My first painting class, at Parsons School of Design in New York, was, in no uncertain terms, completely terrifying. I really had no idea what to expect, nightime class, so many people, easels, a teacher, who was a painter. I'm not good in groups, less so with strangers, the introductions, and the quasi interest in your goals. I mumbled mine, it was unintelligable, a blathering stream of, is that really what I said, bad. I couldn't become any smaller and a request, to say it again and louder please this time so we can all hear you, would have sent me straight for the exit.
It didn't happen. the teacher, I noticed immediately, was fidgeting, moving his head, in fact everything seemed to be in rubbery motion, all digits, simultaneously. You might, if your little, self speech was rehearsed for days, crafted, refined, be a little offended. Because Paul, seemed to want to move past, and get this over with as soon as possible, and let's start to paint, as much as I did. I'm not sure if anyone else saw this, I didn't ask, but I did take notice. It was impossible for me not to.
Because, there was a sympatico, there, with Paul, a resonance of familiar, that eased my anxiety and allowed me to breath again, to settle in, and feel, maybe just maybe, I could do this, after all.
He was, the best teacher I ever had. I grew to love him, as only a drought, thirsty student, could love a teacher, who offered so much, so freely. His way was gentle, cautious and he always said, a lot less than others wanted. That's what I heard, in overheard whispers during breaks. Everything, was a question, they said, nothing concrete, and how good a teacher could he be, if he didn't tell you, exactly, how to paint. He told me, everything, in his questions.
The only rules, the absolutes, were these:
Sketch, sketch, sketch, and see, always.
If you get stuck, turn the canvass, to the wall.
As we studied the masters, he would point his dirty fingernail, at strokes of paint, and say, over and over; 'nothing, on that canvas, is an accident.'
These rules, these truths, on painting, I carried throughout my life. Always watching, absorbing, filing pictures in my head, for later. Patience, is indeed a virtue, a gift, to yourself and others, as you try and negotiate the trickiness of everyday relationships. Every word, what we do and why, is important, nothing is invaluable enough to waste.
And just in case you're wondering, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention, because it all sounds so good on paper, in retrospect, it wasn't. Hardly. There's human here, flesh and bones, and mistakes, far too many to list, here, in this diary. It's just that I try, hard, I'm persistent, but when I inevitably fail, I'm my worst critic, my own formidable enemy. It's a continuous voice over, that's been playing in the background for as long as I can remember.
And so it goes with writing now, diaries, I didn't know I had, hadn't even considered. There was no forewarning, that I could paint with words, and sketch with letters. Because, words were never my vocabulary. I'm just a picture person, or I was, just that person before two months ago. It was all about the images, an impression, imprinted for recall at a later date. But now, words, and phrases are attaching themselves, sticking to the pictures like post it notes on a magazine page. They glue, meld, and are inseperable now, it's a new language, an eye opening, what the hell is this discovery that I'm beginning to like.
So there's a process now developing, I'm recognizing the repeat, and it's as absolute, as anything I've evr known, as familiar as my fingerprints. I just had no idea, whatsoever, that it would apply, no clue, that it would be this universal, so easily applicable, to sketching with letters and painting with words. Words, I'm beginninng to wear them, breaking them in, a little a day and getting acclimated, and comfy. I let them resonate now and color an otherwise, gloomy outlook. Words, that so often felt so harmful, so injurious, when spoken in my direction, there's now a self comfort I didn't know I had.
I sketch now, always, attach paragraphs, fill up templates, save and preview, turn the canvas to the wall and walk away. Not all diaries are paintings, they won't be, they can't be, at least not for me. Paintings are definitive, they're a statement and after weeks of sketching, they begin to shape, reveal themselves and feel complete, as this diary does.
And as comfortable a process as this is now, something new has emerged.
Painting has always been solitary, done in private and in the quiet while everyone's asleep and everything is still, in the slow of the night. Sketching, for me was always done in public, in full view on subways and cafes. Sketching is an exploration, an attempt to mark a moment, make mistakes, ask questions and turn the page and ask some more.
And so it is with sketching diaries, in public, here, asking questions and seeking answers, as it scrolls down the list. It's happened often to recognize a pattern. I'm stuck, I need answers, and invariably, a posted comment will tell me what I'm missing, what I need to know, break the logjam, freshen my eyes, and help me finish the painting, edit, then hit publish.
Creative collaboration, is not a familiar process. It's as foreign to me as anything I've never known. Form follows function, was strictly private, singular, a process not shared with anyone, except with myself, alone. I'm beginning to wear it, a little a day, I'm beginning to like it and am trusting the results. If I sound wide eyed, it's because I am. There's a revelation here, and I might be in awe, of what I've become so late in my day. I would try and explain it's significance, but I can't, so I'll tell what I did today, instead. It was snowing in Chicago, an inch an hour and it was grey, and sloppy, roads unplowed for hours.
And it was irrelevant.
So, on a whim, I went to the secondhand store to buy some clothes. It's a barn of a place, a brick box, with aisles, flourescent lights and a few mirrors. There are always people there, I watch them, they'r'e busy in their heads, moving hangers, and studying prices, making calculations and compromises. It's Macy's for the economic misfits, the lost, underemployed, out of place and placed out, and left out, in our loophole rich austerity, our new American Dream. So many of us, are a paycheck away from that displacement.
I didn't head for the dark stuff, today, as is my habit, my worn out route, and I left with 2 giant shopping bags; there's a sale, most everyday. I bought 10 shirts, sheatshirts, vest and some hoodies and less than $65 came out of my pocket, a bargain, by any measure. And maybe a statement too because none of these new clothes, not one, as is my habit, was black.
8:09 PM PT: geez. community spotlight and now the rec. list? i want to thank all of you, behind the curtain at daily kos, who have given me the encouragement, to be creative again, so late in my day.
thank you, very, very much.