I think the figure model was laughing because I had my shirt on backwards all day and didn’t know it. *sigh*
I've graduated from shadow globes to simple still life. I have a world of work ahead of me...
The word of the week was 'Power'
For the past six weeks I’ve been taking a drawing class at Gage Academy of Art here in Seattle, and I recently found out about their Atelier programs. Basically they come down to full time studio apprenticeships in a group of around 15-20 people. You work at your own pace and graduate to harder projects when the instructor says you’re ready to move on.
I had hoped to get into the Drawing and Painting Atelier next fall and was nervous about being accepted at the Spring submission. I met the instructor about two weeks ago and instead of giving me advice on how to better prepare, he told me their was an opening now and that I could jump in now and hit the ground running. I started at the Atelier on Monday. Now, in addition to my random short stories, this blog will chronicle my personal growth over a year of intensive, focused study in the fine arts.
This is me starting from scratch as an absolute beginner. I didn’t even doodle in highschool, that’s how fresh I am. Come June, I’ll set these images against my last week’s and see how far I’ve come.
The first charcoal still life from my Foundation Drawing class
A figure drawing from 10/26/09, so technically this is from week 2. Close enough.
The word of the week was Lineage/Tradition. I thought I'd do the death of the traditional comic strip/political cartoon.
My car? Was that it? No. Couldn’t be. I haven’t changed my CDs in there for God knows how long. Haven’t listened to the radio since high school either. They talk too much on the radio. Gets on my nerves. Grocery store? They never play anything good at the store.
Dit di-dit dit da. Song’s been stuck in my head all day. It’s going to drive me crazy. I wouldn’t care so much if I could remember any of the words. It’s just the melody, over and over again. Dit di-dit dit da, dit di-dit dit da. Over and over.
For the love of God, where did I hear it? If I can remember that, I bet the whole thing will come flooding back.
Oh shit! It was that guy! That guy down the street. The one with the parrot. I don’t remember his name. The guy’s not the parrot’s. I don’t know the parrot’s name either. He always had his radio up too loud. Not enough to call the cops, but loud enough to annoy me while I’m trying to sleep.
I made small talk with him a while ago to see if he had bad ears. Heard me fine. Said he was going on a trip some time in October. Bahamas or something, I don’t know. I could hear the parrot all the way from the porch, even over the damn stereo.
I don’t think that was it though. Too long ago. This has got to be recent. When was it? Dit di-dit dit da.
It had to be his stereo. The way it faded in and out during a song and warble at weird times. Wouldn’t be so bad if it were just playing music normal. I can ignore that. It would sputter and cough right when I was about to drift off. It’d wake me up, you know? He even left it on when he was out. Now that I think about it, might be he was trying to keep the bird company. Something to talk to. Never occurred to me ’til now. Well, whatever.
A couple weeks ago, October, the guy’s stereo was keeping me up like always. Crackle and pop. Bam, I’m awake, you know? It wasn’t the song though, I know that. Some Motown piece; kinda fast. Not very soothing if you ask me. So I remember, he’s out of town! The Bahamas, I think. I can just go over there and turn it off. He’ll never know. Not like he locks his doors or nothing. Read more…
One time I met this guy who was afraid of mailboxes. Honest to God, mailboxes. Isn’t that something? He had to install one of those slats on his door for the mail to slide through. I guess the mailman didn’t want to use it at first. He shoved letter after letter into the box until it all got permanently wedged in. They had to saw the whole thing in half so he could get his paychecks out. Eventually he gave up and made the trip up the guy’s driveway every morning. It was one of those houses with the gate and the looooong yard. The guy had to get special permission from the Post Master General to have his mailbox removed entirely.
I lived down the street from him for a while and I couldn’t keep from asking about the mailbox. It was sort of our thing. I’d come home from 6th grade, he’d wave, and I’d hassle him about it.
“Are you afraid there’s spiders in there?”
“Don’t have a problem with spiders.”
“You’re crazy. Spiders are gross. Think the door’s gonna bite you?”
“Course not.”
“Is the mailbox cursed? Like a mummy?”
“Does it look cursed?”
“How should I know? I’m twelve. I don’t know anything about mummies.”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Go do your homework or something.”
Can you believe that? Shivers like an Eskimo if you even talk about it. Poor fella should be on the pills. How can you get through life afraid of something so simple and common place as a mailbox. Now me, I’ve got a perfectly respectable fear.
Balloons.
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