Where Art Is…
The Boy was stressing because the trees were not cooperating.
The brown lines of the trunks trembled like cheap animation and the green scalloped poofs sitting atop them varied in size, testament, to his eye, that he just couldn’t do it.
He had a brain template, you see; A tree looks like this. A bird looks like this. And dammit if it was gonna be any different.
A storm of half-drawn forest scenes blew through the dining room, a sketchy Birnam Wood advancing on our Dunsinane. Before the tears poked their little wet heads from their hiding places, I confiscated the marker and turned him toward the window.
Look at that tree.
okay.
Now look at that one down past the fence.
okay.
Do they look the same?
No.
The Wife and I took in an exhibition in the city a few weeks ago. Some Realism, some Impressionism. Another school or two. And I’m looking at the brush strokes, the dabs of color, and I’m remembering my own templates, the left-brained limits that leeched the feeling from my own oily forays. The Boy should see this, I think.
Trees in the yard are different. Trees on paper can be different too.
Okay.
The techniques can be learned. That only takes time and lots of paper.
Okay.
Art is in the idea, I think. And now I’m talking to both of us.
Then we had a whole forest, and flying above was an animal that looked nothing like the ones I know.
on December 1, 2008 at 8:29 pm
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This is lovely. Thank you.
Marinkas most recent blog post..Features
on December 2, 2008 at 10:56 am
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any time