Love As I See It

(In which tradition, talent, passion and romance converge.)

***

“Love your art and it will love you in return”, our art teacher told us way back in high school. Back when my artistic endeavor revolved around painting. I understand how to love art – to hone my skills and be a responsible artist. But how art can love me in return, I don’t completely know. Until I saw this artist at work.
At first I thought that art’s reciprocal love would only mean fame and money. But it dawned on me that heightened artistic skills come with the chance to showcase love’s beautiful multifacetedness.
It is apparent that the old man loved his art. Resisting the pull of this era of digital photo editing is enough evidence of his passion. And when I saw the forms created by the collective lines on his paper, I was enlightened. Through his art, the artist depicts a person’s love for another – and with dignified justice. The artwork being a conduit of an artist’s love for his craft and a romance between couples is a manifesto that the old man’s art loved him back, indeed.
This is my entry to “Love as I see it". A project of www.islandrose.net flowers Philippines.

The Passion of Artemisia by Susan Vreeland

(In which love governed.)

***

The life of an artist in 17th century Rome wasn’t easy. And so was the life a Roman woman. How hard is it then, given these circumstances, to be both a woman and a painter in one of the most highly-regarded art cities during the Baroque period? Artemisia Gentileschi knows.

At seventeen, she was exposed to the cruelties of life. She was raped by her teacher, betrayed by her father and abandoned by her husband and lived to return to the shockingly unforgiving harshness of her city. All of which she was able to endure in the name of art. And no public humiliation, no betrayal by blood and man, no rejections, not even gender discrimination, limited her love for it.

Her paintings depicted women. And when she painted a woman, she painted her life by trying to relive history in her mind and thus trying to feel what her model could have felt. That’s how she did Judith. She though of the emotional unpleasantness that could have taken hold of her upon deciding to slaughter Holofernes in order to save her people – the internal humiliation as she seduces him, all the while thinking of ways to delay the lovemaking and finally, the way she mustered the strength of both heart and body as she beheads the unconscious invader.

When she painted a woman, she sees her as a hero and not a mere carrier of a body to be stared at in lewd voyeurism. She maintains the emotion of the moment. The heart of the story. And so she painted the nude Susanna as a riveting picture of a threatened beauty, with modesty, innocence and shame all working harmoniously.

When she painted a woman abused by a man and further tortured by society, she used her brush as a conduit of her own pains. She sees her as a rational human being capable of doubt. She suspends popular belief for realistic human emotions. With this she painted Lucretia, a legendary woman who was raped and committed suicide, as a person who didn’t choose death deliberately, but a woman torn between choosing life over death and vice versa. Just when the public expected a spectacle full of blood, she gave them something to think about.

In The Passion of Artemisia, Susan Vreeland once again shows how a woman conquers her own fears as well as her personal and socially-established disadvantages so powerfully that she was able to present pain as one of the colors to contribute to the greatness of masterpieces. Her attempt to understand the artist’s heart and mind deeply, combined with the vast knowledge of hue names and artistic styles gave the novel a sturdy bridge from the characters to the reader. However, it would have been better if the settings description was as vivid as the varying tones and wonderful layering of pigments on canvass. But as one reads how a mind and heart of a very sensitive artist as Artemisia collaborate (or in some cases, conflict) to create a painting of a woman as heroic as the artist (unconsciously) is, the pleasant feeling of seeing how a beautiful soul mixes color and emotion and triumph and make a legacy to last centuries holds tightly and lingers. Then it stays, creating an image stronger and more graphic than towers and buildings with complex architectural designs.

Vreeland presented Artemisia as a woman of depth, feeling and love. The way she loved her art was moving – the incessant sketching and brainstorming, the relentless attempts to master the craft, the people and feelings she has to let go of and the lifelong journey towards artistic greatness.

One of the lessons I learned in art school was to love art and it will love me in return. It will take a long time and may not come as easily as I want to, but it will. And in the case of Artemisia Gentileschi, it sure did.

Currently reading:

Black and Blue by Anna Quindlen

Photo source
Judith Slaying Holofernes, Susanna and the Elders, Lucretia, Black and Blue

Drawing 101: The Painted Kiss by Elizabeth Hickey

(In which I try to give you online drawing lessons courtesy of a novel.)

