When I’m driving along and bounce from radio station to radio station, I love it when a song makes me start tapping my foot and swaying my body. This song, “Hey, Soul Sister” by Train is that song.
song
**
I just saw the movie, City Island, a couple weeks ago. I haven’t laughed this much in a long time. I really like Andy Garcia, and he did an outstanding job, as did the whole cast. Rife with family dysfunction, it isn’t always pretty, but it’s sure to make you laugh, maybe even cry a little.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Friday, May 7, 2010
Ode to Teachers: The Traditional, non-traditional, and everyone in between
When did I learn to fly?
They say that, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” I know that’s not true. These words ring in my ears. The words sting, bur into the soul, seep the life out of you. Yes, the words hurt. However, the words can also be turned into kindling, spark a light—to say in turn, “Your words are not true!” No, I am not stupid, Mrs. H. Just because I’m quiet, just because my classmate whom I’m partnered with also doesn’t understand this grammar crap, does not mean we are stupid. Shame on you, Mrs. H, to look me in the eyes, and with the coldest tone ask, “What…are you stupid?” But of course, this is high school—what seems now eons ago. I had other concerns, inner turmoil, and was too timid to stick up for myself.
It didn’t get much better. It was a long slow process. My first junior college course was a disaster. I remember you well, Mrs. M. When we met to discuss my paper during class and you said with a nonchalant air, “I don’t know…This essay—It sounds like you were on something.” I look at you in shock. Am I hearing you right? True that I didn’t follow the assignment exactly. I was exploring myself. I was writing about my experience, my feelings, inspired by my explorations of the Eastern traditions. “Ah…,”you say, “now I understand. My sister’s into that and I can never understand her letters to me. But this is really off topic, and it’s all over the place. It’s a “D” but I gave you a “C.” I suggest you drop the class.
Why didn’t I quit? No one really encouraged me. I don’t know exactly, but I didn’t give up. There were more discouraging words at different times, but I kept on. I knew it wasn’t all their fault. I knew I wasn’t up to par. Grammar was still a chore and I wasn’t writing complete or organized thoughts. I kept enrolling in English courses and studying on my own, determined to succeed. And at the same time, I dropped many courses when I couldn’t handle the anxiety of speaking in class. It made the road that much longer. But I have no regrets.
When I first felt like I was flying, it was in Mr. Gustavson’s English writing development course for folks like me who still needed help with writing college level papers. We kept journals. “Write everything, don’t hold back,” he told us. I wrote every bloody thing down, but this time, I wrote about my days, about the mundane. I didn’t hold back. I surprised myself. I remember one day he was standing up in front of the class reading examples anonymously. I was listening intently and then I heard familiar musings. He’s reading my journal. I felt the heat rise on my face. I was startled to hear my words flow out of his mouth and when he finished he said, “Now does it sound like she’s having trouble getting her words out?” I can’t even describe how good it made me feel to hear myself up there through him, to actually hear something positive instead of the usual unconstructive criticism. It was a small moment and one that I cherish. It felt like I was getting there.
And then I continued flying in Mr. Hurley’s Freshman English class. Looking back, He was one of the biggest inspirations on my road—for the love of language, writing, reading. He was a kind teacher, very passionate about teaching itself and passionate about the students. In addition to the comments he made on our papers, he would attach a little grid of the different elements of the essay and he would put a check mark next to where our writing fell in that grid, and if need be, he’d add a few more comments. I loved this. I could really see where I needed to focus my attention. I was still on my way, making the small climb. I got a “C” in his class, but more important, I felt like I was in a constructive and supportive environment. I even had to interview someone for one of my papers, which was very scary for me at the time. During an exercise where Mr. Hurley had us pick a few quotes that really stood out for us to discuss. This is one from Susan Faludi that has remained with me: “My barracuda blurbs belie my timorous demeanor.” The cadence and potency of these words—they have become a sort of mantra for me.
