There is no such thing as a line in real life, but the eyes and brain accept the long thin roll of carbon as though it were a common thing. A common thing to see each each of us wrapped inside a soft black thread as we walk from our cars or sit on the back porch telling stories. We look at a drawing and recognize faces, names; the shape of hats, elbows, and tired eyes and say, "that's him alright", or "you call that art?" For me, drawing is like fishing on a square white lake pulling out the endless shapes that live just beneath the surface.
and so he believed smack was the answer. His friends would set him up for awhile, and he would return the favor, keeping each other suspended along the edge of precipice. "You need to get high like me" he said, but I told him when he is old, life will look different from the ground.
Just before he leaped, he promised to wave good-bye when he passed my window.
And now I stand above his grave, scraping away the snow and leaves, covering up a name only I remember.
Life will look different from the ground my friend, when you are old
I painted the canvas with a solid color then removed the paint with a small piece of sandpaper
to create a portrait
Saturday, September 27, 2008
My favorite pencil is the one I found near an old abandoned school building last year. I think about the words it helped to write on a tablet of paper or the math problems solved . This same pencil was probably dropped because of recess, or going home and has been waiting there near the sidewalk for years. I picked it up and studied the teeth marks at the end where once there was an eraser and feel something much deeper. I took it home and drew the face of someone I had never met. Maybe this is the boy who lost the pencil, or maybe he is the one who never got the letter meant to be written, were it not for a lost pencil
This picture of a friend was painted on the bottom press board of a dresser drawer. The piece of furniture had completely fallen apart and so I salvaged what I could to remember my friend's homelessness. He never had a permanent place to put his things and so he lives on the remnant of a bureau drawer.
Palette portraits were the featured guests during a rare gallery showing in Kalamazoo several years ago. Most of the visitors appreciated the novelty of this new approach to representational art, but one inebriated gentleman referred to them as "the most disgusting vile pieces of crap" he had ever seen. So I said to him, "Look dad, no one asked you to drop by in the first place" Seriously, I adored my father-But the man who confronted me was in fact a well respected patron of the arts. To an artist there is no such thing as a bad reputation; I only wished that he had written of his displeasure in the newspaper.
Matt Urban was a necessary friend for me. His kindness and generosity smoothed the tattered edges to a time in my life when I had lost everything.
Twelve years after my final meal with him, I can still see Matt sitting at the dinner table describing the silhouettes of German soldiers moving in a straight line off in the distance. He raises his arm and draws the shape of a tank with his finger in the air, then points out the window toward the row of juniper trees in his backyard and begins to explain how the Nazis camouflaged their gun turrets to resemble the shape and texture of the Normandy hillside. All around me is the sound of crispy frost covered grass being stepped on by our own men as they move in closer to the hedgerows. "If I pretend hard enough it sounds like my mom frying bacon." a hungry sergeant Evans whispers.
The men of the 9th Division are preparing for the true nature of war, not the fairy tale legends of their exploits in magazines back home, but the real agony, the real tangibility of death. Suddenly, the nervous whispering stops and all at once there is this odd soft patting sound, as every man unconsciously touches the left side of the chest, to feel for the folded letter or favorite picture from home.
Glove less hands are reaching down to braille the bullets and the comforting shape of the rifle's barrel and sight. Matt looks over to me and asks if I would like more to eat before we go on. There is the sound of a metal spoon tapping out the last bit of mashed potatoes on my plate. "Oh, Thank you Jenny." I say to Mrs. Urban. Matt is pouring me another cup of coffee. "I always made sure my men had hot coffee." he says with a smile, holding back the tears.
I know you are sick of hearing about the 60s. Me too. But I will never forget the night Bobby Kenndy was assasinated. My older brother Dan was home from college and came running upstairs to wake me. We went down to watch the still unfolding drama on our little black and white television. Father had just come home from work and was sitting there shaking his head in disbelief. " My God" he mumbled, "...what is going on in this country?"
An old drawing for a girlfriend who left me stranded on a rail way station back in the 70s after dumping me for a younger man. Just kidding. I drew this from memory long ago after seeing a picture in an obscure magizine. I gave the drawing to a friend for a birthday present.
There is no such thing as a line in real life, but the eyes and brain accept the long thin roll of carbon as though it were a common thing.
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