Portrait in Linen

The road had nothing for me today in the way of inspiration. I’m really disappointed by that. I’m disappointed in general–in a foul, foul mood–and couldn’t even take it out on the page.

Returned to Parc Sans Souci for a bit while Rocky was in the karate class I wish I were in instead. No fountains; no warm, slinking sun. And no compulsion to draw anything in particular. Just an obstinate gusting wind flapping my hair all over my face and tangling it into angry little knots.

Left there pee-oh’d and decided to just sit in the downtown parking lot to wait; still twenty minutes to go. With each passing second, I got more and more perturbed thinking I could’ve been drawing something–anything!–but I guess I left creativity at home.

Playing Mah Jong might’ve passed the time a little faster, but playing Mah Jong is like…admitting defeat. If I find myself playing Mah Jong in the van, then I know I’m officially “Bored,” and knowledge enthusiasts are NEVER “Bored.”

But, a vacuum of idleness can sometimes spawn strange and absurd preoccupations. This is how I discovered a couple cool things my laptop can do.

So is born…Van Ventures. I give you…Episode One: 4/30/08 - 7:00 PM.

Discovered drawing in the van expedites the hours of waiting. I don’t find myself antsy and squirming five minutes to the top of the hour, when Rocky is supposed to meet me outside the library, or Priss is supposed to come walking out of the music conservatory.

On the contrary, I’m so absorbed in drawing, I push it to the last minute before I close the art box and set the clipboard aside.  Time flies.

Started today’s sketch in the library parking lot.  Squeak ate her split pea soup-to-go, and I put down the first arcs.  Listened to Don Henley for a while and let Squeak play Mah Jong on the laptop when she was done eating.

Fought traffic for 45 minutes, then continued sketch in Target parking lot while Rocky and Priss ran in to grab a bite to eat from the eatery.

Skipped over to Books-A-Million (”BAM!” is so silly. Don’t know why they did that. To the ad exec who made that call: I’m so sorry, but I’m morbidly unimpressed.  At least “Books-A-Million” was dignified.  “BAM!” is just…cheap.) so Rocky could run in and pick up that encyclopedic animation book I saw a few days ago when I was in there hunting for Shotokan books.

I stayed in the van and finished sketching, put in the darkest tones, cleaned up the smudges along the lines.  By the time they got back, the evening was done.  No more waiting.  Drawing finished.

Except it wasn’t the end.  The book Rocky got–Animation Now!, by Julius Wiedmann–was a Spanish copy, and the DVD that was supposed to be included, was not.  U-turn to “BAM!” (gag) for money back.

—

The van is cramped quarters, for sure, but I think I’ve made it work for me.  Got a place for everything, within arm’s reach.

Had a few minutes between destinations today, so pulled off the road downtown and sat by the geyser fountains in Parc Sans Souci to work on a sketch I started in the van between earlier destinations.

Priss ran laps while I sketched and blended, then erased and dabbed, and sketched and blended some more.  The 6:30 breeze kept blowing my hair in my face which made it more difficult to preserve continuity of focus, especially with the evening sun slinking behind the multi-story parking garage on the north side of the street.

A lone older man sat in the bench on the opposite side of the fountains, contemplating who-knows-what but probably disturbed by the loud slap-slap-slapping of Priss’s shoes hitting the pavement as she passed again and again.  I apologized to him in my head, sympathetic we broke his peace.  Been there before.

—

I’ve taken to drawing spontaneous sketches and writing impromptu poems on the backs of index cards.  They travel well; are card-stock, for that little bit of extra backing for portable working; just enough lines on one side for the four-or-five-verse structure I’ve grown accustomed to; just enough white space on the back for a short, intense drawing that functions more as a phrase than a full-blown statement.

Not archival quality, to be sure, but with everything safe and secure on hard drive, the originals serve little more than sentiment, seeing as I never do anything with them but slip them into a portfolio which is destined to join the dozens of other hardback journals and sketchbooks in the attic.