I began improving steadily and could not get enough English courses. One last fond flight is from a journalism course on writing the feature story. The instructor started us out with reading two articles about teaching and then she wanted us to write a comparison/contrast reaction. She posted all of the student’s responses without names and wanted us to comment on what we liked and didn’t like. There were a few students who left comments under my paper that said, “I’d like to write like this.” I was in utter amazement and felt such joy. I do remember being absorbed in the assignment, being passionate, letting go, and finally editing and cleaning it up best I could. Even though this wasn’t graded and was just a warm up, I still wanted to do my best in my way, and that’s probably what the students reacted to. However, little did we know this was an exercise in how not to write a feature. After all the students had reacted to our essays, the instructor chimed in and said that while most of these essays were fine in their own right, they were not acceptable for feature writing and she proceeded to tell us why. And so the class began. It was a valuable course, and at times I felt like quitting because it was a different style of writing for me, but I relished in the challenge.
There are so many more positive experiences I’ve had since Mrs. H and Mrs. M. that put the hurtful ones into perspective. And quite honestly, if I didn’t have the negative experiences, I don’t know if I would be here today: Appreciative; both humbled and lifted; passionate about language and expressing myself in a way that is sometimes messy and sometimes neat, but always with passion.
No, I did not forget, but I forgive the hurtful words. I’m still flying, though, still trying to figure out exactly why God put me here. I’m still trying to find new ways to come out of my comfort zone, while respecting my introverted nature. I dream of one day inspiring and encouraging on a large scale, which in my world, will be a small scale. I’d like to provide a safe place, to provide a nurturing and supportive environment that allows for self-exploration, builds self-esteem and helps people find the confidence within themselves to keep turning the sometimes hurtful outer and inner words into gold.
They say that, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” I know that’s not true. These words ring in my ears. The words sting, bur into the soul, seep the life out of you. Yes, the words hurt. However, the words can also be turned into kindling, spark a light—to say in turn, “Your words are not true!” No, I am not stupid, Mrs. H. Just because I’m quiet, just because my classmate whom I’m partnered with also doesn’t understand this grammar crap, does not mean we are stupid. Shame on you, Mrs. H, to look me in the eyes, and with the coldest tone ask, “What…are you stupid?” But of course, this is high school—what seems now eons ago. I had other concerns, inner turmoil, and was too timid to stick up for myself.
It didn’t get much better. It was a long slow process. My first junior college course was a disaster. I remember you well, Mrs. M. When we met to discuss my paper during class and you said with a nonchalant air, “I don’t know…This essay—It sounds like you were on something.” I look at you in shock. Am I hearing you right? True that I didn’t follow the assignment exactly. I was exploring myself. I was writing about my experience, my feelings, inspired by my explorations of the Eastern traditions. “Ah…,”you say, “now I understand. My sister’s into that and I can never understand her letters to me. But this is really off topic, and it’s all over the place. It’s a “D” but I gave you a “C.” I suggest you drop the class.
Why didn’t I quit? No one really encouraged me. I don’t know exactly, but I didn’t give up. There were more discouraging words at different times, but I kept on. I knew it wasn’t all their fault. I knew I wasn’t up to par. Grammar was still a chore and I wasn’t writing complete or organized thoughts. I kept enrolling in English courses and studying on my own, determined to succeed. And at the same time, I dropped many courses when I couldn’t handle the anxiety of speaking in class. It made the road that much longer. But I have no regrets.
When I first felt like I was flying, it was in Mr. Gustavson’s English writing development course for folks like me who still needed help with writing college level papers. We kept journals. “Write everything, don’t hold back,” he told us. I wrote every bloody thing down, but this time, I wrote about my days, about the mundane. I didn’t hold back. I surprised myself. I remember one day he was standing up in front of the class reading examples anonymously. I was listening intently and then I heard familiar musings. He’s reading my journal. I felt the heat rise on my face. I was startled to hear my words flow out of his mouth and when he finished he said, “Now does it sound like she’s having trouble getting her words out?” I can’t even describe how good it made me feel to hear myself up there through him, to actually hear something positive instead of the usual unconstructive criticism. It was a small moment and one that I cherish. It felt like I was getting there.
