Hold the Line
Wait, what line?
I know we are not talking about lines. We run from those in my studio. Still, the sharp edge of separation between value sets are relevant no matter what we call them in or outside of the studio.
We have rebranded ‘lines’ as form or value transitions around here. In the beginning, we rush to lay them in, with quick gestural strokes that are not binding. Though they are soft, capturing them still requires bravery and boldness. Making the first dark ‘line’ on a pristine white page rarely stops being intimidating. It is like leaving footprints in undisturbed snow.
Those first marks are seldom right, and I do not even bother to correct them. Because measuring against all those laid-in wrongs helps me understand where the transition edge may truly rest. In this mix of bravery bold enough to make a mark, and humility modest enough to admit it is wrong, an edge of something I learn to trust develops.
It is a humbling push and pull of light and dark. Yet, the battle does not stop when I have built something closer to representing form. When my page is filled with edges I believe in enough to measure against, the fight shifts to protecting them rather than defining them. At this moment, the drawing process becomes dangerously tedious.
The transition edge is a contentious intersection, with the darkness ever bleeding into the light. Despite my best effort, as the dark dust falls on the crisp white rendered light, it leaves in its wake faint, dull, but present, almost microscopic remnants. Left with the purity I cannot ever fully reclaim, the dark edges silently creep forward, in a leisurely yet dangerous advance I hardly even notice.
I become too relaxed and perhaps even mildly arrogant, remembering to guard myself on fronts more vulnerable to attack but failing to question and defend the forms I worked so tirelessly to build. I am so caught up in the moment, the energy of the whole process, I often forget the most dangerous things happen slowly.
When I finally step back, I ask myself, “How did I get here?” as a silent defeat falls over my spirit. I realize with sudden grief all I have lost and set about the long road to reclaim it.
And round and round the cycle goes, for weeks. Questioning, identifying, and defending the ‘line,’ the contentious edge of form, the stark transition between light and dark. I know in my heart this exhausting battle of boldness versus humility quietly searching for right rages. I am grateful yet again for the lessons my work teaches me about life.
As I lock the studio door at night, fulfilled but tired from another day of creative struggle, I wonder if I was ever the artist at all, or if all along those works were really drawing me.