the middle of class we always have a 20 minute break (it's a 3.5 hour class), but he decided not to put any clothes back on. Because I am such a stinky drawer (love that word) and need the practice (and focus) I usually stay in the room. Not this time. There was one last person fetching her purse to nip down to the cafe, and he was sidling up to me. I'm sure it meant nothing. I'm sure it was totally innocent. I'm sure the fact that he has no eyebrows, that his face looks like it's been pealed, that he has no lips and that his elbow does this weird sort of moon crater-dimple-inverted nipple thing when he straightens his arm had nothing to do with it. But I left anyway.

So now my skin is still crawling *and* I'm feeling guilty about it. Honestly. I really don't know if it was me or him.

Blech. Anyway, the only thing that held still long enough for me to draw it was his right foot (above).

Is There Such a Thing as Distechnia?

On the off chance that anyone actually clicked on the two sketches that I posted a couple of days ago and noticed the incredibly bad quality, I have re-posted a couple of new images of the same which are... less bad.









also, i've been rejected again. didn't want to write for their stinky ol' mag anyway...

Some Drawings, At Last.

We had an excellent model a few weeks ago- about 100 years old, very interesting to draw, but alas I was doing really poor work that day and didn't do him justice at all.

This week I did a little better; still not great, but here it is. Again, the model was good, beautiful, Ruebensesque, and tough as old shoes. Really, I don't know how they hold those positions.

Here are two drawings from the same pose, one in pencil, one in charcoal.