pencil sketch, 1979

“Drawing is the first instrument of every science, and it’s extension, painting,…comes closer to the truth than philosophy itself, for the eye makes fewer mistakes than the mind”- Leonardo DaVinci.

Can’t say my eyes don’t make a lot of mistakes. But, like the great Master, I love to draw. Still do. Like many artists, I believe that the exercise of drawing is the foundation for all other artwork. And though there are those who debate this, I stand by my comment.

I remember being able to draw before I could write my name. Though my memory might be ‘sketchy’ (sorry, couldn’t resist the pun!), I do have proof of my talent in the form of glowing comments on old school report cards. Yes, I still have them. Along with old letters and silly mementos that have nothing to do with this subject. These report cards go back to the prehistoric time known as kindergarten, in the days when little kids were encouraged to play and make art and we never had homework. I would doodle or draw for my little friends as they would gather around and shout out requests. Make a duck. Make a fat pig. It was a joy. It was a way to entertain and to stand out. It was all I wanted to do, day and night and night and day. Okay, sometimes I took a break and played with my Barbies. And sometimes I rode my bike, and watched TV and goofed around with the neighborhood kids. But when left to my own devices, I just wanted to draw.

At some point, probably in high school, drawing became something not so fun for a while. First of all I was a teenager. I had all kinds of other interests and distractions. There were sports and boys and popular kid things. I’m sure I was somewhat lazy. I’d become an art major in ninth or tenth grade, I’m not sure exactly when we had to declare, but I declared an art major, and, of course, was made to fulfill certain requirements to keep that major. I figured, piece of cake. I’ll do the easy thing, coast through the rest of my education while learning how to be popular and excellent at other stuff. I didn’t have to take all the math and sciences if I didn’t want to. Cool. I’ll be a cheerleader. I’ll sing the lead in the school play. I’ll be Valedictorian. Ah yeah. Not.

I loved my art teachers but grew frustrated at the drudgery of forced assignments. During adolescence, art was not a joy. Period. It was repetitive, and somewhat boring. Oh, and did I mention that the cool kids were not in these classes? Well “cool” in the sense of straight haired girls who looked and acted right, of hunky football players with dreamy cars or moody, dangerous types that smoked during lunch periods or were always doing the Breakfast Club detention thing. Those kids weren’t hunched over a piece of Arches paper, their fingers sooty with charcoal. The boys I liked were elsewhere and thus I watched the clock more than I should admit. I was a real pain in the ass. I whined constantly.

And, why? Well art is work. First of all, we would draw the same things over and over again, which was a challenge to my short attention span. We would draw shoes. We would draw our sneakers and boots. We would draw our hands. We would draw ears of corn and branches of bittersweet, in pencil, ink and charcoal. We would draw each other. There would be lessons in contour drawing, in keeping your eye on the object and your pencil on the paper and never looking down at what you’d done. There were lessons in modeling and shading, in capturing infinitesimal details. And then we would have to convey the idea of something in a simple gesture, in the manner of Chinese calligraphy. It was agony.

Then there was mastering space, rendering architecture, dealing with perspective. I hated it all. Especially since the very idea of practice insinuated that I wasn’t already as good as I thought I was. When you start from the age of 4 being told how wonderful an artist you are, anything less than an A in every art class is a “big- slam-dunk-and-sink-to-your-knees” to the ego. It’s an insult, an outrage! And the teenage ego is very fragile. During these years and even while in college, I had a love-hate relationship with my teachers. I wanted to get to know them, and yet, I secretly believed their thinly veiled cruelty was due to some insane, irrational jealously on their part. I loved art and semi-hated those who brought it to me. I sort of suspect it was mutual.

Bless them all. Wish I could go back and thank them for pushing me so hard and making me draw well. The creative spirit is a tough one to tie down. I get that now. We need to come out of the clouds to be our best and that best only happens through discipline. Discipline is what takes an artist beyond the natural talent and makes her, or him, a professional. I’m not saying I like this truth. I fight my laziness every day, trust me. And when I need to get serious, I pick up a pencil, I get back to basics. Just like the truths about physical exercise: wanna flat stomach? You do sit-ups. Buff upper arms? You lift weights. The practice of sketching clears my brain and starts up my engine. In drawing I can find my strong creative place. There’s no shortcut. I know. I’ve tried.

Pencil sketch, late 1990's

So like a musician who has to do her scales, I draw often. I get out my graphite pencils, my big stick of twig charcoal, my ink pens, and I draw. Sometimes I have a plan. Often I just start letting lines and patterns form on the paper. But I sketch because it’s the way back to my center. And yeah, sometimes I can do this on the computer. But I like paper better. As an artist, you do what you must to generate a creative buzz for your work. For me, it’s the old fashioned, traditional manual connection of writing instrument to surface. On this, me and Leonardo, we’re sympatico.

©Ann Haaland, 2010

Check out this exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, “The Drawings of Bronzino,” on view through April 18.