I ache to draw.
At morning coffee (a ritual like Matins to be prayed each day, alone or in company) a still life image emerges. Drain Board with Dormant Orchid. Beside is an inverse coffee carafe and cone, a sharp knife, the glass jar my husband uses for his morning fiber, all framed by perfect taupe tiles.
I take out a pencil.
That's when the proportions start laughing at me. I try drawing only the plant, but its leaves show their undersides and my pencil can't pry the knot apart. Instead of stamping my feet, I sigh and think about getting a teacher, but what if I STILL couldn't draw?
Trying to draw - even thinking about trying to draw - alters my perception. Now the man walking past with puffy skin is handsome in his complexity. The discarded cup in a pile of leaves is a play of texture. Even crumbs on my desk as I type are precious details that make this corner of the universe different from the rest.
But I still ache to draw.
The toughest route (and the road not taken)
16 hours ago