the cassandra pages

Still lives in black and white

Hyacinth in a foil pot. Charcoal drawing in Fabriano sketchbook, 14" x 11".

The monochromatic exploration continues here, along with the snowy days and grey skies. Unlike our neighbors to the south, we've had snow on the ground pretty much all of the time since December. Friends who have a house in the country said there was three feet of snow on the ground, with snowbanks towering well over four feet. So it probably makes sense that I'm still thinking in black-and-white, although I'm missing color and thinking about getting back to it -- this week I've prepared four birch panels for eventual paintings in oil or acrylic.

There are a couple of still lives that I haven't posted yet. The potted hyacinth was a most welcome gift from a visiting friend.

And here is a plate of fruit, drawn very quickly. I like the freedom and spontaneity of this drawing.

I'm continuing on with the series of charcoal landscape drawings, and did a new one last night, not from central New York, but of a stream in the Adirondacks. This one began as a start of a response to a comment on the last post - a reader asked for some guidance about drawing conifers, because she's right that the approach needs to be different from what I said about drawing deciduous trees. I'll respond in more detail to her question with a post about that drawing later this week.

How's the weather where you are? If you're in the northern hemisphere, is spring evident -- or do you live somewhere that stays warm? If so, please send some sunshine and flowers our way!

On the question of teaching art...

 

 

For best results, watch full-screen.

For a long time, both here (quietly, in some comments) and in my head and heart, the question has come up as to whether, during the next part of my life, I might do some teaching. What I'm most interested in are the people who, for whatever reason, loved to draw and paint when they were younger, and then gave it up. Far too often that was because of a teacher making disparaging remarks, or it may be because life -- and other paths and responsibilities -- simply intervened. But now, later in life, the call to do that once-loved creative activity is resurfacing. How to begin? How to get over those nagging insecurities -- that voice in the head that says "you aren't any good" or "it's too late?" -- and enjoy the process, have fun, and stay with it? 

I'm also interested in drawing and other forms of art as a meditative practice, which involves setting aside one's internal judging voice, and learning to become immersed in the act of creating for its own sake, and for the good it does to our spirits. In both of these areas, then, there's a psychological aspect which is often missing in traditional instruction but which actually forms a stumbling block for all creative pursuits and must be overcome, not just once, but repeatedly. However, once we understand it, it gets easier.

The possibilities for art instruction have changed so much in my lifetime -- when I was young there were correspondence courses for would-be cartoonists or illustrators, but anyone serious about fine art went to "art school". Personally, I'm glad I didn't, because I never got slotted into a particular style or type of work, and so I've remained quite open to all types of art and ways of approaching it. Now there are so many ways for people to learn, and to teach: from online courses to in-person workshops to one-on-one live zoom classes. 

I have a lot of work to do, myself, to figure out what I might want to do and how to do it. This past week I made a narrated video of myself making a charcoal drawing, in order to observe my own process and make myself talk about it. Of course, this isn't a "beginner" video, and as such it doesn't fit into either of the categories I've mentioned above. But I learned a lot of technical things doing it, and it suggests other subjects that might be addressed in a series of videos -- like a deeper look at materials, for instance. I thought you might be interested in seeing it.

Any comments you may have are welcome! Next time, I'll try to set the camera up so that it's more over my shoulder, and the work is parallel to the camera frame -- no need for the viewers to get a stiff neck! It feels to me like introductory videos should be short, from 5-8 minutes perhaps, while a demo like this -- which shows an hour-long process condensed to 16 minutes -- can't really be much shorter. If you get bored at any point, you can skip forward!

Thanks for watching, and for any thoughts you may have.

 

 

Snowy Fields of Central New York

 

I made a video about some charcoal drawings done during a recent visit to central New York, when the landscape that I love was covered with new snow, in all of its graphic beauty. For the best experience, please view the video at full screen size (after pressing the "play" arrow, click the little square at the bottom right of the video screen.)

Please let me know if you like this sort of thing and would like to see more! I'm planning to do another that explains the materials in more detail, and some that show drawings in the actual process of being made.

Below are the finished drawings shown in the video. Enjoy! It was such a pleasure to make them, and I'm looking forward to doing more.

 

 

 

 

Working in Monochrome

When the view from your studio window is this monochromatic, sometimes it's best to take advantage of nature's prompt to interpret things in black-and-white. That's what I was thinking when I bought a new Fabriano sketchbook last week with the intention of using it for charcoal drawings. Maybe some dry pastel and oil pastel, too, but mostly black-and-white work, in a large format. I've been drawing in it almost every day since then. 

