Sunday, November 25, 2012

None At All, At the Side of the River

I sat at a picnic bench watching the sun set down, and the river was swollen up and flowing in swirls, up river, down river, in circles, and smooth. Full, churning. I had ink, and a plate, and a box of pencils, and a stack of newsprint, and tried to get one bit of what I saw drawn out. But I got very little, I feel, I just don't have the skill, the only thing you can do is knuckle down and focus and trace the lines and the shadows, and pick what is important, and draw, like you've drawn all your life, and hope for the best. This type of drawing is backward, more like photography, you don't know what you have til you're done. So much is chance- its  a print, backwards.

The wealth of things to draw from this picnic bench, in the last light of the valley, is enormous. And the primary force here is the force of a river night, black is blacker than black, the clouds billow, but like shadows, and light is focused in on place, the sun, now set, and the trail of brightness that follow it below the western hills. And there is a chill rising, a dampness, and the sound of the river which is totally on its own, no one, but me, I think, observing.

Once you begin, to draw the evening, the world swells and punctuates, and subtle colors, and tiny changes in light, are this enriching experience, deep wells. Deep wells you fall into, and excuse me, deep wells you fall into and see stars, like kaspar hauser, and its not like its just dark, but its all around.

Maybe if you fish, you get to see this.

I draw a line by watching the edge of something, and pull it, and feel how much i press into the plate so it hurts, and i think- am i weak with this? And pull it strong, and press hard and make this line the record of this tree, and follow it up again, and know that the tree swells at its base, and that its line shifts, this way, then that.

Is it important? To anyone? Whats important. Whats important. I don't have any idea. None at all.