Wordless

My daughter’s college drawing class is almost over and I suspect this is the last little doodle of mine as I chaperone the youngster. The gentleman in black and white is coming for a visit in another week, which reminded me of a picture I took of him years ago. I searched folders and files (well, scrolled), found it, (through face recognition software), dusted it off (inasmuch as I cleaned my phone screen), and took a class period to sketch it.

I worked in the art world once upon a time where I was told portraits weren’t fine art. Neither are sketches. Nor photographs. That basket, blanket, stained glass is only craft. Canning, gardening and sewing are utilitarian. Photo realism should just be the photo. That abstract painting looks like a three-year-old’s breakfast. This list of dismissals went on, as over the years, I caught barbs and scoffs of critics until their words no longer held meaning. This illogic is not simply human nature, it’s a troll thing.

And completely expected. The visual artist does not work in “words” or, wait for it…they would have been a writer! They create “word-adjacent.” And critique is the life blood necessary to challenge a wordless speech. However, even constructive, poignant, and professional criticism eventually loses its relevance as I’ve come to realize there are places where words should never dare to tread.

Consequently, I’m an author now. Working in a space where I feel words have a place. Millions of thoughtfully crafted words crowd one side of my creative expression such that they have no compunction to wander over to the artist side. This divide allows balance, the white space to my black letters, the “absence of” which defines my words.

Therefore, this portrait, sketched from a photo, on plain paper, using a mechanical pencil from the bottom of my purse, that looks kind of real but uses quick abstraction of forms to get it done in two hours…well, this isn’t art – actually, it’s Rick, my friend.