Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Ink, Black, On the River- Last Light

Drawing, on the river.

Way out at the end of a trail I used to walk on, and fish. A bowl and curve in the river, so pretty, so beautiful, that you get your breath taken away in just glancing up. And there's this one shot- one view, where all the curves and lines and shadows come together into this shape that makes sense, seems right,  that suddenly- I have a motif. Though in fact, its the same motif as always.

A river. Shadows. Curves. Lines intersecting, and the boundless convexity of curves that grow- that describe life- and how it bulges out in green and gold curves, always convexity- and somehow, this means something, to me.

My friend and adviser, Kim, with deep insight, remarks that I respond to green, and to these things, for a reason. Actually, I can't right now recall her point- its Jungian. But regardless, I agree. I dial in on this one thing, again and again.

Of the two things I like to paint and draw, rivers, and the female figure, its the river that speaks most. Odd, I know. But the female figure gets so mixed up in other things- and the river- well, it pure sinuous, pure flat, pure shaping its way though a plain, or valley, and taking in both light, and darkness- sometimes a glint, sometimes the blackest black in the whole picture. And if you get it right- the way it appears, in the distance, and swells, in the foreground, and departs- if you get it right, well, that's much. Because there's infinite interest in all aspects- the way the blue sky is deeper, more profound, the way the divits and swells make sense, have logic= but of such fractal complexity and motion- that it is amazing to me, that any pre-photographic painter, could capture this.  So if I do, in muddling, without much training, well, I feel I have like scratched into that thing they sent to Jupiter-something that might survive me.

The world seems crazy with football, and cars, and wars, and dammit, the phone and all it entails-and its this intense swirl of complication, that for God's sake, I hope the smart looking 20 years behind me in this bar understand, and can control- because to me- the Genii is way way out of the bottle, and I, personally, know that I have this very tiny tiny circle that I can barely manage, and though I'd like to help, I only feel pleasure at the edge of a river.  A metaphor, of course, the river. But all non-river places, interest, but mystify, me.

Of course, this week, they begin shooting things at the edge of the river. Pheasant Season. You surprise a bird, it flies up, your shoot it down. Your dog runs out and gets it. Good dog. Reload.