In this fast sketch of the little park below us and the parking lots beyond, I was just trying to see the various geometric shapes and make a lively drawing. I'll be doing more like this as I figure out how to use the essentially boring view in a more graphic composition. What really interests me are the tire tracks in the snow. Along with the little trees and bushes, these are the only organic, irregular shapes in the scene and they bring something otherwise static to life.

This one, of the neighborhood beyond the parking lots, also appeared in the previous post, and is the view I was drawn to initially and have depicted a number of times, mostly in watercolor.

View of the Jewish cemetery in snow. Charcoal on paper, 11"x14".

I've been wanting to draw the Jewish cemetery, over on the left, but hadn't felt ready until I saw it covered with snow, on a foggy day, with the ethereal trees behind it. Charcoal lends itself perfectly to a scene like this.

We went out into the countryside to make a quick trip across the border two days ago. This is a snow-covered field near St-Jacques-le-Mineur, Quebec, and was completed very quickly. The effect of trees in the distance is just vine charcoal smudged with my finger, with some harder, dark Conte crayon applied over it. The birches are picked out with a fine-pointed white eraser.

 

The very first drawing in the sketchbook was of this vertebra and two rocks. It also combines soft vine charcoal for the midtones with some harder compressed charcoal and Conté crayon, and a few details in charcoal pencil. White erasers in different sizes and shapes are indispensable tools for charcoal work - they allow you to erase large areas, for sure, but also to go backwards and forwards, working with both the charcoal and the eraser. The main use is to lighten areas or pick out highlights and create texture. And you must work on good paper that has some "tooth" to catch all the little particles of charcoal, but will stand up to scrubbing and both the buildup of dark areas and the erasure of others. I usually work on Canson or Fabriano sheets of pastel/charcoal paper, but I really wanted a sketchbook right now because storing a lot of small drawings is a problem for me in the new space, and I knew this format would encourage me to do daily drawings. The sketchbook I'm using is a 100-sheet wire-bound book in the Fabriano 1264 line, in the series labeled "Sketch," and except for wishing the paper were just a little heavier, I'm quite happy with it.

And don't worry, color hasn't disappeared!

New Year in a New Neighborhood

New snow. Watercolor with pencil, in Stillman&Birn sketchbook, 9" x 6", 12/29/22

The Christmas storm blanketed Montreal with a thick, wet coat of snow, and then freezing rain fell on top of it. On the 27th, we went out into the countryside to a friend's house, where there had been no rain, and even more snow -- several feet of it -- lay pristinely on the ground and the rooftops. Not so here in the city, where by New Year's nearly all the snow was gone.

Until last night that is, when it snowed again. The weather has been unremittingly grey, but I've enjoyed the changing moods outside my studio window. There's really nothing very exciting to draw, on the surface of things -- a little park, a car dealer close by, an empty parking lot, a street heading off into the suburban rooftops of TMR (Town of Mont-Royal) with lots of trees, and beyond them, the distant buildings of northern Montreal past rue Sauve. On clear days we can see the foothills of the Laurentians. None of this is worth a painting on its own strength, but what interests me is how the weather affects the scene, how every day is actually as different as the moods of the sea, how the changing light and atmospheric conditions alter the emotional temperature of what I see -- and feel. Trying to capture some of that is a worthy sketchbook challenge.

The painting at the top was a difficult one and I struggled to pull something out of it after getting very discouraged with the page about halfway through, and not wanting to overwork the watercolor. Adding some sketchy, loose details in dark brown helped a lot, as did increasing the contrast overall by deepening the shadows.

Melting snow. Charcoal in Fabriano sketchbook, 14" x 11". 

I bought a new, large sketchbook this week specifically for charcoal drawings and pastel sketches, such as the image above.

While I often drew or painted the park across the street from our old place, and documented the seasons, it never seemed to change so much day-to-day and therefore wasn't as interesting to me, even though it was vastly more "beautiful." Probably if I'd had a higher vantage point it would have been different, because here the sky takes up more than half of my view, and the condition of that sky says everything about how the land and city look below it.

Snowy day. Direct watercolor in sketchbook, 9" x 6".

Right now it's starting to snow again, so the scene is even whiter and more ethereal than in this watercolor sketch, completed only an hour ago. Color fades to the barest hint of itself; the indistinct horizon blurs even more and comes closer; trees and rooftops lose their sharp edges. 

