Web view19/07/2015 · The background of tiny strip malls, almost all containing a pizza shop, donut stop, laundry mat, and cornerstone Walgreen’s, ended abruptly

Tayler WattsEN410/505July 19th, 2015Writing Response #3

Travel Sketching

Supplies: one fifty-page Strathmore Drawing Sketchbook, a pencil case full of number

twos and backup sharpeners, a carton of oil pastels, brown flip-flops, and a thin, yellow athlete’s

backpack. It was really more of a sack, but I’d take thin, black strings on my shoulders over thick

straps any day, especially if that day was summer in Lower Michigan. It was easy to tell I was

made for the winter, for my pale skin reflected the sun like a mirror.

Journey: Wander around the Clarkston, MI area for as long as necessary. The purpose of

was to fill my neglected sketchbook; I hadn’t honed my traditional art skills in over a year.

Tablet and computers were my current obsession. I loved being able to CTRL Z my mistakes

away, but the process was rigid, precise. I couldn’t work with an error in digital art, for nothing

was permanent. Traditional had always been much less forgiving.

A pencil can be erased, but its ghost remains on the paper, an etching for new shadows to

fall in, or a light scar on the face of the subject. Digital drawings lack the authenticity of human

error that can only be captured by the hand, the pencil, and their unforgiving relationship with

paper. I craved the erroneous process; I craved the beauty of failure. I sought only to capture

with my eyes and hands—cameras were out of the question. For the next few days, I was to be

blissfully obsolete.

Location One: The Bedroom

As many adventures began, so did mine: bellyaching in a warm bed. To make matters

worse, one of my two kittens, Sophie, was nuzzled beside me, a fuzzy, purring distraction. A

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purring kitten is a purring kitten, and one does not simply ignore their cuteness. Forty minutes

later saw me with a hand full of black cat hair, an empty bed, and zero motivation to go walking

in the afternoon summer heat.

What I did have was an empty sketchbook and a room full of supplies for my adventure.

Laziness as my muse, I noted that journeys were nothing without their humble beginnings, so I

began searching for a subject. My room was “limeade” green in color and square in shape, with

the exception of the alcove containing my white entrance door. Directly across this door was the

room’s only window, whose black curtains I drew shut to keep the lighting constent. That left me

sitting on my bed, sketchbook propped up on purple pajama’d knees, laying out my ebony

pencils in a gradient on the short dresser beside me. Warm and unwilling to move, I zeroed in on

the pair of shorts slung over the back of my green office chair.

I started by graying the entire page with pencil lead. There are mid-tone gray papers

available for artists who prefer to skip this step, and I recommend them to impatient drawers.

The process of slowly dragging the side of your pencil lead up and down a 9 x 12 inch piece of

paper was time consuming. Fearing, consistent shading was impossible without a bit of

smearing, I took a nearby Kleenex to it. Pressure mild, I swirled the tissue across the pencil lines,

smoothing out rougher areas with circular motions. In the end, the paper was not uniform, but

neither was the subject being drawn.

The key to creating excellent value drawings is contrast. Many artists live life afraid of

marring their paper with the blackest of ebonies, leaving works flat and without depth. These

mid-tone artists fear that their erasers may not pick up a dark error, and therefore, eliminate black

from their drawings altogether. This is a mistake. Darks are what make lights pop in life. There is

no such thing as a subject that does not cast shadows. Therefore, the first step in any value-

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drawing is to establish the darkest and lightest areas of color. Darken the mid-tone paper by

using the tip of the ebony, and take an eraser to create highlights until the shape forms. When the

blackest of blacks and whitest of whites have been marked on the paper, move onto the next

darkest and next lightest. Build the object based on how it interacts with the light, not how the

brain perceives it to be.

Finally, do not smudge. Smudging is the process in which an artist blends two shades

together using their hand, a tissue, etc. This lightens the overall quality of the picture and flattens

colors. In other words, it saps texture and contrast—two things that value drawings depend on.

Without the shortcut of smudging, the artistic process is long and almost always gives you a

pencil-lead coated hand. Realizing that I wouldn’t have the luxury of sitting on a bench for five

hours to draw, I swapped to outlining.

Outlining is both deceitful and unforgiving. Outlines are an invented tool for artists to

copy down their world around them at a much quicker rate. I don’t know one person with a thick

line around their body. The perception of shape has always been due to the way eyes interpret

signals of light reflecting off of surfaces. Due to its invented nature, line drawing has many

hurdles to overcome that new artists aren’t even aware of.

The biggest is memory. For example, picture an eye. Cartoonists may think of a circle

with a dot in the middle; Mangakas, an oversized, oval with huge irises; an abstract artist, who

knows? The vast majority, however, will picture something vaguely almond-shaped, with

eyelashes, an iris, and eyebrows. When drawing, a new artist automatically thinks of an eye, and

then battles that idea versus what is actually in front of them. The second the drawer looks away

from the subject (be it a mirror or another person), his or her hand will try to draw what the brain

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supplies it with: the memory of the eye, rather than the eye in front of them. That is the danger of

sensitive line drawing.

