Portrait in Linen

Torso Study

Again attempted a non-precision approach on a study of the torso. Virtually no pencil-tip lines, with the exception of detail on the hair.

I made certain this time to avoid the “old technique” of drawing in the hair, which involves several layers of several individual lines at diverging angles, lightly blending, then pulling out the highlights with an eraser.

Instead, tonight I laid down two smooth layers of charcoal–one light for the upper layer of hair, one dark for the underlying layer of hair. Blended that, added darker tones of depth, then picked out subtle highlights in gentle, broad sweeps, rather than razor-edge strands.

And again, no outlines. Edges are blended and faded into background; in some places, edges are invisible and only suggested. In the past, I’ve been too chicken to try that technique, but I think tonight, I proved to myself I can effectively create some illusory continuity of line.

—

Mobile again. Felt like a captain without a ship there for a while. Van’s been in the shop for the better part of a week–A/C went out. Bad thing in South Louisiana; good thing it happened in mid-May, rather than at the peak of August.

Got it back, and now it smells like a big sweaty man. I’ve never been one plagued with gag reflex, but I just about lost my lunch there the first few seconds I climbed in behind the wheel.

—

Additional Arms

Since a therapeutic solo trip to the beach is out of the question, I decided to treat myself to a few things on my wish list instead–art supplies from Hobby Lobby.

Walked in to a pleasant oddity–Hawaiian slack-key guitar streaming through the store speaker system. Usually, it’s Christian soft rock or golden oldies, but the song I heard sounded like the soundtrack intro to one of the educational Hawaiian language videos I like to watch. For most everyone else, the music probably set the mood for a languishing summer afternoon sipping piña coladas and laying out under the backyard sprinkler. For me, it inspired a craving to practice Hawaiian language sentence structure and dialogue.

Came out with a handful of previously coveted items:

• Strathmore Bristol smooth drawing paper, 300 series - best for flawless blending on works of photorealism
• chamois
• Exacto knife - for future paper cutting art works,
• mechanical pencil - for fine lines and detailing on works of photorealism
• new double-hole sharpener
• Clic eraser - for most precise corrections and highlight details
• white felt - recommended to me for large-area blending. Tried it, didn’t like it.

—

Writing elsewhere now. The online edition of the local newspaper opened an on-site blogging community for readers. In a moment of spontaneity, I created a membership, then spent the next thirty minutes writing an article about falling in love with our city. Proofed it twice, then hit “publish.”

Apparently, reader-written articles get a turn being on the newspaper homepage under “Featured Blog.” For all of a few hours, I enjoyed occupying the link there. Kinda made me feel like a staff writer for a brief time.

—

What Karate-Dō is Not

In tonight’s reading of Funakoshi’s Karate-Dō, I read a segment called “Recognizing Nonsense.” Here, Funakoshi attempts to distinguish what karate-dō is not.

It is not–he writes–ripping flesh into strips, or breaking x number of boards or tiles with one’s bare hands, or tearing ribs out of the body. It’s not piercing beans or sand or pebbles or pellets of lead with the fingers. It’s not superhuman ability or strength. And…karate is not mysterious and frightful.

Funakoshi writes, anyone is capable of feats of skill and strength with sufficient training and practice, and there is nothing at all extraordinary about that accomplishment.

If Master Funakoshi were sitting with me at our dining room table, peering at me from across a plate of lemon-shoyu chicken and speaking these things to me in a raspy, accented voice (not unlike Dad’s might’ve been if he were today living), I would believe him. I would set aside my fears of remaining perpetually weak and awkward (“hemahema” in Hawaiian), and I would trust in the fact I could grow stronger if I trained hard enough and long enough. It might be possible.

—

The Skirt of Lu’ukia

Otherwise, restless and fearful. Cognitive appointment on Thursday. That means sinking a tender foot into the deep, sucking sludge of inner- and inter-conflict, along with all the origins and implications and bi-products…facing flaws, accepting responsibilities. I swear, it’s a more painful process than shots to the thigh muscle. I’m so anxious about that, my insides feel like they’re tied up in a Bowline knot. Or, if you’re more partial to Hawaiian maritime instead of Boy Scouts, you might say, “…like they’re tied up in the Pā’ū-o-Lu’ukia (lit. ‘The Skirt of Lu’ukia’),” which is a complicated knot cited by legend to be impossible to untie.

In Hawaiian mana’o (Hawaiian thinking), the center of thought and feeling is not in the heart as it is in Western thought, but in the na’au–the bowels, the guts..

