Week Two: Life Drawing is Cool

On Monday in our Sculpture class we used thick corrugated cardboard (in most instances – cardboard anyway) to build a model of a piece of fantasy architecture.   Over the weekend I had designed and drawn 10 or 11 images, none of which really appealed to me as the basis for building a model. In the end I created a structure meant to look like a key, thinking “key to the city”,and which was far less derivative than all the other drawings I had made after trawling the ‘Net.   The principal agent for cementing all the bits was a hot-wax glue gun, which in my multitude of years I have never seen, let alone used.   Despite dour warnings about the pain of hot glue on fingers, and the lesson How To Protect Oneself 101, I was able to burn the tips of almost all my fingers and most of my thumbs, of which I have many more than my share – thumbs I mean.   

I was somewhat deflated when my instructor commented that it looked like a penis;  so much for my skills.  I giggled though, reminded of a story my friend told me, about the fellow he met in Paris who referred to the Eiffel Tower as The Penis, which they henceforth named the Gallic Phallic.

Baldrick’s cunning plan is that next week in our painting session the buildings will be laid out as a streetscape which we will then paint onto our new canvases – see below. 

The Life Drawing class was once again confronting and challenging.  Fast sweeping drawings of nude women, expressing emotion and movement via charcoal lines.  I keep getting bogged down trying to establish detail, rather than impressions and interpretations, but I could see a definite improvement on my first week’s efforts and for me, who has never drawn before, that is most definitely encouraging.  I find myself looking forward to next week’s class, having recovered completely from my nervousness about working with naked strangers.   A friend told me of her first experience with a male model, when she was so shy she didn't know where to look, so decided to begin at the feet.  Her embarrassment lasted until her friend nudged her to say 'Look, he's had a Brazilian!'. It cracked her up and she was able to move on. Et moi, indubitably.

Let us move on, to making and stretching our own canvases for the infamous fantasy-street painting assignment next week.  Not only, but also,  building our own palettes from light timber, shellacked almost to extinction.  With air-powered staple-guns, bandsaws, electric drills, electric sanders and another rotating cutting machine that made clever little slots to join the bits of timber together, I came close to destroying my creations and mutilating myself.  One class-mate used the staple-gun upside down, firing staples to the ceiling and missing her eyes by centimetres.  Oh, we learned very quickly about the constant insistence on wearing protective goggles!  My fingers, two of which have already had titanium joint replacements, simply don’t have the strength to operate some of this equipment, although I did try, but soon acknowledged my failings and shrieked for help.

My sad excuse for a canvas is at this moment drying after its first coat of gesso.  I am hoping 4 or 5 coats will stiffen it up a bit – currently it is not as tight as a drum.  During it's birth, every table was in use glueing the timber edges together with little “biscuits” which worked like pieces of dowel.  Sticky goo was abundant on every surface, along with wood shavings and off-cuts of fabric.  I had wet glue all over both sides of the timber frame, and when the canvas was draped around it I collected more glue and shavings, so my smooth canvas is lumpy with patches of paste and sawdust.  I’ll have to incorporate that into the texture of the buildings somehow.  Sure, I can do that.  Unfortunately, I set the canvas on the wrong side of the frame, stapled it, made the hospital corners – that part was neat as could be.    But every one of those power- inserted staples had to be removed and the whole thing upended and redone, on sticky woody tables which now also included some shellac, so my textured canvas is almost an original work of art already.

I have to say here that I am not a mechanical genius, something which my sons have known all their lives.  I'm not allowed anywhere near tools or sharp things at home, so I suspect my majors next year will not include Sculpture.    Anyway, I bribed an 18-year-old to do the circular cutting of my palette.  Very obliging of him.  I almost cut myself in half putting the palette against the electric sander the wrong way, sending the wood backwards straight into my tummy.  I wouldn't call myself clumsy but I am not deft.

In another class we watched a DVD about David Hockney, as he "nears the end of his life" - painting in Yorkshire where he was born and grew up.  Utterly fascinating to watch his brilliance as he painted outdoors in every season, including the depths of winter, to catch the same landscape as it changed throughout the year.  But he kept mentioning, as did the narrator, that he is "nearly 70".   A bit too close to home for me.  I'm 68 and am just beginning to learn how to paint.  Am I too late?

Week One and the banks are the worst

Week One is over.  I have to say thank heavens for that.  Day One was of course introductory, with the obligatory round robin of “my name is and I’m here because” in the first session, which is as much for the benefit of the instructor as for any of the students.  I know these programs are primarily for school-leavers, but I do get weary of the presumption that I need to know the names of everyone in every class on Day One.  I prefer to meet and absorb over a period of time.  But hey, that’s just me.

Straight into Art, and an entire day given over to visiting galleries in the city.  Splendid stuff, although I ended the day crippled, and now know I can only ever do one gallery at a time.  I’m talking here about actual feet, but there is the other over-kill of too much information:  hard to remember all I saw, even with note-taking which rather destroys my enjoyment of wandering through art-filled rooms and just inhaling.

“Life Drawing” and “Drawing” sessions were the highlights of the week, and made up for the non-productive sessions at almost all the other classes.  I know, I know, we have to be familiarised with the studios, the equipment, the OH&S issues, but Oh Lord it is frustrating.