And then I continued flying in Mr. Hurley’s Freshman English class. Looking back, He was one of the biggest inspirations on my road—for the love of language, writing, reading. He was a kind teacher, very passionate about teaching itself and passionate about the students. In addition to the comments he made on our papers, he would attach a little grid of the different elements of the essay and he would put a check mark next to where our writing fell in that grid, and if need be, he’d add a few more comments. I loved this. I could really see where I needed to focus my attention. I was still on my way, making the small climb. I got a “C” in his class, but more important, I felt like I was in a constructive and supportive environment. I even had to interview someone for one of my papers, which was very scary for me at the time. During an exercise where Mr. Hurley had us pick a few quotes that really stood out for us to discuss. This is one from Susan Faludi that has remained with me: “My barracuda blurbs belie my timorous demeanor.” The cadence and potency of these words—they have become a sort of mantra for me.
I began improving steadily and could not get enough English courses. One last fond flight is from a journalism course on writing the feature story. The instructor started us out with reading two articles about teaching and then she wanted us to write a comparison/contrast reaction. She posted all of the student’s responses without names and wanted us to comment on what we liked and didn’t like. There were a few students who left comments under my paper that said, “I’d like to write like this.” I was in utter amazement and felt such joy. I do remember being absorbed in the assignment, being passionate, letting go, and finally editing and cleaning it up best I could. Even though this wasn’t graded and was just a warm up, I still wanted to do my best in my way, and that’s probably what the students reacted to. However, little did we know this was an exercise in how not to write a feature. After all the students had reacted to our essays, the instructor chimed in and said that while most of these essays were fine in their own right, they were not acceptable for feature writing and she proceeded to tell us why. And so the class began. It was a valuable course, and at times I felt like quitting because it was a different style of writing for me, but I relished in the challenge.
There are so many more positive experiences I’ve had since Mrs. H and Mrs. M. that put the hurtful ones into perspective. And quite honestly, if I didn’t have the negative experiences, I don’t know if I would be here today: Appreciative; both humbled and lifted; passionate about language and expressing myself in a way that is sometimes messy and sometimes neat, but always with passion.
No, I did not forget, but I forgive the hurtful words. I’m still flying, though, still trying to figure out exactly why God put me here. I’m still trying to find new ways to come out of my comfort zone, while respecting my introverted nature. I dream of one day inspiring and encouraging on a large scale, which in my world, will be a small scale. I’d like to provide a safe place, to provide a nurturing and supportive environment that allows for self-exploration, builds self-esteem and helps people find the confidence within themselves to keep turning the sometimes hurtful outer and inner words into gold.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
The Sound of Wings
A weary beginning to the day. Not a too sound night. Asleep with a low lamp on. Woken by the sound of a clickity-buzz and then a soft landing right next to my ear. I quickly sit up, look to find a cricket that managed to miss my head by millimeters. He flew into the pillow beside me and was nestled inside, right at the edge. In swift fashion, I get up to grab my glass and small book. Scoot—in he goes. I set the glass covered with the book on top on the kitchen counter until morning to release him.
I’ve grown accustomed to the sound the spider makes when he sometimes jumps down upon the chest of drawers or some other hard surface. And I’ve grown accustomed to look for him in the crevices he likes to wedge himself into and sometimes when I wake in the night, I look to make sure he’s not above me. I prefer when he’s not above me, prefer when he’s in his corner. This one in particular, is too hard to capture because he stays up high, and when he comes down the wall, he’s quick. Always, if I can, I take spiders outside. One day recently though, he or she was much too large for me to handle and I had to do what I didn’t want to do. I wrote about the experience in my notebook. I still feel traumatized by the whole thing and I suppose it is still filtering out of my system.