***

So I haven’t written for weeks. And I thought I dedicated myself in posting a new entry per week. As if these were not enough, I haven’t finished reading Hickey yet. And to compensate for the display of abandoning myself to procrastination, I am writing an online lecture on what to expect and do on the first day of a painting/drawing lesson. And please pardon me for the sporadic interruptions brought about by my stream of consciousness.

“Here’s what we need”, he said brightly, holding up a piece of charcoal he dug from the bottom of the box.

“I brought pencils,” I said, showing him the brand-new tin case.

“It’s too early for pencils,” he said. “Charcoal first, then pencils.”

Looking back to all those years I’ve learned how to draw, I never remembered using charcoal. It seems like it has become a specially separated lesson on drawing and not a part of a series of medium. My other classmates who, back then, studied portraiture, used charcoals after we all learned how to shade with our Hs, HBs and Bs. Because the main sequence is that it should be pencils first before colors.

“Are you ready?” said Klimt.

“But where’s the easel?” I asked in surprise.

“Today, we’ll sit at the table,” said Klimt. He swept the red cloth aside. Mrs. Klimt took it up, folded it and put it on her lap. Then he taped a sheet of paper to the table and pulled a brick out of the toolbox. I tried to guess what the brick might be for. To keep the paper from blowing away? To sharpen the chalk? He placed the brick in front of me stood with his arms folded. I waited.

“Well,” he said. He looked at me expectantly. . .

“Well what?

“Draw”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “What am I supposed to draw?”

He nodded toward the brick.

The first thing I have drawn upon entering an art school was . . . my left hand – which I think is more interesting than a brick. Not that I am questioning the author’s or Klimt’s idea of a first subject. I just thought that trying to draw your own hand is an exercise that connects you to yourself. It’s more challenging even, to force an artist to look deeper and make sure he’s going to see his own hand on the paper after thirty minutes.

“Draw the brick?” I said incredulously.

“That’s right,” he said. “Draw the brick.”

“But that’s just . . . a brick.” I knew I sounded like an idiot.

“And what is a brick? He said. He sounded like he was teaching a very young child. Was it a joke? But he was waiting.

“I don’t know, clay that’s baked in an oven . . .”

“Stoneware is baked in an oven, too, but you wouldn’t confuse a pitcher with this brick, now, would you?

This wasn’t how a drawing lesson was supposed to go. I should have been sketching a bowl of fruit, or some bottles, like we used to do in school with out art teaches. I didn’t know how to respond. “No, sir,” I said.

He laughed. “I know you think I’m insane,” he said, ”but this was my very first lesson in art school when I was eleven, and it will be yours. Try to give me a better definition. It won’t hurt.”

I took a deep breath. “A brick is a rectangular piece of clay that is fired in an oven and used as a building material.”

“Excellent. Now forget all that we’ve said and draw what you see.”

Somehow this approach amazed me. Giving a definition of the subject and forgetting it abruptly means to remove all subjectivity or objectivity influenced by its denotation means having to look at an object without bias. If that was my first lesson, how would I define my hands?

Photo Source:

Painting lesson

For Vanity and Wallowing

(In which I show an evidence of being productive despite the lack of posts.)

***

I know you’re not asking and you don’t mind if the last entry was dated last month. But as the keeper of this site I feel obliged to post something. It would be nice if it’s a review of the last book I’ve read with a final note about the new book I’m on but since I haven’t even finished At Risk by Alice Hoffman halfway, the sight of a review on this blog will take time. I thought of posting the titles of my gradually increasing to-be-read pile but that would only make me depressed that I still have to read three hundred pages to officially start on another art fiction. So to compensate and to explain to my constant reader/s (I know you’re not more than three) I decided on posting the reasons for my procrastination. There are two.

The first one is this.

I made another decision lately – that I will be making pencil drawings of roses. And I started with this one. It took me almost two weeks to finish it, having only a couple of hours of work or more each day. I had to do this while working or during breaks in between classes. Now my current floral project was left pending to be fair with the book I should be reading.