Today's view feels chalky, and I'm looking forward to trying to capture it in pastels, but in a little while the sun will have gone down, so that may have to wait until tomorrow -- when who knows what the sun and sky will be doing? 

 

Back to Drawing

It's been a busy time, and I haven't been able to do much artwork. But, to be honest, I haven't really wanted to either -- I just didn't have the urge or the right spirit, and then, 12 days ago, I managed to sprain my ankle quite badly. Although I was able to put weight on it, I sure couldn't do much, and it was swollen and painful, but has been gradually healing up. I had accounting and other tasks to do on the computer, and there was holiday cooking and baking, cards to write and gifts to wrap and send, all of which felt strange because of my father's absence. When I had free time, it seemed like I was spending way too much of it (true confession) looking at knitting posts on Instagram, searching obsessively for the best BB creme or light foundation for older skin, or getting drawn in by 1) cat videos or 2) holiday paper-folding craft videos, which, of course, started clogging my feed as soon as I watched a few of them. But now that the Christmas preparations are mostly over, and I feel like I'm going to be able to get through it without falling apart, I've picked up the sketchbook again, and it feels like the ice is broken. Last weekend we went to two beautiful musical events at the cathedral: a concert by our choral scholars, and the traditional Lessons & Carols service. And in the past few days I've been able to go out by myself and do some grocery shopping and other errands.

Sometimes drawing is what grounds me, but sometimes I need to feel more grounded in order to be able to draw.

So...the drawing at the top of the page is of Dave Bonta's book Ice Mountain: An Elegy that I illustrated and published a few years ago; an animal vertebra, and a ceramic cup made by my late friend Jenny Lewis.

 

This is the first one I've done that shows any of the interior of our new apartment, with an indication of the rooftops we see out the window. It also shows the first artificial tree we've ever had, but we couldn't see any reasonable way to get a real tree up to the 11th floor and then down again without a big hassle for us, and potential needle-mess in the hall and elevator. To our surprise, we like it!

And here's the back of my studio door, drawn during a long zoom meeting when I was able to turn off my video. There's an old blue chambray workshirt, and a grey plaid wool shirt that was my paternal grandfather's, and has been my painting shirt ever since he died around 1980. I like that they've followed me here.

How are things going where you are? We're bracing for another winter storm tonight and tomorrow, but are happy that there's snow for a white Christmas. Best wishes for your holidays, if you are celebrating, and for the New Year - though I am sure I'll be back here before then. 

 

Squalls

Squall line on autoroute 15, south of Montreal, Quebec.

Thursday, December 1: We had to cross the border into the U.S. this morning to do some errands. It was dry, windy, and quite cold when we left the city around 9:30 am, but no frazzle ice was yet to be seen on the St. Lawrence River. The sky looked like snow, though, and sure enough, as we got out into the flat countryside south of the city, we could see a definite squall line -- blue skies to the right, and a line of leaden snow-filled clouds to the left. Soon we were driving through pelting, blowing snow that was sometimes lighter than air and drifting fast across the already-white fields, and sometimes beating a staccato of tiny icy pellets against the windshield, which cautioned us to drive very carefully, because that kind of ice can act like ball bearings under the wheels. And then, suddenly, just before the border crossing at Champlain...nothing at all. Tan, bare fields with green hay still coming up in places; nonchalant geese pecking in dry cornfields, and no snow to be seen. 

Two hours later, on the way back, the day had turned to beautiful blue skies, and the roads were bare. Those of us who live in the north are quite familiar with this phenomenon of squalls: short-lived, intense bursts of rain or snow, often accompanied by gusting winds, that can feel like a blizzard when you're in the middle of them, but which -- unlike blizzards -- pass quickly, often bringing high-pressure and blue skies in their wake.

It made me think about how life has felt lately: unpredictable and buffeted. But then again, all the disturbances in my life have been mere squalls compared to the relentless and devastating storms of war, starvation, oppression, homelessness and displacement, illness, loss, and death that millions of people face. And yet -- no matter what, some of these remarkable people manage to adjust their attitude and still find joy in their daily existence. I try, but I still have much to learn.

--

Angel-wing begonia with wooden angel. Fountain pen drawing in sketchbook, 6" x 9".

