Another sketch from the weekend. Inspired by the film Labyrinth, I reimagined Jareth, the king of the goblins, and Sarah. The first time I saw the film was in art class. The high school art teacher thought it would be inspiring. It has captivated my imagination ever since.
Inspired by the 1986 film Labyrinth, I sketched a portrait of Jareth the Goblin King.
Previously mentioned, the above image is an old sketch of the Luther Terry painting.
On weekends, I visited an art museum when I was younger. With pen and black cloth sketchbook, I recorded the painting in to my sketchbook. Practiced drawing. Researched an allegory.
But capitalism is a poor cultivator of the arts. For the price of an item of beauty and value, some would pay the same price for a 728 pixel wide by 60 pixel high web banner. A digital item that pastes at the top of a web page or email for a week or two and then disappears.
The lesson I quickly learned is that beauty is not useful. Art and design that is practical and commercial are valued in America. Sacrifice the permanent on the alter of immediate. This utilitarian principle fuels professional success. Or at least provides employment.
This drawing in my sketchbook reminds me that I once believed that beauty is lasting. And, I still do.
“Are you thinking about painting again?”
“Thinking.”
“I see the easel is up.”
“Yeah. I was cleaning up some stuff in the garage and wanted to see of the easel was in working order.”
“Is it?”
“Sort of. . . the base wobbles. . . but that can be repaired with a wooden shim.”
“And you have a canvas on the easel.”
“Yes. . . well. . . wanted so see if the canvas was secure on the front lower horizontal bar. The top bar works. But I may need to replace the wing nut on the lower bar.
“Looks like you started painting.”
“No. Not really. Gessoed over an old painting. . . Several years ago.”
“What was wrong with the old painting?”
“It was a sketch. . .”
“Well, looks like supper is almost ready.”
“Yeah. . . you hungry?”
Later. After supper.
In the garage, old sketch books revealed ideas for paintings. Sharpie marker drawings. Charcoal sketches. Conte crayon drawings. Graphite sketches.
The sketch of a female profile. To be used in a composition inspired by a Luther Terry painting. An allegory. But who should model for the composition’s three figures? Many sketches. Poses. Lighting. All collected in thick hardcover black sketch books. One sketch earns a few minutes of consideration. Maybe. . .
A sigh. A glance outside the garage. Shadows lengthened to darkness. Sun has set.
A drawing of my desk with books read, unread, or partially read.
It is a challenge for me. When I am introduced as an artist and/or poet. Still not comfortable with either of those nouns. The next question is inevitable. It usually goes something like this:
My wife turns and introduces me to her friend and adds, “He’s also an artist and poet, too.”
“Wow, can I see your art work on Facebook?”
“No. I am not on Facebook.”
“Oh. Instagram?”
“No. Not on Instagram, either.”
“Well. Um. What do you do? Oil paintings? Do you have a gallery somewhere?”
“He posts some of his work on his blog,” my wife offers.
About that time the bread crumb trail ends and the conversation shifts to something else.
The trouble is that some of the work I create I cannot contractually share. Technically, I do not own the copyrights to the final art. And so, I cannot distribute or display it on this or other online platforms. Frustrating. Yes. Bad. No. It is the cost of commercial arts.
For example, a couple weeks ago I drew a portrait. A line art drawing. The portrait will be featured as an etching in either crystal or acrylic as part of a lifetime award. Sometime in March. You may have seen such awards in business offices. A crystal award on black base sitting on someone’s desk or shelf or trophy case.
I am reminded of one of Milton Glaser’s mottos: “Art is work.”
Milton Glaser, celebrated graphic designer, may not be a household name. Not even in my home. But most Americans will recognize the I [heart] NY logo. It is highly unlikely that school children will study designers as part of their art curriculum. (My children are presently studying the American painter Andrew Wyeth.)
Too often I lament, or rather, complain that I spend too much time creating work in front of a screen. It was so nice to ditch the screen and work in ink on vellum and illustration paper. Took nearly four hours to draw the portrait. And that is with the interruptions of replying to emails and designing elements for a multi-page editorial piece. It would take four weeks if I tried to craft the portrait as an oil painting.
In order to answer a request (Where may I find your art work?), I drew the above page last weekend. Inspired by Jane Mount’s Ideal Bookshelf, I managed to draw the stacks of books on my desk by the bedroom window. At least fifty books. So many books. So little time. I enjoyed the exercise. It felt good to pencil a sketch, flesh out the details, and ink the page.
“Wait. You write poetry, too?”
“Um…” I start.
“Have you been published?”
“Yes,” I say.
And this time the bread crumb trail ends quickly. Because most people do not know where to begin to look for published poetry.
“He posts some of his published poems on his blog,” my wife adds.
In shadow I sawa flower stand. . .
In shade I sawa flower grow. . .
It was cold. A political rally mangled traffic downtown. Everything seemed off schedule. I missed the street car to the train station by minutes and had to walk. The winter weather depleted the battery of my smartphone. Commuters waited at the Intermodal. The last train of the night was late.
There was a special one-hour podcast on obscure tunes from the Real Book loaded on my smartphone. I wanted to listen to jazz music. But I didn’t want to run out of battery. In case the train was delayed. And I had to call my wife to pick me up.
The previous weekend I checked out a book of poetry from the public library. A collection of poems, translated into English, of Li Po. Before I knew it I had found a friend. The translator made it inviting to enter the world and work of Li Po.
Soon the train arrived and I boarded. Found a seat. Plugged my phone into the outlet. Opened the book and continued reading. The train passed over the river and had nearly cleared the Third Ward when I caught a glimpsed of the moon over Lake Michigan.
“I raise my cup to invite the bright moon, . . .” wrote Li Po.
Maybe that endured me to Li Po. Or at least inspired me to feature an illustration of Li Po on a bookshelf I built this summer.
There are a couple Li Po illustrations I made during the last year or so. But the one for the new bookshelf is the most ambitious and detailed. Maybe I will share some posts about the bookshelf project with you later. I had considered writing a series of short posts about how it all came together. Sort of a how-to, or how it was done, type of posts. But the story about why I chose to decorate the sides of the bookshelf seems to interest people more than how I built it.
As the nights grow longer and colder, the illustrated bookshelf is now installed in the living room.
“What did you do last night?” she asked as we walked through the neighborhood in the pre-dawn moments of the day.
“I worked ’til six. Clocked out. Made supper. And spent a couple hours drawing.”
She did not say anything for a few dozen steps. She took the kidlingers on an adventure the night before. And she was tired.
I continued. “The challenge is that it takes me nearly an hour to set up. Not just gathering tools like pencil, ink, brush, illustration board, and setting up a space to work. But planning. Composing a page. Thumbnail sketches. Reference materials and such.”
She listened. We walked further. In the hour before sunrise, I looked East. I saw Venus. Or maybe Regulus. Possibly both.
“By the time everyone got home,” I said. “I had finished marking out a page and composing three panels.”
She told me about a conversation with the one of the kidlingers as we walked. We exchanged comments about plans for the day. We continued for a quarter mile or so before returning home.
Thoughts of last night’s drawings were pushed into the shadows of a day filled with choses sérieuses.
How long did I look at this drawing the other night? 15 minutes? 30 minutes?
Calculated the time it would take to complete the drawing. Did I have the time?
Considered if the time spent on this illustration was valuable.
Too late. A kidlinger requested help. Followed by a short list of other household chores.
The illustration was placed back in the portfolio with 60 other drawings in various stages of completion.
Try it again another night.
Coffeehouse Junkie 