This reed pen is very interesting. I used it for these sketches today along with my sepia Dr. Ph. Martin’s india ink.

The line produced by the pen is either dark-dark-dark (when the pen has just been dipped in ink) or light-light-nonexistent (when it’s running out of ink, about one second later). This is an all-or-nothing instrument, that’s for sure. I see myself using it to create hard lines but as far as shading goes, I much prefer pastels to the tedium of scratching in the halftones. Even when I was able to get a fairly good looking shading effect (for instance on the nose on the top sketch) it didn’t satisfy me.

I just can’t bear to leave the paper looking white when colors add so much as far as tone and shade, so I worked the bottom two sketches over in pastels. These are masks, my latest obsession. The pirate on the bottom came out particularly well. I think I caught the “Aye, that’s what YOU think, matey” sneer quite expressively. It’s a little weird in combination with the innocent geisha mask on the bottom left…she came out with a strange eager expression as if she can’t wait to run and get Captain Nasty a glass of sake.

My desk is messy. Need evidence?

This is what I bought today.

Reed pens have been used since antiquity for writing and drawing, and a few oddballs still use them today, particularly for sketching, since their somewhat awkward and scratchy line is very expressive. I saw one at my very favorite local art supply store, Walser’s , and couldn’t resist buying it, just to try out. I picked up a bottle of sepia drawing ink, as well; sepia has a certain charm for me lately. It’s mellower and less in-your-face than my black Higgins waterproof; it should give an interesting effect when combined with pastel. I’ll try it out tomorrow. I think the reason the pen appealed to me is that I remembered that Van Gogh enjoyed the rustic nostalgia of a reed pen; he talks about the particularly springy and good ones available in Arles in his letters to Gauguin and to his brother Theo. I wonder if he chose these pens of his own volition, or if it was primarily a lack of cash that encouraged him to experiment with a writing instrument that was nearly as old-fashioned to his era as they are to mine. Reed pens were easy and cheap to make, even in the leanest of times. This drawing was done with reed pen and quill in Arles in 1888.

February 18, 2005

This is a picture that’s been fascinating me lately. Degas sketched it in pastel on a piece of blue paper in 1884, and what I like about it is its slight but unmistakable creepiness. I’m particularly interested in the effect of stagelight, coming from below (probably some kind of gas light in those days) which throws the upper part of the girl’s face into shadow. The cheap finery of her costume blended with the youthful scrawniness of her face and figure conjures up a strong emotional response in me, one I’d like to elicit in my own work.

One of the things I wonder about is how much the public really understands about the nature of Degas’ pictures of dancing girls and singers. Today, ballet is an elite sport—those that win places in companies like the New York City Ballet are usually the daughters of upper-middle-class parents, who have the resources and wherewithal to choose any life they want, and who select the art of ballet as their means of self-expression. The dancing girls of Degas’ time were from the working class—girls who had run away, or been thrown out, and had to make their way in the world. Having a bit of gumption and a saucy look was probably more valuable in securing a position on stage than talent or experience. And, of course, willingness to don a scanty costume was essential.

Although Degas’ singer’s costume looks sweet and wholesome enough to those of us used to crop tops and low-rise jeans, one has to remember that respectable women of the time were cinched with whalebone and swathed in bombazine skirts that required twenty yards of material to construct. The scrawny little singer’s outfit was tantamount to nudity, and that combined with her presence on stage was enough to brand her a prostitute in the eyes of the world. Soon enough some man would come along and prove the world right; very few dancers and singers lived as chastely as Gaston Leroux’s Christine Daae. A great man had the star of the Opera as his lover, while a artisan might draw his lovers (and his models) from the corps de ballet. If Degas’ singer wasn’t a courtesan at the time he sketched her, she became one soon enough. Having already left any vestige of respectability behind her as she stepped on stage, it was only natural (and practical) to accept such offers as would inevitably come her way. Why be lonely when she could have company, at least for a little while?

One imagines Degas’ singer thrilling to the still-new sound of applause, green with excitement over her first solo part, still sure that somehow there will be a happy ending to this grand adventure of hers. The juxtaposition of a youthful and somewhat naive subject with the eerie and dissonant lighting of her face and arms is striking but at the same time harsh and unnatural—not unlike the theater life.

February 17, 2005

New sketches. Pastel on cardboard, like Degas. A little bit of black pen and brush work as well.

February 15, 2005

I used to think that it was better to do a few big things really well, at long intervals if need be. In college, I always preferred classes in which one big paper decided your whole grade, rather than classes with a midterm, several short essays and a final exam. Maybe it’s just my nature to be a procrastinator, and this style of getting through life suited my essential slothfulness. One big push has always been easier for me to deal with than a series of small, painful nudges toward any particular goal.
Slowly, though, I’m coming around to a different point of view. I am beginning to really believe that it’s better to produce things steadily and regularly, even if some of what you do is crappy. I started 2005 with a goal to produce some artwork every day, even if it was something small and incomplete, and already by February I’ve produced more than I did in 2003 and 2004 combined. Not all of it is great. I’m not sure any of it is great. But it’s tangible, which is new for me. I have dreamed my art too long.