The other, I guess, is more obvious. I write poetry. I admit that I am a slow reader. I ruminate when ambushed by a heavy scene or a thought-provoking line. Then sometimes, memories flash through. And then images. And then words. And then music. Actually, there isn’t any particular order. The chronology may change anytime. Right now, it’s music then memories then words.

I Think God Can Explain by Splender

Nirdla (Part II)

Should I regret
that I’ve asked what those words meant?
Those words that shouted messages
As secret as yourself.

Should I be glad
that you answered despite
your taciturnity and nonchalance?

Should I be happy
that you shared four minutes of melody
of guitars and drums
and voices lamenting,
questioning?

Or should I just understand
that your reticence is suffering made calmer?
That your smile is a curtain for fears
And smears
And tears?

And that the melody is a sanctuary
for your silent agony?
That the melody is yours for her . . .

. . . and now mine for you?

(For the first part of this verse click here.)

Photo source:
Full Bloom

The Grand Alumni Homecoming

(In which a decade almost did nothing.)

***

Last Saturday was scheduled for a Grand Alumni Homecoming of the Angono Regional Pilot School for the Arts. (If you haven’t heard of it, that’s fine.) All students from all the batches were invited as the school reached its tenth year. The arts program started in 2000. The first graduates were batch 2004 and that’s us. Anyway, I looked forward to that event.

I was conditioned that reunions are just another season where people earn extra bragging rights about their life achievements. But since we’re just recent college graduates, I abandoned the idea and dreamt of what’s going to happen instead. I expected to see my old high school friends who, by now, must be moving their way up the corporate ladder to achieve their goals. They’re going to tell me stories of how they got there and I’ll be happy for them. I also expected those who I don’t really have a warm relationship with ever since high school to be friendlier for the gathering’s sake. And of course I expect the Sorority to be pretty and intimidating as ever.

After running an errand for my father that Saturday afternoon, I had to really rush to get to the venue at seven in the evening. But unfortunately, I arrived late – about half past eight – and was totally embarrassed to be unpunctual. The embarrassment turned to a gaping expression of surprise when I saw how “many” people were already there. Imagine around eight large round tables in a wide multi-purpose high school gym. Now picture three or four tables with people. No, I didn’t say fully occupied tables.

So I looked for people I know. I spotted four female classmates and sat with them. Then they continued sitting there as though not a soul has entered the circle. But they managed to get their cameras out of their cases and snapped a shot. I was included in the picture but I felt that I might as well vanish. An acquaintance from our batch sat next to me and greeted the girls. After a lukewarm response he queried, “Hey, was I never missed?” I admired his audacity. I never dared to pose that question, especially to people who don’t seem to care. After a couple of minutes, the girls started to stand to get to the receptionist’s table behind us – one by one, without a single word – and we were left there, a pair of losers in the midst of prima donnas.

We spotted a couple of our batch mates in a corner and approached them. At last, we had a conversation. After we got bored from sitting and talking, we took some pictures, sat back and simply waited for two more hours. The supposed-to-be-set-at-seven engagement was now expected to start at eleven or later, which accentuates not only the unpunctuality of some people but their inexplicable penchant for late-night celebrations as well. And then the start of the program was marked by the arrival of the food. (sigh)

Now on more disappointing things.

We were informed to wear semi formal dresses fashioned in 2010. So I was expecting a semi-formal occasion. You know, it’s a reunion of artists so I thought they will occasionally be playing classical music. (I didn’t say that they should make classical music the theme of the celebration. Drowning everyone with Bach or Mozart in this time of the evening isn’t a very good idea.) But not only do some people showed defiance over the dress code, the people behind the program defied balance when they mixed round tables covered with white cloth and topped by a floral centerpiece (They even sprinkled rose petals around the center piece. Well, I actually liked how classy the design was.) and semi formal dress code with a remix of rock, hiphop, country and RnB. Oh and have I already mentioned the neon light and disco ball around the stage versus the candles in crystal glasses on the classy tables? Wait, they also have a couple of bands who played rock! Actually, I can deal with that. I wasn’t expecting a royal banquet. But what I was just looking for was something to match the dress code and the tables as well the celebration for a decade of artistry. Is that too much?

