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work & play

Interruptions in the general pattern of not-drawing have come with some increasing frequency for me lately. Not with great frequency; just a slight uptick. Back in December, I said I was going to start posting sketches in the sketch section without mention here in primary posts, and just about everything I’ve managed in the drawing way since then is there. Most of it’s pretty haphazard stuff.

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‘I’m afraid I only take ironic pleasure,’ Darrell begins, signaling a shift from communal to personal frame in the course of multi-angled reply here a couple of weeks ago. He’s talking about what we were talking about there, the musics of our youths in church, but let’s strip away the impending specifying phrase and cut him off in mid sentence. It’ll do, truncated like so, for calling up a fear, or a lurking problem, that I’m starting to reckon with — a problem I’m no doubt late in coming around to, and that smart folks will no doubt think uninteresting as I express it, but that I figure I might begin to try to draw into the light a bit in this space. What I mean to get at is the difficulty of owning my own tastes as I get older, and particularly as my view of the historical situation I belong to changes.

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A new milestone: I got out to a life drawing session, set up through Meetup, last night. It was up around 125th St., west Manhattan; for me, an hour by subway each way. But it was inexpensive and altogether worth the effort. I haven’t drawn from a live model in studio fashion like this in quite a few years — possibly as long ago as my last term at U. of Maryland, twenty years next spring.

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Here’s something special, not because it’s much of a drawing but because it’s a first for me: a sketch from life on the subway in New York. The surreptitious sketch is something I liked to do when living around D.C. years ago, especially when I had to go somewhere by Metro. But though I still always have a little blank-page book in my back pocket, it’s taken two years in NYC to finally break it out and let go on the train here.

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Been watching comic art demos on YouTube again lately, and it’s led, as it evidently must, to another late-night superhero drawing. In this instance I wanted to draw a little something without being quite as careless about it as I’ve tended to be with these things, and started leafing through my ancient (though only purchased last year) copy of the famous How to Draw Comics the Marvel Way. Stopped at this page; I’ve had occasion to re-watch Captain America 1 & 2 recently. Told myself it would just be a head and shoulders, but drew the whole figure. Fit on the page suggests that I knew better where this was headed in the back of my mind than in the fore. At any rate, it seems like Cap came out of it alright, on the whole. If he’s embarrassed to be outfitted satisfactorily neither in the classic nor the contemporary manner, he doesn’t show it. Standing tall — it’s what we require of him, I guess.
 
 
captain_america2

I’m no longer working on houses for a living. It was never much of a living, in my case, but for a long time, the greater part of my adult life so far, it was what I did and what I wanted to keep on doing. The trouble, always, or a considerable part of the trouble at least, was that I wanted to do it ‘different’ — and, crucially, didn’t really understand the conditions for doing so. I’ve made some real gains in understanding the conditions, yes, but not in time to sort out along the way how to make effective changes in my approach to the business. And now I’m out of the business. The last slender tie I had to it was a part-time job I held for six months in the kitchen design department at a Home Depot here in Flushing, Queens. I left it in April.

Left it, that is, because it looked like my other work, my self-employed work, was picking up enough steam that I could be done with the second job, and because the sort of employment a Home Depot can offer a person these days — though I’m grateful to have had it when I needed it and grateful for its peculiar part in my getting to know New York — is one a person can only hope to trade up from, one way or another.

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It bears mentioning in this space that one of the things that helped me through a difficult period of months in the latter half of last year, here in NYC, was comic books. Not reading them particularly; I wasn’t doing a lot of that, any more than I ever am. But the persistent, never very reasonable late-adolescent idea that, hey, if I wanted to, I could always succeed at drawing superheroes stuck with me when other old mental tricks for keeping up hope were distant.

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As an oblique indicator of the character of shift under way in my life in the past year or so, let me describe a weird coincidence in my life with books. My life with books is nothing remarkable overall, it needs to be said. But lately there are a few particulars worth remarking on. A good part of this has to do with moving to New York and the connections that brought me to it — as this post not quite a year old will suffice to suggest — and a good part has to do with the direction my work has gone since the move. Those are related things, or things that make sense taken together anyway, and deserve (and may yet get, who can tell?) more treatment in this space.

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I’m lounging alone on the screened-in back porch at S.’s dad’s place a few hours outside New York on a Sunday morning, browsing books, smoking an early pipe and on my third cup of coffee. (No one else is up yet.) The house — a 1950s ranch-style out-of-town place now long his and his wife’s home base, where S. spent a good deal of her teens and twenties — is packed with books. All the rooms — bathrooms, basement rooms, hallways included — have full bookshelves. It’s a writer’s haven. I have a bio of Hannah Arendt pulled from the guest room and a Penguin Graham Greene, from a stack of Penguin Graham Greenes in the basement, in front of me on the coffee table I’m propping my feet on.

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Darrell Reimer, my internet friend of a decade or so (and one person of a very, very few whom I can pretty much count on to check in here, so that this infrequent writing sometimes feels sort of like a series of letters), remarks in his last on the evocative power of what in the first Star Wars film was a fleeting scene rich — characteristically, for Lucas — in perfected detail. The image that flashes by on screen is a mounted gun that must have been modeled on the Germans’ extraordinarily versatile, much feared and admired ‘88’. These days, I can’t note such a thing without thoughts turning to the infatuation with military machines that I grew up with — that the guys who created the look of Star Wars undoubtedly grew up with — and from there to the War, our great war, as lens on history and tradition in the ‘worldview’ I inherited. I think about this a lot. It’s behind a good deal of my half-serious ruminating on the American comic-book superhero, certainly.

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