Drawing
I used to draw hands and faces as though I were dreaming. Seems so long ago how charcoal and highlight used to smudge the outside of my left hand. Oh and how the frustration of finding that right point to give the eyes definition.
Oh how I long to find my dreams again. Not for the sake of understanding nor that of attaining achievement. But that of finding new ways to best my last step. Improve the depth of a cheekbone or even the measurements of a dimple.
Truly a passion I knew could not compare to the works of my sister. Yet I owed up to my talent. I found my place in world of artists.
I was not perfect, nor am I still but the lines are no longer needed to find perfection either.
Crossing over messy lines. Utilizing them to see more potential in one charcoal mistake. It's that kind of performance, so to speak, that I miss.
The redefining what is key point. See most of my work now is abstract. Most pertain to flowers and landscapes. Almost always the have one speck of red on them.
Yet that draw back to old charcoal and white begs to be noticed. This is what I aim to achieve besides becoming reacquainted with what lessons of arts were given in childhood.
Allthewhile finding that one strand of silk thread that connects me to the greatest Creator ever, Jehovah. For if it were not for him I would not have these memories much less art to bring myself awake.
So charcoal and highlight become a new picture before me. Slowly the button nose forms. The oval and almond eyes are worn. The smirk holds onto one lasting wrinkly corner. Indeed the tendrils absorb the grays of a mixture.
Those described features given display a well lived life. Experience and time molded and shaken. Wild bright blues still sting the rough paper. And my hand reaches completion.
The sigh echoes as I release my mind from any critism. The understood beauty of imperfection, held tight with bold charcoal lines and softened by the highlights of grays and whites. Indeed a melting pot of good kindness.
And here I lean back. Lifting my hand and begin to applaud my changes. Slight is the color but breathtaking are the words written in a portrait.
A clear picture hung upon the wall. Among a thousand mistakes, still a dirty side hand and parchment paper blended well today.
Kindness in a day gone, long ago. This is my hope. To draw a picture of those fading from my thoughts. To capture and display in their natural light.
Oh how I long to find my dreams again. Not for the sake of understanding nor that of attaining achievement. But that of finding new ways to best my last step. Improve the depth of a cheekbone or even the measurements of a dimple.
Truly a passion I knew could not compare to the works of my sister. Yet I owed up to my talent. I found my place in world of artists.
I was not perfect, nor am I still but the lines are no longer needed to find perfection either.
Crossing over messy lines. Utilizing them to see more potential in one charcoal mistake. It's that kind of performance, so to speak, that I miss.
The redefining what is key point. See most of my work now is abstract. Most pertain to flowers and landscapes. Almost always the have one speck of red on them.
Yet that draw back to old charcoal and white begs to be noticed. This is what I aim to achieve besides becoming reacquainted with what lessons of arts were given in childhood.
Allthewhile finding that one strand of silk thread that connects me to the greatest Creator ever, Jehovah. For if it were not for him I would not have these memories much less art to bring myself awake.
So charcoal and highlight become a new picture before me. Slowly the button nose forms. The oval and almond eyes are worn. The smirk holds onto one lasting wrinkly corner. Indeed the tendrils absorb the grays of a mixture.
Those described features given display a well lived life. Experience and time molded and shaken. Wild bright blues still sting the rough paper. And my hand reaches completion.
The sigh echoes as I release my mind from any critism. The understood beauty of imperfection, held tight with bold charcoal lines and softened by the highlights of grays and whites. Indeed a melting pot of good kindness.
And here I lean back. Lifting my hand and begin to applaud my changes. Slight is the color but breathtaking are the words written in a portrait.
A clear picture hung upon the wall. Among a thousand mistakes, still a dirty side hand and parchment paper blended well today.
Kindness in a day gone, long ago. This is my hope. To draw a picture of those fading from my thoughts. To capture and display in their natural light.
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