Friday: Late fall in the north: this is the stripped, dry, testing time at the end of the year. Short days, distant pale sun, bare trees, and an increasingly penetrating cold. Ironically, when there's more snow covering the ground, it often seems warmer, and easier to be outside: during these current weeks, though, the landscape feels like a bed without a blanket. We are all driven more and more into the interiors of our homes, and of ourselves. 

I swam, early this morning. Sleepy and not in the best of moods when I pushed myself into the elevator, into the locker room, on with the suit and cap and goggles and into the water, the rhythm quickly took over and after five laps I was already feeling better; after twenty-five I felt renewed, at home in my body in spite of its creaky and achy parts, ready to face the day.  A couple of afternoons ago, I rode down and walked back up the many flights of stairs to my apartment -- this is something I should, and could, do regularly. And while swimming does stretch and use most muscle groups, some yoga focused on balance and strength would be good this winter too.

For someone who tends to be pretty consumed with thoughts and words, I know that I can't live entirely in my head, or let myself become distracted and immobile for hours on end. I need to use my body to make music, make art, knit and sew, chop and cook, move from place to place. It helps to feel my lungs breathing and my heart pumping blood. I think that one of the problems of living in harsh winter climates, especially as we get older, is the feeling of enclosure and constriction which can lead to a lack of embodiment. I can't ski anymore, we no longer shovel snow, and I have to be careful not to have a bad fall on the ice; this is just being prudent. But being outside in winter has always been invigorating for me, and a joy, so I have crampons for my boots, and a ski pole for when the weather is really dicey, and we make a point of getting out. It requires effort and discipline to build movement into my schedule, but I know it's not optional. How do you deal with this, you who live in a place with definite seasons? And how is your mood these days?

The End of Autumn

I wrote a whole post earlier this week, and then Typepad went down due to a DDoS attack, and lost it. Now the platform is up again, but it's impossible to post any images because Typepad is having difficulty migrating to a new server.

The best news is that we finished the studio move on October 30 - the space is swept and empty, and we returned the keys. It's hard to believe that we're actually done. It was a good space for us for many, many years and I'm grateful for that.

Meanwhile, the leaves are coming off the trees and winter definitely approaches, even though we haven't had a major frost yet. We've usually had freezing weather by Halloween, but not this year -- in fact, it's supposed to be 68 degrees this weekend.

I began a new sketchbook in October, and so far it seems to be much more experimental than the previous one, perhaps as a result of the utter upheaval in my artistic life due to the studio move, that has made continuity next to impossible and perhaps not even desirable. I've been working in gouache and acrylic on paper, in addition to watercolor, and that feels good. But I hope to get back to some larger charcoal drawings and some paintings this winter. The new studio is quite small but efficient, and I think I'll be able to manage by working on one thing at a time rather than spreading out a bunch of stuff and leaving it there, just because of a surfeit of space.

Also, Instagram is troubling me these days. I spend too much time scrolling through my feed. I'm not sure if stepping away for a while is the right move, or sharply decreasing my time there, or simply cutting down the number of people I follow, but I do need to make some changes.

Let's hope the blog issues get resolved soon, but in the meantime, I'll try to write here a bit more often. I hope you are gracefully navigating the change of seasons where you live, if in fact you have a change -- it's never entirely easy. Always happy to hear from you in the comments, and with a bit more time now, I will try to reply!

 

 

 

 

 

A Visual Diary

 

Sketchbook, July 2021-September 2022. (Best if viewed full screen, and you can click CC for some captions.)

It always strikes me, when I finish a sketchbook, how much like a diary it actually is. During this journey through a little more than a year -- a year that's seen a lot of upheaval and emotion and change -- the images and the choices recall exactly where I was and what I was thinking, while to the viewer, they probably look like innocuous still lives, landscapes and skyscapes. In some ways, this visual diary is more personal and secret and coded than written words could ever be.

On the other hand, I hope it's interesting to look at, whether you know any of the underlying aspects or not. From an artistic point of view, I like the two loose watercolors of Parc Lafontaine, in the fall and in the winter, and then the explorations of the sky, where the watercolors and one lone acrylic attempt to capture something that was quite new to me, and elusive.

I feel like I've had little time to really focus on art this year, which I'm sorry about, but at least there was this sketchbook which I kept going, and took with me on the trips to the lake to care for my father. It was often hard to draw -- I just didn't have the emotional bandwidth -- but the desire is coming back now, and I'm glad about that.