I much prefer the sound of a million wings flying through the sky…
Friday, April 30, 2010
Creation
We come into this world as artists, creators, and how we express that is for us to find out. It could be in how we organize an event, handle a customer crisis, write, draw, read, cook, tend house, farm—the list goes on. Life is art; art is life.
Yesterday, in particular, I felt on fire. So much racing through me. I continue to feel the inspiration and encouragement; and to find ways to remember to see the world with fresh eyes. I feel the nudges of the universe in a way like never before, or perhaps it’s the same, but now I’m listening more. I feel as though I am giving birth, birth to myself, birth to something that has always been—is a part of where I come from—from this earth, a series of connections, large and small, always a new page, always “emptying the cup” seeing the cycles and then allowing them to fade and then discovering them again.
All of this fire, made me think of a long lost memory of my real father and how he made me an easel when I was a little girl. I didn’t get to use it much. We lived apart. I had another father too. I was upset when my mother told him to take it down, take it apart. No easel. Why? Why! No! I cried. He wasn’t happy about it either. He was an artist, a fine cabinet maker. He would make me wooden dolls with block heads, but they were so beautiful, unique. He made a large crib, dollhouse, high chair. The only gift I kept because of circumstance is a treasure chest he made for me and here it stays, and when I open it, it still has that fresh wood smell that I love so much, and a flush of memory rises.
Ours was a complicated family story—to be saved for another place, another time—I’ll never quite understand, but I know that the easel he made with love, with his hands, my hands—that this drive in me to create in quiet and loud ways has always been there, and sometimes it disappears. I had never really made the connection. I see it now, and I also feel how it transcends all memory, into a larger memory beyond myself and my world.
To connect with that spark, that glow. It never burns out. The fire needs tending, keep blowing on it and see the sparks, hear the crackle. Know that it will never go out. It may need to recede, but it is always there: The drive to create and connect with the great beyond.
Yesterday, in particular, I felt on fire. So much racing through me. I continue to feel the inspiration and encouragement; and to find ways to remember to see the world with fresh eyes. I feel the nudges of the universe in a way like never before, or perhaps it’s the same, but now I’m listening more. I feel as though I am giving birth, birth to myself, birth to something that has always been—is a part of where I come from—from this earth, a series of connections, large and small, always a new page, always “emptying the cup” seeing the cycles and then allowing them to fade and then discovering them again.
All of this fire, made me think of a long lost memory of my real father and how he made me an easel when I was a little girl. I didn’t get to use it much. We lived apart. I had another father too. I was upset when my mother told him to take it down, take it apart. No easel. Why? Why! No! I cried. He wasn’t happy about it either. He was an artist, a fine cabinet maker. He would make me wooden dolls with block heads, but they were so beautiful, unique. He made a large crib, dollhouse, high chair. The only gift I kept because of circumstance is a treasure chest he made for me and here it stays, and when I open it, it still has that fresh wood smell that I love so much, and a flush of memory rises.
Ours was a complicated family story—to be saved for another place, another time—I’ll never quite understand, but I know that the easel he made with love, with his hands, my hands—that this drive in me to create in quiet and loud ways has always been there, and sometimes it disappears. I had never really made the connection. I see it now, and I also feel how it transcends all memory, into a larger memory beyond myself and my world.
To connect with that spark, that glow. It never burns out. The fire needs tending, keep blowing on it and see the sparks, hear the crackle. Know that it will never go out. It may need to recede, but it is always there: The drive to create and connect with the great beyond.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Rain
This Morning a beautiful shroud of rain mists through
the valley.
All movement to the West,
as the trees raise
their arms to the silent
ones to the East.
The wind, a consistent hush,
with high notes that carry
the scent of moist wooded trees. The bamboo
leans back gracefully and
then forward again.
