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.
