Posted by denice on Sep 20, 2012 in drawing | 4 comments

In the past, I’ve had an on-again off-again relationship with drawing. It’s sort of embarrassing to admit that, although I have always known I was an artist, in my first fifteen years past high school, I could count the number of drawings I completed on my fingers.

Really.

That’s less than ten, folks. In fifteen years. For someone who knew art was her thing.

I’ve never had an art class, but every year or so, I would get out a nice sheet of drawing paper and some number 2 pencils and set about doing a drawing — almost always a person — and spend time making it just right, getting lost in it for the afternoon as completely as if it were a faraway beach vacation. Every other thing would slide away and I would find myself as loose and happy as a massage therapist’s best friend as I worked through the lines. Then I would sigh in satisfaction and look at it for awhile before tucking it away in a drawer and getting on with the busy-ness and practicality that would fill another year.

I’m pretty sure I should have been paying better attention.

One drawing in particular should have been a red flag; a harbinger of my giant creative thirst. Near the end of my first marriage (and that’s a story for another post), I took a trip alone. It was fairly impromptu; I had never traveled by myself for myself before, but one afternoon I settled my children at my sister’s, put my things in the car and hit the road. Having not drawn for at least a few years by that time, I still don’t know what possessed me to include a giant sketch pad in the pile in the back seat. With no plan, no reservations, (ahem, no credit card) I headed west. Nine hours later, I rolled into a hotel near Lake Tahoe in the dark. That night, I stayed up the entire night drawing, using the mirror as a model. Obviously, I was starving for time to create.

Next embarrassing and true fact: it took me twelve more years to commit to a drawing practice.

Happier fact and the point to this post {and if you made it all the way to this you’re a gem}: After spending the past many months really (finally) committing to a sketchbook, recently I began attending weekly life drawing sessions.

Omygosh.

Guys. I love them.

Love. Lovelovelove. I love doing this. I have a new (old!) love affair with drawing.

Why didn’t I do this sooner? I’m not saying you need a life session to start a drawing practice, and heaven knows, I’m not even saying I am happy with {most of} my drawings, but guys! Swoon! This is… well, it’s sort of bliss.

So this is where I’m at: I sat down to write a nice little essay on drawing practice and instead what came was a bit of story and some serious gushing. Because when I started writing about the drawing sessions, I just started grinning, ear to ear, right here in my local library, and I couldn’t write anymore. No thoughtful tidbits about the value of creative practice or live models or focused drawing time or anything else, I’m just sitting here grinning like a Cheshire cat, thinking about the pure joy that is charcoal, paper, and a little wad of kneaded eraser.

Try that.