I have been used to the fact that the Sorority is a popular cohesive group in our campus. (No, they weren’t tagged that way. It was a term I coined for my own consumption.) Wherever they are, they exude this aura of eternal friendship mixed with a subtle arrogance. And no, they weren’t all girls. But since the group was dominated by females, I don’t want to bother how to label the males. Anyway, so they have this aura that’s enough for everyone – okay, me – to feel intimidated. But just like other people, they shine with verve when together with other Sorority members and quiet when with others. But they are as equally intimidating. (Or maybe because I just have low self-esteem. Whatever.) The reason why I include them in this sad list is because I never felt that the reunion was made for everyone. Just like what a friend said, it appears as though the presence of other people weren’t warmly acknowledged. It’s like non-members do not belong. And for that reason, we preferred to stay in a distant corner, albeit being surrounded by youngsters from the most recent batches.

To give you a better idea, here’s an example: I saw a classmate from the Sorority in the buffet area whom I knew was sick from a Facebook comment thread. So I asked her if she feels better now. But she didn’t respond. Though embarrassed, I just thought that she might not have heard me. I thought that’s the end of her ignoring act. But during the closing part of the program, where the girls’ picture was taken, I sat next to her since there isn’t any more seat. I was the last in the row and on her left was her friend followed by another friend. When the paparazzis signaled that they were about to snap a shot, she tilted her head to the left and turned her back on me as if she’s the last person in the line! How inimical can one be! Not to mention rude! And the appalling thing is, she never even apologized nor realized that she just gave someone the cold shoulder to be captured in a photograph! It was as though she never recognized nor knew me. That actually makes me feel worse than an unwelcome, random soul.

There.

The party wasn’t a total disaster actually. There are some things I really felt happy for and I will always remember them. I admire the people who were never my classmates and the male members of the Sorority who approached us and smiled at us and asked how we were getting along with the other people while desperately waiting; or thanked us for attending and for appreciating their performance and promised a better one next time. Those people helped us see the beautiful things in the party and appreciate their value. The warm welcome of these acquaintances is better than all the other things in that reunion combined.

A One-Week Diary in Ten Minutes

(In which I have so many things to say in so little time.)

***

I haven’t been posting for a long time and there has been a lot that happened. Although I want to write about every exciting, exhausting and even humiliating bit of everything, I simply cannot. And during these times I really appreciate the existence of bullet formats.

So, within the last week …

· I have been to a very fun reunion with my artistic classmates from high school which lasted for approximately 12 hours. It was almost, if not, serendipity, as I have told my Virtual Confidante that I long to be an artist, that there was an association for young artists in the making. Then I have suddenly thought of joining a writer’s guild.

· I have been referred to apply for a job and was stupefied after knowing the stuffs I might be getting, had a series of meet-ups with friends over coffee and online manga and finally decided to give the job a try.

· I, together with BF, went to the building and found that the person who referred us seemed not very reliable or just plain forgetful not to clarify things with us. Or maybe all the forgetfulness and slight irresponsibility should be blamed on me but, anyway, we didn’t make it to the interview as the HR only comes to work at 4PM. You’re right. I was quite surprised. We left our resumés and received a text message the next day asking us to come again the next Monday.

· I was given last minute tips that had me sending tons of text messages to people who I thought knew about technical acronyms and stuff. Their shock might have been as huge as mine as I received tons of text messages saying that they don’t have any idea or that they would be reviewing their Computer Science 14 before they could give me a reliable response or that they would be asking people to help me. Nevertheless, I wasn’t very disappointed since the elusive Alvin sent me two messages in a span of an hour – first saying that he was sorry for not being able to help and the second asking if I have found the answer yet, and that he will ask others for the much sought-after solution.

· I have asked to be given a leave which was reduced to a three-hour work, accompanied my mom to the hospital and went to the job interview which almost turned out really well if it wasn’t for the stingy offer. They say they are in need of employees ASAP but it turned out that they are only in need of desperate people. I was thankful that we weren’t that desperate yet. Anyway, there's still another time.

Pornography, Art and the English Hayden Kho

(In which the painter in me speaks.)