Western thinking: “I’m absolutely sure–my heart knows.”

Hawaiian mana’o: “I’m absolutely sure–I feel it in my na’au.”

Considering this, I find it bitterly ironic my given Hawaiian name is Lu’ukia. Symbolic…perhaps my na’au will always be tied up thus.

untitled sketch 5-12

I believe this is the first time ever I’ve attempted a departure from the “precision” method of drawing. Normally, I lay down the charcoal like dust, then blend until the shade transitions are imperceptible. Outlines are usually faint but sharp.

Don’t know what the inspiration was tonight to try my hand at the more ambiguous, broad-sweeping strokes; shading with more haphazard, less attentive contours. I like the softness, though. I like the “natural” feeling it gives, as opposed to the strained tension of previous works.

I think the textures work pretty well toward an impression of realism, but I can tell I reverted back to old ways on the hair.

Still, I’m really satisfied with the fingers. And the lighting.

—

Read more of Gichin Funakoshi’s autobiography–this time, about the demeanor of his instructor, Master Azato.

He describes Azato as something of an “old oak” (comparison mine)–rooted in tradition, socially established, well respected, set in his ways.

But what intrigued and amused me was what he says about how Master Azato taught him in the early years.

Although considerably advanced in years, [Master Azato] always sat ramrod stiff on the balcony when we worked outside, wearing a hakama, with a dim lamp beside him….

After executing a kata, I would await his verbal judgment. It was always terse. If he remained dissatisfied with my technique, he would murmur, “Do it again,” or “A little more!” A little more, a little more, so often a little more, until the sweat poured and I was ready to drop….

Brings to mind a same strict, stoic attention Kumu Chang’s kumu (I believe it was Aunty Becky Boder) gave to him when he was a young mea hula in Hawai’i.

Kumu told us, when Aunty Becky was elderly, she used to sit in her chair with her dark sunglasses on, studying Kumu as he performed a hula over and over and over again. If it wasn’t right, she’d grunt in her scratchy voice, “Hana hou! Again! Again!” And Kumu would dance the same dance, again and again, until it was right.

Now that I think about it, Dad was the same way much of the time. He sat or stood aside with his thick arms crossed over his chest, and watched my kata. I could always tell when I was nowhere near “there,” because he wouldn’t say anything at all, but I could see the gears turning in his head, zeroing in on what I needed to do more of, what I needed to do less of, what I needed to change, what he needed to change.

I waited on pins and needles for agonizing minutes, dead tired, just wanting to get it right once so I could stop. But inevitably, there usually came the dreaded, “Again!”

It was terrible at the time, just as I’m sure it was terrible for Kumu Chang, and for Gichin Funakoshi, in those early years.

But I bet every single one of us looked back with fondness and appreciation our teachers were so stern and unrelenting; that’s where the discipline came from, the loyalty to perfection, the mind to honor and respect the “small things”–like foot placement, stance, posture, hand positions, speed, transitions–because those are the things that add up to something closer to perfect.

—

In my mind, it seems there are a breed of teachers that are cut from a cloth made of the fabric of old school tradition. They’re a bit aloof, intense, intimidating, rarely satisfied. They usually buck innovation, endear the unadorned, find unspoiled beauty in simplicity.

I’ve come to call them “purists” or “traditionalists.” I’m not sure if that term would be 100% correct, but it seems to sum up all the hardened, straightened traits that make these masters, masters.

I can usually recognize teachers of this kind if I see them, and I never fail to find myself star-struck. I guess I immediately assume the wealth of knowledge they carry around, the tough experience, the self-discipline it’s taken for them to resist the temptations of art evolution, and most of all, their humility.

They are deep wells, their water under fierce guard. You’ll never taste a drop unless you’re invited to drink.

—

And I think I’m okay for the hour. The morning stung like fire, but the late spring breeze cooled my nerves; the art and studying brought the wires down to a dull, soothing hum.

Hope the white noise drones on from consciousness to blackout, that the woman’s Id has set aside something soft and enfolding for the day’s beaten bones.

Shock wears off. Begin to compartmentalize and temporarily deny, maintaining strict borders and proximity.

Highs are really high, until a feather comes along and knocks the wind out of you, kicks you to the ground where you’re scrambling to put your head back together while searching for your mouth.

Ripped up the garden of all old briars and new. Resurfaced the entire landscape, but weeds keep popping up–the dark, black hidden kind that no one knew about except the one who planted them. They won’t go away unless they take their pounds of flesh with them. We both wonder if we have that much flesh to part with.