Looks like a revisitation to The Backpack Days when I carried my writing, drawing, and sculpture supplies with me wherever I went so I wouldn’t be caught unprepared should inspiration strike at a given moment.  Except now, it’s not a backpack, but a decidedly unattractive, navy nylon (not even canvas, for cryin’ out loud) briefcase-style tote with various offshore drilling logos embroidered on the side. In no way feminine or inspiring.  But it is 100% functional, which is the sole reason I carry it.

I might get used to carrying my studio(s) with me again, except I’m afraid of getting too comfortable with feeling “artsy.”  That always leads to idealism-overload, which invariably leads to disappointment, then depression.  I hate being so aware of my psychological cycles.  I’m too tempted to break a pattern before it even begins, which is also described as “Avoidant” in some circles, and “Fatalistic” in others.

Someone said, “Don’t think too much — just [write/draw/create/dance/study/train] — if you keep [writing/drawing/creating/dancing/studying/training] everything will come into place.”

‘Ailina types a last line, then retreats into the shadows of her studio, fresh cup of coffee in hand.  [_]o

Tonight’s sketch:
untitled pencil on paper (right)

—

No King Owns My Lovely Knight’s Magic Hand.

Ni’ihau, Kaua’i, O‘ahu, Moloka’i,
Lāna’i, Kaho’olawe, Maui, Hawai’i.

Did it. Memorized the eight major islands of Hawai’i from northernmost/oldest to southernmost/youngest. Small victory, huge serotonin boost. Next, I’ll learn to recognize each island by sight.

—

Now embarking on my educational journey into Shotokan karate. The place to begin is with the founder, Gichin Funakoshi. All I know at this point is that the style has its roots in Japan, and the local master is third or fourth generation from the founder.

Sensei Sage recommended Karate-Do: My Way of Life, Funakoshi’s autobiography, so that’s where I’ll begin. I’m hoping to gain some insight into the author’s personal life, his early training, the formative years of Shotokan, on to the height of the system while he was still living.

Once I have some concept of all those things, I hope to learn more about the local master and his past, and see just how and where he connects to Funakoshi.

I believe that a serious artist should know the origins of her art, whether it’s karate or dance or a certain strain of literature…. Lineage is important. We should always look back to the creators of a certain art form–not just for edification and wisdom, but also out of respect for the people who came before us.

I think this is what I find so inspiring about my study of Shotokan. With hula, the kumus who are still living are inaccessible to me, by distance, and social and cultural divides. I’ve been unable to overcome those obstacles to a satisfactory degree in order to learn much about my kumu’s history, his kumus’ respective histories, their kumus’ histories…. It’s frustrating in a practical sense, but it also drains from me inspiration and morale. Lack of inspiration and morale could be the death of an educational endeavor.

But, I haven’t abandoned my quest for hula knowledge; it’s just slowed down considerably.

Studying Shotokan might be more fruitful. The local experts aren’t so many hours away that I can’t go to them for information. Talking to the local master may be daunting, though. I expect approaching him may be a lot like approaching a kumu hula–they choose the time and place to impart their knowledge, and then, only as much as they’re willing to share. They do–after all–have a great responsibility to guard the art, the culture, and the people. Maybe speaking to Mr. Master will be the same way?

I don’t know. But I do know I’m not ready to approach him, and I won’t be for a long, long time. So, no rush on that.

—

I revisited a portrait of Gichin Funakoshi (haven’t been able to find out the date of the photograph). It’s a rather famous portrait of him, and I recognize it from when I had to study him for my thesis years and years ago. I think I’d very much like to draw his portrait, probably when I begin reading Karate-Do.

Feodor Tamarsky drew a gorgeous portrait of Funakoshi (pictured left) based on what appears to be the same photograph. (I write “drew,” but I think it’s watercolor and charcoal on paper.) I doubt my work will have the same quality and soul, but it’s the drawing experience I crave.

Tamarsky’s “martial arts art” is just beautiful. So much movement and energy. He seems to take the darkness and tension of conflict and sweep it up into something hypnotically luxurious. I could never convey that kind of power, but maybe in drawing Funakoshi, I might connect with some sense of who he was as a man.

“We’re pining for something…
we don’t know what it is, but we’re pining for it anyway.” - Don Henley