***

The moment I began to be more familiar with the horribly disfigured John Ashe from Harrison’s novel, I couldn’t stop myself from comparing him with the Phantom of the Opera not only because both half of their faces was hideous but also because of the darkness in them. Erik’s was passionate and murderous; Ashe’s was passionate and lecherous. I am still uncertain whether I consider Ashe murderous. But I blame him, albeit incompletely, for Suzannah’s misfortune and death.

***

What convinced me to buy this book is its inclination to art and artists, particularly painters in which I was restrained for being in a long time. As the secrets become known to me, an old debate among artists, and non-artists, rose again:

When is a work art and when is it considered pornography?

In our third year in the high school for the arts, we had a chance to have an exclusive nude painting session done not at our studio but in a private residence. The mere fact that it was done outside the school’s premises gave the experience a spirit of illicitness but it was nonetheless thrilling. We have painted her – our very professional model – the same way we do a bunch of fruits in a basket, only we are not allowed to touch our sitter.

When we got back to our dusty studio the next week, our professor asked our opinions –the only three girls in the group.

“How did you feel during the session?”

I was asked first. “Nothing,” I answered, “we’re artists anyway.” The other guys chuckled at the sound of the self proclamation. I looked back at them and we shared a moment of silent laughter through eye contact. We’re artists.

The other girls were asked too and replied the same way. Whether it was done to make our comments unified so as not to make a fuss or it wasn’t really a big deal for them as it was for me, I don’t know.

We studied each others’ works and told some their flaws and accepted our own. We looked at pictures of naked women – some solo shots and some showing them in the middle of busy painters. I noticed at once that the usual poses show women sitting on a bed or a couch with their arms on their sides for support as well as to expose their breasts, with one of their legs over the other to conceal what is necessary; or lying down with their head resting on their palm a-la Kate Winslet in Titanic; (Yes, with the signature necklace.) or just standing against a wall.

Honestly, I don’t find it pornographic, or even insulting, despite my professor’s deeper probing.

“Don’t you find it embarrassing, considering that it’s another girl you’re painting? Don’t you feel as though it was you being painted in the nude?”

All of said no. We reasoned out that it was not really us to begin with and that having them in the center of our attention is not for the sole purpose of staring at their nudity. It was all for the proverbial sake of art. For, as they say, a woman’s body is a timeless work of art. I took that at face value. Besides, those drawings and pictures were not meant to incite lust.

As for John Ashe’s collection of women who interest him, it was pornography. For one reason, the women whose pictures he took manifest an image of humiliation and insult. Although it was a consensus between the photographer and the subject materialized by the camera, I still couldn’t erase from my mind how the writer described what she saw in the woman’s faces. Regardless of whatever pose they were asked to do or roles they were asked to portray by this terribly rich, powerful and ugly man the camera still shows the real emotions beneath the surface. And the pictures could land on anyone’s hands – at the right price – without the negatives. Surely it was just another display of a fetish rather than of artistic expression. Ours, I believe is different. To pose in front of teen-aged painters somehow means a challenge to the inexperienced artists’ thin portfolios. The crowd, composed of disinterested stares and busy, paint or charcoal-stained hands gives less tension that being in an exclusive red room alone with the “artist”.

Ashe’s “interest” again reminded me of another man whose “journal” consists of videotapes of his intimate moments with women – with or without their knowledge.

Fortunately for John Ashe, he has a super discreet secretary and a power so palpable he doesn’t need to exert much effort to make people follow and be quiet. For Hayden Kho however, secrecy has a price which apparently he was unable to pay. Keeping dark secrets the way he did is like putting a living puppy in a thin box – it will always have its way out. Then he’ll wonder how on earth the truth is now ruining around him. (What happened to this poor guy anyway?)

Now, I am not having myself to be taken as a judge, I both dislike these men. As what my co-artist once pointed out, a woman’s body is a work of art, but I dare say that using it as a way to serve man’s baser instincts defies the art that I loved and that’s where another story starts.

Redefinitions

(In which my internal problem was finally realized and I learned “new words.")

***

Shopping means time, energy and money, of course. But last Saturday, it meant new meanings to me.