What did I like?  The campus.  I love strolling in the sunshine through the squares and open spaces to the library, to the cafe, to the gymnasium.  Break between sessions are generous, with time to find a cup of coffee or tea, read the paper, continue the crossword, chat to classmates.  So far I am impressed with the teachers: their enthusiasm, their patience, their little kindnesses and thoughtfulness.  Haven’t met them all yet but my expectations are now very high.

What irritated me?  Students who turned up late for the class.  It’s so rude!  And it’s the same ones each time.  Instructors have completed roll-call and are well into their spiel on requirements, assessments, etc, and in stroll the half-dozen missing students;  they may or may not be those who arrived without any equipment!  Perhaps this is  because they haven’t completed their enrolment yet.  The college has been taking enrolments since late January, so I’m surprised by how many wait for the first week to even think about enrolment.  And I’m not sure how long tutors will be willing to lend equipment;  can you get through a whole semester without buying charcoal?

Anyway I had heaps of time to rage internally about the Big Four Banks.  Driving to and from school, the radio was full of the anger about banks increasing their lending rates, and their paltry excuses and justification.  It made me think.

Back when I started working, we were all paid in cash.  Weekly, fortnightly, even monthly, the pay envelope was delivered by the Paymaster in cash, including coins.  Sometime in the late ‘60s or early ‘70s, the unions and banks made a deal that we could CHOOSE to be paid in cash, or have our wages and salaries paid directly into a bank account.  Before long, as I remember, wages would continue to be paid in cash but salaries could be deposited overnight the evening before they were due, so that funds were available on the actual pay day. 

Gradually the arrangement changed to include wages as well.  Some companies even specified which bank workers had to deal with, at least to the point of having an account with the company’s nominated bank , in order to to receive payment for our services.  Another erosion of freedom of choice.

The banks loved this.  And in no time at all, they began charging fees for withdrawing our wages and salaries!  We could hardly believe it.  We’d lost our choice of receiving cash OR bank deposit, and now we had to pay to access our own money!

About this time the banks began to realise they could make a fortune in fees for doing nothing, and that’s what they continue to do.  I personally do all my own banking via the internet (for which I pay monthly fees) and rarely step inside a bank these days.  Of course, I have to have a card in order to use a hole-in-the-wall, and for that I am charged a monthly fee.  If I withdraw too many times in a month – too many being an arbitrary figure devised by the bank – I am charged inflated fees.  Too many cheques this month?  Too many EFTPOS transactions?  Fees for ‘em all.  I never overdraw because the fee for that is sheer robbery, and I used to have a savings account but the interest was negligible.

So I don’t want to hear any more from the bank johnnies about how much it is costing them to borrow overseas for mortgage lending.  The extra costs are countered by the profits from fees and charges.  The latest trick?  We have one credit card which charges an annual fee.  When the fee is taken, the bank immediately starts charging interest on it, because it is regarded as a “purchase”, not as a fee.  And yet, it is clearly named “annual fee”.  Excuse me?

Warm tea served on a bed of chips

In the meantime, what has happened to the hospitality industry?  I ask because I'm beginning to dread eating out.   The simplest irritant is ordering a cup of tea.  I'm given a cup of hot water and a tea-bag.  By the time they arrive at my table, the water is warm and the tea-bag is still sitting in the saucer.  If anyone should know how to make tea, cooks and chefs would be at the top of the list. 

I'm laughed at, at home, because I heat my cup with hot water before adding the boiling water and tea or tea-bag TOGETHER.  I like my tea hot, hot, hot.  I don't add milk, just enjoy piping hot black tea;  and the only place I can get it now is at home.   When did The Kitchen Police decide that luke-warm is best?

It was certainly some time before the decision was made to serve chips UNDER the rest of the meal - oh please, stop doing that.  I order weiner schnitzel with salad and chips, and when it arrives the chips are going soggy under the meat and salad.  Why?  Who in their right mind wants soggy chips? I mean, really, I've heard of "served on a bed of mash" or "a bed of rice", but served on a bed of chips?  I've fooled them now, though.  I order chips on the side. They come in a bowl, separately, but they're hot and crunchy and just how I like 'em.

IS THIS A SIGN?

First impressions.   At interview, way back in December, I met several of the instructors who seemed impressed with my submissions and immediately offered me a place in the course.  Very flattering, even more so when a friend who has just completed the course told me she was sent away to "practise" for a year.  I was given a tentative timetable, course requirements, book lists, and advice on filling in my time until 20 February, first day of first term.    Although my original instructions had been to bring all my identification and proof of previous educational qualifications, as well as funds to pay for the course, they instead said they didn't need to see any of those documents, and that I would receive an invoice in the mail. 

I have to say that all this administrative work was being done by the teachers, not clerical staff, so it wasn't surprising that they had to ask each other "What next?" and "How do we do this bit?", but I signed where I was told to and toddled off.

By 25 January I had received nothing, but a phone call soon sorted that out.  Apparently I hadn't signed a crucial form, but I was welcome to go down to the College, sign the form at one office, trot to the other side of the campus to make the payment, and I would be in.  Which I did.

Following the map sent to me by these wonderful teachers, I decided to go to the bookshop and begin the heady purchases of New Things.  After wandering around the hot concrete concourses, increasingly confused by the differences between the map and the campus, I found in tiny tiny tiny print the date the map was printed:  2005.  I gave up and asked a few people until someone knew where it was.  "But," she said, "it's not open.  It won't be open till next week."  Aarrgh, it's like being back at Uni.  But I found it anyway, and carefully noted the opening hours.  They'll probably be different this year, but I have to start somewhere.