Memories

In college  I interrupted my English major lifestyle of reading lots of unassigned books and putting off writing papers to take a life-drawing class that still informs how I make art. The professor praised my work and encouraged me to become a professional fine artist. "There is a place for you," he said, which were encouraging words, words I bring to mind sometimes when I feel insecure about making art. But I had lately discovered beautiful children's book illustrations and I thought that what I really wanted was to write and illustrate children's books. I loved (love) books, which was why I was an English major, but I didn't love them only as repositories of ideas. I loved the smooth, almost velvety texture of good paper fanning out from strong binding. I loved looking at pictures that illuminated words, and I liked enjoying art sitting in a comfortable chair. I showed my professor an out-of-class sketchbook with some fantasy illustration ideas I thought were pretty good and said I was interested in becoming an illustrator.

I still remember his condescending smile. The drawings were no doubt fussy and immature, different from what was developing in his helpful class, but mostly he didn't think my subject matter was worthy of  art. He didn't respect illustration as a profession. In so many words he asked me if I wouldn't rather be a real artist. "Not really," I thought. I felt embarrassed and emptied as I left his office. There were no illustration classes at my college anyway.

Too bad, huh? Though even if he had respected illustration as a legitimate way for artists to spend their time and had said something constructive, I might not have been able to go anywhere with it at that point because although I respected illustration as worthy of artists, I couldn't respect myself as an artist for a very long stretch of time. I got help with that later, and now I am well established on an exciting journey that makes me feel young and ambitious.  Maybe that's something people my age don't always get to feel.

Here's a smudgy, charcoal self-portrait from my college days. I was wearing glasses which had fallen halfway down my nose, but they seem to have worn almost completely away.

Soon after I graduated, one Halloween our pastor asked everyone who wanted to make a picture of a saint for All Saints Day (the day that Halloween, All Hallows Eve, is the eve of). I did this St. Francis painting super fast, for me. I should have done something like that every day!

I think I did this iris around the same time. I bought it at a florist shop--which is how it can have a forsythia blossom in the same composition. For some reason I cut this bit out of the larger composition. I was probably having trouble getting the yellow right in the forsythias. The water damage is interesting, I think

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Angels in one form or another have fascinated me for a long time, This week's Illustration Friday prompt is "light" so I think I'll post this over there.

Illustration Friday: Zodiac

"And God said, 'Let there be lights in the firmament of the heaven to divide the day from the night; and let them be for signs and for seasons, and for days and years.'" Genesis 1:14

I made this with colored pencil and watercolor. I drew the stars with white pencil before I put down any color. I'm pleased with how well they resisted the paint (I did wipe a little paint off of them), but it's tricky drawing with a white pencil onto white paper. I had to hold it at an angle that made the white pencil reflect light before I could see what I was doing at all. And then I did something wrong when I stretched the paper and it came out all warped anyway. We'll try again another time.

This week's prompt reminded me of a story of a fascinating lady named Agnes Sanford. In the 1930s she was lifted out of suicidal depression through the prayers of an Episcopal priest. She decided she needed to learn how to pray too so she could help other people. She did learn, and she helped many. Once a woman came to her in great distress, because her husband was near death, and she didn't think it would help to pray because they had visited a fortune teller (I don't remember if it was an astrologer or a palm reader) who predicted his illness and death. Agnes told her not to worry, that they should pray anyway because God was stronger than fate. Agnes did pray and the man got well.

I think this anecdote is from her autobiography, Sealed Orders, or possibly The Healing Light.