Value drawing takes the abstracts of shadows and builds them into a concrete image.

Memory doesn’t get in the way of the artist, because the brain doesn’t have any memories of the

abstract. Line drawing is the opposite. It takes a concrete image and turns it into an abstraction.

There are no outlines in nature, so trying to outline turns the subject matter into an idea, and then

that idea must compete with what the brain thinks its looking at. The end result is almost always

a sad, over or undersized companion eye that isn’t quite in line with its partner. The only chance

one has at success is to not draw the subject, but to focus on the negative space between the

subject and the background.

I keep all of this in mind as I drew my shoe. Rather than trying to draw footwear, which

could be anything—Reebok, Adidas, Nike—I stared at the edges of the material. Where I would

normally draw the highlight or shadow, I lightly traced a line on my paper, following the shape

rather than the image. I took short, clipped swipes at the paper, relying on the natural curve of

my wrist to replicate the loop of the laces.

As I worked, I told myself, “This is a line. This is not a shoe.”

Location Two: In-Betweens

I regretted my decision to go on foot about a minute out the door. The heat was thick

enough to swim in. The walk through my subdivision was deserted and weary; every smiling

face either at work or chuckling at my endeavor under the influence of air conditioning.

Desperate for shade, I parked myself on a decorative rock beneath a tree. All around me were

empty driveways and silent homes. Behind them, a barrier of trees blocked the view of our local

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golf course. An incident with drinking, pyromaniac high school graduates, and the back nine had

left this half of the course torched and closed for the week, leaving me all to my lonesome. Now

I was sweating for a different reason: to draw or not to draw?

The consequences of staring at an abandoned suburban home for an hour could be mixed.

Like the Dobler-Dahmer Theory, the outcome depended on if your grand romantic gesture was

reciprocated, or one-sided. If caught, I could meet with a curious homeowner, flattered that I

found their property pretty enough to draw. I could also encounter a mother of three storming out

with a rolling pin, shouting about calling the police on my would-be serial killer behavior.

Without flowers or chocolates to offer a frightened suburban housewife, my only line of defense

would be to offer a drawing.

Drawing people in public was out of the question for two reasons: 1) Humans rarely

stood still and 2) It was creepy beyond belief. A serial sketcher, I’d been caught more than once

drawing classmates and passersby, each encounter yielding a withering glare, or worse, a desire

to look through my sketchbook. Viewers had little sensitivity to an artist’s privacy. Though mine

only had a few sketches of objects in my room, older catalogues were filled with experiments,

ideas, and half-finished sketches of characters from one-day stories. A sketchbook is an artist’s

diary, and yet it’s rude to reject a viewer. The drawn person often feels they have the right to

view their own image. Perhaps they’re correct. We’ve both violated each other’s personal space,

me by spying and they by prying. But the artist is looking at the exterior shell, and the subject is

poking around the interior.

It’s too hot to think about the moral righteousness of the artist and their victim. No people

today. No homes, either. The one I was contemplating was colored an unremarkable earthy

brown, but five years ago it had been a sky blue. With maroon shutters and a white grand door,

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the locals had fondly referred to it as the “Patriotic House.” It was so well known on Spring Lake

Blvd, that it became a landmark. When directing friends to my home, I’d tell them I was “x”

many homes away from it. Though I never met the owners, I liked to think of them as oddball

historians, with portraits of long-dead presidents staring down their hallways. A short year after

its conception, the neighborhood board forced them to repaint due to the subdivisions “laws”

about acceptable home colors. No tea was thrown in our spit of a pond. Our patriotic gem was

browned with only a few mumbles of discontent. Now it stood all but unremarkable in the minds

of those who didn’t remember it.

With a salute to my fallen friend, I made the two-mile hike out of Spring Lake and into

the intersection of Maybee Rd and Dixie Hwy. The area is populated mostly by trees, which

again provided the kindness of shade. Before me, our local Chase and PNC Banks faced off, both

parking lots empty except for the cars of their bored employees. A little past noon, the Burger

King down the road from Chase was full of calorie crunchers. The afternoon stank of grease,

exhaust, and cheap fries, curling my nose. A faint childhood memory from the dance studio

behind the burger joint came to mind: me, in a bright blue tutu and slippers, sulking on the curb

and wailing about french-fries. Five years old and immune to the stomach-churnings of fast food,

I had begged without success for fries at each exiting of the dance class. Praising the wisdom of

my mother, I turned away from the foul-smelling site and turned my attention across the street.

Kroger, the local grocery shop, was a much healthier food stop. One of two in the

Clarkston area, I had briefly considered working there as a summer job. Though I passed the

interview and was welcomed into the family, I instead took an offer at the local athletic club for

the better hours and pay. Still, I was friendly with the Monday – Friday staff and considered

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wandering indoors to buy a cold bottle of water. Ah, sweet procrastination. Sighing, I settled for

the tepid drink from my backpack.

