Jett (jatg) wrote,

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Reflections Part I

Why am I happiest with stuffed full days? It seems Tuesdays and Saturdays are my favorite days of the week because every minute is scheduled. From 7:30 AM to 10:00 PM every minute has been previously claimed.

Yesterday I got up, scrambled some eggs, fed me and LMA and we parted ways. It was a lot of fun having him. The company was good as well as his ability to carry groceries up all the flights of stairs.
It was a beautiful day yesterday. Brisk and slightly windy but not too cool. I was curiously very awake as I went to my sculpting class.
I am comfortable enough there and with the people that I can banter and make jokes. I have been accepted there. I and my drawings and my jokes have apparently passed muster. I am invited out for lunch by some of them. My soul lifts. I have artist friends!

The class goes by too quickly. I drink in the anatomy, reveling in words like "condyles" and "the great trochanter." Origin, tendons... I try to keep up with the muscles of the back...powerful, beautiful, complicated. What inserts under what?

Drawing...10 minute gestures. I smile to myself when I hear mutterings of concern...10 minutes is not enough, what can you hope to accomplish in 10 minutes?
I am in a drawing mood, my animator speed at the ready. In ten minutes I can draw eternity.
As Kamille goes around critiquing the art she stops by my easel. I am slightly nervous as I always am when a life drawing instructor mutely observes my work.
I catch her eye. "Well?" I think at her and wait for my critique.
She looks at me and back at my gestures. "Very nice," she says.

Very nice?

I try to think of any time Gerard, Werner or Gerry told me "Very nice." That praise was reserved for the prodigies...for Chris Land, for Angelo Libutti, for Sarah Mensinga. Werner once brought in Michelangelo sketches and criticized them.
I found fright and intimidatation did not improve me as an artist. Every time I picked up my Nu Pastel in school I could feel my heart constrict.

I bask a little bit in the soft praise. I am not frightened of her. She does not have the power to cut my wings short, to dash my dreams against the charcoal stained walls like my instructors at Sheridan. She points out what is good, what is working. She tells me to work on things I already drawing is a little large...I have cut off poor John's feet.

After lunch I explored the building. The ground floor seems to be an irregular maze of halls and unopened doors...the second seems inaccessable. I decide to try to get in through the other side of the building...but in a moment of whimsy and deep curiousity...wasn't this a three story building? Where does THAT staircase go? It looks like something my dad would build when my mom wasn't looking. It is just thick plywood, no artistry, no sanding, just plain functional stairs. I pound up.

It goes to the open roof! I look up and smile to myself. The sun is shining coldly...trying it's best to warm the earth with limited success. Chris is there. He turns and sees me and smiles. We do not talk much. He obviously has been here before but does not seem to mind my trespass.
He smiles as I explore. Three stories is not so very high, the neighborhood and the view not particularly beautiful but I revel in it. I feel like I have slipped in a bubble of time. I am grateful for it. I find myself oddly thinking of all my many blessings and I name them to myself one by one.
Life, with all it's stresses and frustrations and concerns and fears, life can sometimes be beautiful. I wonder what it is about a gravel crunched roof that makes me mindful of eternity.

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