This morning the trees dance,
the whole valley moves.
the valley.
All movement to the West,
as the trees raise
their arms to the silent
ones to the East.
The wind, a consistent hush,
with high notes that carry
the scent of moist wooded trees. The bamboo
leans back gracefully and
then forward again.
This morning the trees dance,
the whole valley moves.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Journal Sketching Workshop – It’s a Wrap
Like art, life is a series of shapes, of lights and darks intermingling. If we keep squinting, keep looking, those shapes begin to form before our eyes, into our sketchbooks, into our minds.
Today was the last day of our four-day journal-sketching workshop. Our last sketch spot was a shopping plaza. I found a cozy spot and decided to start out with a circular cement seating area with a statue in the center. As I walked to my spot, a security man on one of those upright two-wheel scooters asked me if there was a scavenger hunt going on. I told him what we were up to; he smiled and scooted on.
Today, I found myself slightly frustrated with not being able to fully grasp perspective. Of course, this is not a class in perfection. It’s a class in getting that idea down on paper, of jogging memories. So I have to keep reminding myself: Be gentle with yourself and do the best that you can. And have fun!
I really like how quick sketches force me into my subject. It feels a bit like free writing. If I am able to push myself and get out of my own way, I find my “flow.”
Our assignment for the day was to go out on our own through the plaza and find different objects or scenes to sketch, and then we would meet at a central location after an hour or so. Once we met back up, the instructor went over a few things. She talked about water coloring shadows for trees and how rather than make the cast shadows black, she would add a little violet. She also said that the form shadow for the tree bark should have some violet in it also. Browns and violets. “Can you see the violet,” she asked when she pointed to a tree in the near distance. I squinted. I could not see the color she saw. To my eyes it was grey and brown.
Before class wrapped up, the instructor sat with us each individually to look at what we had sketched. She offered praise and suggestions. She helped me see the layered shapes of the water fountain that I had sketched a bit askew. After class concluded, we each went away with a little more confidence to sketch. I’m glad that the workshop wasn’t too long, four sessions was perfect for my temperament. But in this short period of time, I feel like I’ve gained a lot. The best part is she had us sketching right away, rather than getting caught up in details. That’s really the only way to learn: By first jumping in and then having a guide ready to give you a helping hand and encouragement.
I packed up my supplies and walked to the grocery store to get a snack before heading back home. On my walk there, I felt that I was seeing everything a little clearer. The outlines of the different trees, the way each had a dark side and a light side, and how I wouldn’t have to put all the details in to be able to “read” that it was this or that tree I was seeing. I was getting it—I was seeing what the instructor was saying. During our sessions, I was able to capture these concepts somewhat, but now, walking without sketching, I was able to truly see what she meant. I saw the different flowers, in their little clumped shapes and again, their light and dark areas. I saw more distinctly how the cast shadows appeared. And when I passed a few trees, I did indeed see the violet in the bark.
**
Here are a few sketches from today.
This first one is a pencil sketch of a different water fountain. I decided to leave it as is.
This flowerpot was done with black pen and shaded with dark and light grey. I could have added color, but I thought I would keep the color in greys.
The last one is my favorite and it's not because it has color, which does add to it. It was done in pencil and I really felt like I was able to capture this moment, and I love palms like this. I added color when I got home using watercolor pencils. I don't want to mess it up, so I probably won't be adding water to blend it so that it looks like a watercolor.
Today was the last day of our four-day journal-sketching workshop. Our last sketch spot was a shopping plaza. I found a cozy spot and decided to start out with a circular cement seating area with a statue in the center. As I walked to my spot, a security man on one of those upright two-wheel scooters asked me if there was a scavenger hunt going on. I told him what we were up to; he smiled and scooted on.
