I was pleased with the end product, but it sucked out from the joy of producing art. I spent three long month trying to depict my friends exactly as they were. No creation was involved here, no real discovery, nothing that inspired me to keep searching for something more. So, I really didn't draw for the next few years, except for a handful of drawings I did of hands. Art had lost its lustre for me. When I thought of art, I imagined being entrapped in a little room, with no one to talk to, not being able to feel the wind on my face, or the soreness of my body from doing activity ( a good thing), just simply sitting for hours.
But then I transfered to Wheaton College and I discovered the peace and quiet of lying outside on a Sunday on Blanchard Lawn:
The grass reminded me of the grass I used to know in England, so wet and soft, so lush and green. I imagined it wrapping over me like I was a sausage and it was the Pillsbury Dough. And it was here, on this lawn, where I rekindled my love for art. I spent hours lying down on a rudolph the red nose reindeer blanket, in the warm weeks of August and September, just drawing patterns, birds, hands, eyes, wherever my pens and pencils took me.
It was lovely.
The next step? I became an art major.
And I studied painting:
(This is a painting of Blanchard Lawn with cubist influences)
And I loved my studies. I love doing with my hands: the thrill of creating something. In someways painting has become like an archeological dig. It is as if I know something is behind that canvas and I have to discover it.
But sometimes I have to wonder.... Did I fall in love with art? Or the joy of sitting outside on Blanchard Lawn, feeling the wind blow my hair from side to side, the cool wet grass on my dry skin, and the sunshine so hot on my legs. Perhaps one love has grown into two. Perhaps I have just abandoned my love for the outdoors for too long and need to get my body out of the studio.
I wouldn't mind seeing this out my back yard:
(Seen near the Grand Canyon summer 2010 with my parents)
