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?