Today, I found myself slightly frustrated with not being able to fully grasp perspective. Of course, this is not a class in perfection. It’s a class in getting that idea down on paper, of jogging memories. So I have to keep reminding myself: Be gentle with yourself and do the best that you can. And have fun!
I really like how quick sketches force me into my subject. It feels a bit like free writing. If I am able to push myself and get out of my own way, I find my “flow.”
Our assignment for the day was to go out on our own through the plaza and find different objects or scenes to sketch, and then we would meet at a central location after an hour or so. Once we met back up, the instructor went over a few things. She talked about water coloring shadows for trees and how rather than make the cast shadows black, she would add a little violet. She also said that the form shadow for the tree bark should have some violet in it also. Browns and violets. “Can you see the violet,” she asked when she pointed to a tree in the near distance. I squinted. I could not see the color she saw. To my eyes it was grey and brown.
Before class wrapped up, the instructor sat with us each individually to look at what we had sketched. She offered praise and suggestions. She helped me see the layered shapes of the water fountain that I had sketched a bit askew. After class concluded, we each went away with a little more confidence to sketch. I’m glad that the workshop wasn’t too long, four sessions was perfect for my temperament. But in this short period of time, I feel like I’ve gained a lot. The best part is she had us sketching right away, rather than getting caught up in details. That’s really the only way to learn: By first jumping in and then having a guide ready to give you a helping hand and encouragement.
I packed up my supplies and walked to the grocery store to get a snack before heading back home. On my walk there, I felt that I was seeing everything a little clearer. The outlines of the different trees, the way each had a dark side and a light side, and how I wouldn’t have to put all the details in to be able to “read” that it was this or that tree I was seeing. I was getting it—I was seeing what the instructor was saying. During our sessions, I was able to capture these concepts somewhat, but now, walking without sketching, I was able to truly see what she meant. I saw the different flowers, in their little clumped shapes and again, their light and dark areas. I saw more distinctly how the cast shadows appeared. And when I passed a few trees, I did indeed see the violet in the bark.
**
Here are a few sketches from today.
This first one is a pencil sketch of a different water fountain. I decided to leave it as is.
This flowerpot was done with black pen and shaded with dark and light grey. I could have added color, but I thought I would keep the color in greys.
The last one is my favorite and it's not because it has color, which does add to it. It was done in pencil and I really felt like I was able to capture this moment, and I love palms like this. I added color when I got home using watercolor pencils. I don't want to mess it up, so I probably won't be adding water to blend it so that it looks like a watercolor.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Journal Sketching Workshop ~ Reflection One
This weekend, I spent part of my mornings in a journal sketching workshop. The idea of the class is to learn how to make quick sketches, so that if we are traveling or out and about with our notebooks, we have a better handle on how to get down our observations quickly. The focus is not on detail, but on getting the idea on paper, so that when we see it, we can say to ourselves, “Yes, I remember that day exactly.” I thought this would be a wonderful compliment to my writing journals. I’ve sketched a few things and dabbled in different mediums, but I wanted to feel more comfortable with knowing how to approach quick line sketches.
On the first day, the instructor went through some basics. We did some 45 second sketches; 1 minute sketches; and then towards the end, we did a 2 minute sketch. This is my 2 minute sketch that I first did in pencil and then I went back and put in some defining lines, and shadows. I didn’t know we would be adding any color, but was happy to hear that the instructor had intended for us to add color to our longer sketches, once complete, so she brought lots of supplies.
I appreciated very much that she reminded us, “It doesn’t have to be perfect.” We’re jogging memories.” She shared her sketch books with us and as she held one up said, “You may not recognize that, but I can tell exactly where I was when I drew that.” She also had words alongside some of her sketches and words dispersed throughout randomly. She found her pictures much more interesting to look at than the words on her pages. For her the images were much more telling. Even though her journal contained words, she was first and foremost a visual artist. Her preferred mode of expression and recall was through her sketches and painted images.