Wanting to work, but still miles away from my destination, I flopped down on a patch of

grass. Reaching my goal on flip-flop foot seemed like a fever dream. The intersection would

serve as my end point for today, so I drew the sketchbook from my bag and thumbed around for

inspiration. I grabbed my oil pastels and picked a patch of trees. Color has never been my strong

suit, but I love watching the sunlight yellow the greenery. I adored how the cloud edges burned

bright white, framing the treetops on their own cottony canvas. Even the black, outdated light-

post seemed charming with sky blue reflected in its glass.

By the end of the drawing, so much yellow and orange sunlight had leaked into my green

trees that their leaves seemed burned, autumn-esque. Somewhere in my doodling, a wish for

cooler weather had worked its way into my drawing. It’s strange how something as simple as the

seasons seep into life. The heat had invaded the colors of my palette, stopped me cold at the

intersection, and paused my trek through my neighborhood. Dry-mouthed, sweaty, and with an

itchy butt from the parched grass, I conceded for the day and embarked on my slow march home,

wishing for autumn with each passing green tree.

Location Three: Final Destination

This time, I was ready. I skirted around two adorable purring kittens, packed a water

bottle left in the refrigerator overnight, and mounted my bicycle. The weather was agreeable, and

although my hair itched inside my helmet, it was better than walking the full four miles on

boiling concrete. The next fifteen minutes were marked by the strange experience of biking

beside a busy road. Drivers on Dixie were hyperaware of my every pedal, as if expecting me to

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swerve off the sidewalk and into their vehicles. Cars slowed, and I could feel irritated glances

shooting my way as they rumbled by.

Pedestrians, on the other hand, scarcely seemed to notice the loud, grinding gears on my

ancient bicycle until I was breathing down their necks. Even then, some continued to pointedly

ignore me and remain rigid in the center of the walking path. The trip turned into an angry game

of dodge-the-person and ignore-the-drivers. Being forced into parking lots and patches of grass

dunked my mood, and I wondered in irritation whether heat made people roadblocks or if they

were simply born that way.

The background of tiny strip malls, almost all containing a pizza shop, donut stop,

laundry mat, and cornerstone Walgreen’s, ended abruptly. In their place stood trees, taller and

greener than the Clarkston buildings. Rooted below the leaves was the tall, iron-wrought fence of

Lakeview Cemetery. I rounded the corner of White Lake Rd (and yet another Walgreen’s) to see

my former place of employment, Deer Lake Athletic Club. I had spent many a slow day staring

out the window into the opposing graveyard. Tired hours had spotted many interesting sculptures

scattered across the graves, and little foot traffic. Lakeview Cemetery was a quiet hovel, shaded

by leafy trees and pines, and full of landmarks to discover.

Ignoring the athletic club, I passed through the open gates, dismounted my bike, and

chained it to a tree far from the graves. Though I saw no visitors, I wasn’t inclined to bother

them with a noisy bike and nosier eye. From my bag came the sketchbook and a windbreaker to

sit on. Together, we prowled the cool shade of the graves, scanning rows of colorful, mourning

flowers, and marble headstones. Found sculptures of alert chipmunks, dancing angels, and small

crosses popped out across the plot. In the middle, I found a flowerpot pole covered by a floppy,

beige hat. Temptation told me to remove and inspect it, but the strings tied to the pole were

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strong and un-frayed. Likely, some gardener had hung it there with the intent of returning. I

claimed the grass and went to work.

Unsurprisingly, the discovered statues were mostly of angels and cherubs in various

states of disrepair. From my resting place, I spotted one angel, upright, with a faded stone

banner, half-engulfed in a bush. Curious, I wandered to the site and brushed away the branches,

expecting to find a hidden grave like in any cheesy horror movie. Instead, I found blank ground

and no reason for the small statuette’s placement. Careful, I returned the branches back into

position and looked at the half-lost angel. Her wide-eyed smile was turned into the pine needles,

where her left wing and arm were hidden. The white, stone body visited my book, the drawing

kept sketchy to compliment her bushy companion.

After filling the pages with flowers, pinecones, and birdhouses stapled far too deep into

their trees, I returned to shaded area with my bike. I hoped to polish a few sketches and return

home before the heat warped my head. Sunrays had a way of seeping into the thickest of

shadows. I started with a small cherub statue I had discovered sitting on a headstone. The stone

itself had been meticulously cleaned, but the sleeper underneath had been away for five years.

The family clearly cared deeply about the tenant, and yet the little guardian angel watching over

her was missing a knee and shoulder. The whiteness of the child cherub’s smile was contrasted

by his dark interior molding, visible only through the holes in his body. Unknowing if it were

dirt, time, or simply the material that had blackened the angel’s insides, I had been drawn to the

grave topper, dilapidated in a well-kept resting place.

I took care to press hard into the lines around the cherub’s body, trapping the white of the

paper inside. The shading I kept neutral, so that the darkness of the hollow angel’s empty knee

popped. Happy with the detailing, I flipped the page to revisit a pastel piece of a flower and

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found the beautiful human error I was looking for. On the page above the flower was the outline

of the angel’s knee and bird companion, transposed in the bright rainbow coloring of the flower

beneath it.

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