Drawings
Energy, Passion and Lines
Drawings and sketches in art school life classes, and in notebooks, sketch books, newsprint and loose sheets are instant gratification for me. Results come quickly and they are right on or tossed. Big hunks of charcoal, or charcoal sticks, pen or ink with a brush, graphite, and conte colors, oil washes and oil pastels all conjure memories, whimsical creatures, my desires and what lays before me, what was and is to come.
Drawing with the non-dominant left hand, I'm told, releases feelings. A different kind of art therapy, perhaps. I did a few of those to satisfy my cousin in the 1980s when work drained my creativity and everything I painted turned into lifeless, muddied shapes. Those were the shallow years of my life, years when my only purpose was to promote fashion and beauty products for retailers and manufacturers to we the too often gullible consumer. My only desire in those years was to love transitory lovers. Every painting I attempted in those years turned into lifeless, muddied canvases. Those years ended, and again my art is alive.
Drawings and sketches in art school life classes, and in notebooks, sketch books, newsprint and loose sheets are instant gratification for me. Results come quickly and they are right on or tossed. Big hunks of charcoal, or charcoal sticks, pen or ink with a brush, graphite, and conte colors, oil washes and oil pastels all conjure memories, whimsical creatures, my desires and what lays before me, what was and is to come.
Drawing with the non-dominant left hand, I'm told, releases feelings. A different kind of art therapy, perhaps. I did a few of those to satisfy my cousin in the 1980s when work drained my creativity and everything I painted turned into lifeless, muddied shapes. Those were the shallow years of my life, years when my only purpose was to promote fashion and beauty products for retailers and manufacturers to we the too often gullible consumer. My only desire in those years was to love transitory lovers. Every painting I attempted in those years turned into lifeless, muddied canvases. Those years ended, and again my art is alive.