The most challenging object for me to sketch was a pinecone. I tried three times, and I’m still not entirely convinced my last sketch looked like what it was, but I suppose when I look back years from now, I’ll know it was a pinecone. I’m going to pick one up on one of my walks and study it. It will be a fun challenge to keep at it until I can make sense of the shapes.
The second day we met at Borges Ranch in Walnut Creek and it was beautiful. I used to hike the hills of the surrounding area, but I had never stopped in at the ranch. The gorgeous rolling green hills took my breath away. I had to keep my eyes on the very narrow road, lest I topple over. This day, we would sketch animals, barns, and any other parts of the ranch that caught our fancy. We talked more about shapes and how a lot of what we see is shapes, but the instructor really helped me to see the shapes a little better. It’s difficult though for my mind to overcome seeing a sheep standing in front view as a series of overlapping shapes, but when she demonstrated it on her large pad, I could see it.
Our last drawing of the day was a 5 minute sketch and then we would add color once we were done. I was pleased with how this one turned out because it jogs my memory and I can tell what it is. It was very hot and I chose to sit in the grass near a visitor house and the geranium caught my attention. The instructor sat for a moment with another student, so I put them into my sketch and you’ll see they are just lines, but you can tell that there are two people. I wasn’t able to do the geranium justice, but I can remember how lovely they looked and I can remember how the sun was beating down on my head and face and how warm my body felt and how peaceful I was in the surrounding environment with others scattered around trying to capture their experiences that day. My last drawing that I was somewhat happy with, is not perfect, but it’s a start.
On the first day, the instructor went through some basics. We did some 45 second sketches; 1 minute sketches; and then towards the end, we did a 2 minute sketch. This is my 2 minute sketch that I first did in pencil and then I went back and put in some defining lines, and shadows. I didn’t know we would be adding any color, but was happy to hear that the instructor had intended for us to add color to our longer sketches, once complete, so she brought lots of supplies.
I appreciated very much that she reminded us, “It doesn’t have to be perfect.” We’re jogging memories.” She shared her sketch books with us and as she held one up said, “You may not recognize that, but I can tell exactly where I was when I drew that.” She also had words alongside some of her sketches and words dispersed throughout randomly. She found her pictures much more interesting to look at than the words on her pages. For her the images were much more telling. Even though her journal contained words, she was first and foremost a visual artist. Her preferred mode of expression and recall was through her sketches and painted images.
The most challenging object for me to sketch was a pinecone. I tried three times, and I’m still not entirely convinced my last sketch looked like what it was, but I suppose when I look back years from now, I’ll know it was a pinecone. I’m going to pick one up on one of my walks and study it. It will be a fun challenge to keep at it until I can make sense of the shapes.
The second day we met at Borges Ranch in Walnut Creek and it was beautiful. I used to hike the hills of the surrounding area, but I had never stopped in at the ranch. The gorgeous rolling green hills took my breath away. I had to keep my eyes on the very narrow road, lest I topple over. This day, we would sketch animals, barns, and any other parts of the ranch that caught our fancy. We talked more about shapes and how a lot of what we see is shapes, but the instructor really helped me to see the shapes a little better. It’s difficult though for my mind to overcome seeing a sheep standing in front view as a series of overlapping shapes, but when she demonstrated it on her large pad, I could see it.
Our last drawing of the day was a 5 minute sketch and then we would add color once we were done. I was pleased with how this one turned out because it jogs my memory and I can tell what it is. It was very hot and I chose to sit in the grass near a visitor house and the geranium caught my attention. The instructor sat for a moment with another student, so I put them into my sketch and you’ll see they are just lines, but you can tell that there are two people. I wasn’t able to do the geranium justice, but I can remember how lovely they looked and I can remember how the sun was beating down on my head and face and how warm my body felt and how peaceful I was in the surrounding environment with others scattered around trying to capture their experiences that day. My last drawing that I was somewhat happy with, is not perfect, but it’s a start.
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