Sketching shouldn’t be so emotional.
Posted in Art, Depression on Apr 20th, 2008 No Comments »
Three trips to Baton Rouge was a little more than I could handle. I’m glad I did it, for Rocky’s sake, but it’ll probably take me an additional three days to recover from the exhaustion. The drive wasn’t all that bad; it was walking and walking, and sitting through movies, and trying to find parking, and trying to find another place to eat, and going the whole day without a fresh cup of coffee.
But Rocky got constructive criticism on his work. He was exposed to amateur work other than his own. He got to speak with professionals about training, direction, technique. And he got some workable suggestions on his style and approach. He’s inspired, motivated, and exhausted, too.
Have to admit it was inspiring for me, too. The thought has crossed my mind to try my hand at animation, though I doubt the end product would be destined for anything but my personal archives. Not so much a story as an expressionistic impression. It would require a ton of work, because what I have in mind is 100% hand-drawn, moderate detail, and somewhat intricate backgrounds.
Like I have time for that.
But it was edifying to draw a little today. “Cartoon Drawing Workshop,” which turned out to be more of a doodling session for me. The girls enjoyed dreaming up characters from the idea prompts the hosts provided.
I chose “Alien,” and began with the classic spindly concept, but it didn’t take long at all for those luxurious/anemic/creepy ortho-nightmares to infiltrate. Same basic pose from the same well of inner-conflict. It made me sad to draw it, so much that I could feel the tension between my eyebrows and around my lips. If the room weren’t so crowded and bright, I may have cried.
My mind and I are not getting along well. It keeps trying to break loose of me and go bounding off into fields of poisonous nothings, or to leave me scrambling for some remnant organization of thought. It astounds me I can keep it together enough to follow what’s going on around me and participate, but I’m continually aware of the primary consciousness locked up in a little muted room inside, cowering, scratching at the walls, naked and wild-haired and furious that tears are so ineffective.