 

Unparallel Lives

My father died at 97, a month ago tomorrow. Queen Elizabeth II died at 96, two weeks ago. Charles and Diana were married three days before Jonathan and I were married, at the end of July, 1981. Their marriage ended unhappily, ours has endured for over 40 years, but I don't think it's because we made our own wedding cake, or because I sewed my own dress, but rather because we were free to follow our own hearts in ways that they were not. I would never have wanted to change places.

My father, too, was free after WWII to build his own life in ways that Queen Elizabeth could have never acted upon; her entire life was turned over to duty and service, constrained by rules and tradition that contemporary society has long ago discarded. How many jewels and Arabian horses and gilded coaches does it take to make up for that? For her sister, her uncle, or some of her own children and grandchildren, the tradeoff was clearly not worth it. Yet we watch this family drama, which is actually a tragedy, with fascination and even envy.

Just as our weddings were in stark contrast, so were the funerals. But given the traditional Anglican liturgy that formed the basis of both services, they shared a similar structure and many of the same words. I was grateful for that structure when I was planning dad's service, and the familiar words were a comfort to me. When I heard them again, during our cathedral's commemoration for the Queen last Sunday afternoon, and again during the televised services the next day, it was harder to keep myself together than it had been during my father's service. Out of the public eye, and without a eulogy to deliver, I was more able to grieve, and if I shed some tears, they were more for my father than for the Queen.

However, there was much to admire in Queen Elizabeth, even for this American who has never quite understood why Canada remained in the Commonwealth, and so devoted to the monarchy. She became queen in 1952, the year I was born, so in addition to being the same age as my father, she ruled for 70 years, which is the age I turned the day after her funeral. And, we share a name. Elizabeth I has been a constant presence of whom I was aware from the beginning. Regardless of what one thinks of the institution of the monarchy, and their immense wealth and privilege, it was always significant to me that there was a woman in that role, and that she held the respect of other world leaders with a quiet, dignified, and unquestioned authority. She may not have had real political power, but she led in other ways that people seemed to need, and to respect. The majority of people who watched her funeral, or tried to see her coffin lying in state, or left flowers in remembrance, were not doing so out of voyeurism or celebrity worship; something real was going on there, whether we agree with it and share it, or not.

And these were historical moments; for anyone who has studied history, religion, and ancient cultures, one has to notice the power of symbolism and ritual that, in all cultures, attempts to unite us to our ancient forebears, connect us to the earth and the heavens, and make sense of the greatest mystery of all. As I stood in a crowd of Canadians on Sunday, at the conclusion of the service, and the organ moved from the final hymn and blessing to the opening bars of "God Save the King", sung to those words for the first time in 70 years, I could feel the emotion around me. Likewise, who could remain completely unmoved by the final minutes of the Windsor committal service, when the crown and other symbols of Elizabeth's earthly and historical power were removed from the coffin before it sank beneath the floor?

Under the September sun, thirty friends and family members stood around my father's grave in the old village cemetery where I played as a young child. At the conclusion of the brief committal service, we placed the paper box containing his ashes into the same grave where my mother's remains had been buried sixteen years before. Then I took a shovel into my hands and put the first earth into the grave, passed the shovel to my husband, who did the same, and then, slowly, silently, nearly all of the people present took a turn, and we buried my father together and then strewed red roses on the grave.

People can despise the monarchy, but can't we find it interesting and significant that human beings have tried to find meaning in death, and mark this great transition with dignity and respect, since time immemorial? And in the aftermath of Elizabeth's death, can't we summon enough charity to hold our criticisms and judgements until she is at least buried? This was a woman who shouldered her unchosen and unwanted role with selflessness, and all these years later, seems to have grieved her partner's death and met her own with stoic, private courage. She was not blameless, but there is no way that all the crimes of colonialism and empire can be laid at her feet; these things go back very far indeed, and are shared by many other countries. If it is time now for some commonwealth nations to change their systems of government, so be it.

There's nothing like writing a eulogy to confront the sobering thought: what will someone have to say about me, someday? For, in fact, none of us are blameless, and I think we all hope that when our own time comes, people will be charitable,a nd remember us for our good qualities more than for our failings.

For death, I think, is the great leveler: it comes to us all, we all go down to the dust, and no one can take their earthly goods or power with them. When those deaths occur which stop us in our tracks and cause a shudder or even an earthquake in our own lives, it is a time to look in the mirror. What can we learn from the life of this person who is with us no longer? What lasts, what remains? What do we want to do with the unknowable balance of time that remains to us, and with the friends who surround us in those moments, surely far more precious than gold?