I told my sister that I’ll be shopping for art materials and she asked me to come with her to Anitpolo, saying that the bookstore I’m looking for has a branch there. So off we went and she was unbelievably concerned about me getting there that she rode off the jeep and walked me to the bookstore.

“It’s far from your workplace, right?”

“Yeah. But you aren’t familiar with this place so I’m showing you where it is. I’ll just take a tricycle later.”

How sweet!

When we finally get to the scarlet bookstore, I thanked her and waved goodbye.

“Ate! Don’t forget the letter I told you to edit and print, okay? It should be ready tonight.”

How sweet.

I entered and left my bag at the baggage counter then started looking for the materials I needed.

Masking tape: check!

H and B Faber-Castell pencils: check!

Faber-Castell eraser: check!

Faber-Castell Classic Colored Pencils: check!

Ooops. Then I saw it. It’s a set of 36 Faber-Castell Classic Colored Pencils and it cost more than a hundred pesos cheaper than what I have. But it's also 12 pieces less. I held it up and compared. It will be wise to check which colors were included in the 48-piece set that were not in the 36-piece set. But the free DVD was put in the place that would not allow me to see the colors in the set. Great.

I spent more than one minute thinking and arguing with myself over which one is better.

Sure. The other one is way cheaper but it’s not the best I can have. I mean, I don’t mind spending a lot for something really good. I might be able to save myself from spending almost two hundred bucks but it won’t save me from the disappointment that I will get later on from not being able to make the right color combinations or settling with my limited palette. 12 colors – THEY MATTER!

Then a realization hit me.

Why do I settle for the temporary happiness something gives me when I can have something better? If it makes me feel good for now, will it last?

That’s it. I believe I know where my problem is now.

Long term effects plus good quality: CHECK!

It’s time now to get the papers. I went upstairs to pick some really good Strathmore or Canson paper. Wow! Just the thought of it really makes me feel good! I remember my sorrow during my high school days when I can’t purchase these art materials because they are very expensive. I remember the hard times I have to endure thinking about combining different colors to get a more complicated one because I only have the 12 basic, limited colors… (Screeching sound.) But that’s over.

I pulled a sheet of plastic-covered beige Canson paper just to get disappointed. Damn, they look like they have been touched by someone who hates them! It took me ages before I can get the neatest of them all. I was planning to get two sheets of Canson but because of their misfortune, I just chose to get a Berkeley instead. Poor Canson papers.

I went to the counter to pay for the items. The cashier carefully placed them, except the papers, in a plastic bag. She sweetly asked me if I want to take advantage of the bag the bookstore’s offering for Php99.

“No thanks.”

“Okay.” Then she smiled. She held the two sheets of watercolor paper up and placed them on the counter.

“Is it okay if I fold them?”

“Ugh… Please don’t. I had a hard time getting the smooth ones. You can just rol-“

“Okay. I understand. I’ll just fold them,” she said with an I’m-not-stupid-I-know-what-you-mean kind of smile.

I opened my mouth to stop her from folding it but before I could utter a sound of protest, she has already rolled it, wrapped it with a plastic strip and secured it with a tape.

“Anything else, ma’am?”

“No. That would be it. Thank you.”

What I Want

(In which my hands are aching to feel it again.)

***

Before I got myself into the trouble, which I am still paying the consequences of until now, I was a different person. I see beauty in almost everything. I love meeting new people. I love to see different smiles from different faces. And most especially, I love the art that has been with me since the first time I got comfortable with my pencil.

I loved drawing and painting. But because of my asthma, I was advised not to expose myself with paints anymore. So I am more comfortable using colored pencils. I draw every time I feel like drawing – or whenever I see something beautiful. Until I got myself burned.

The last time I drew was when those eyes were locked with mine. They were so expressive I got inspired and with a mechanical pencil, I was able to draw his left eye. I was still lucky though. I was supposed to draw his face but he was so uncomfortable I swear he could have snatched the drawing and torn it. But my little talent has saved me. When he saw his own eye on the paper, he smiled. He smiles whenever he sees it. I especially like his smile the last time he saw it. But that was ages ago. History.

I regret not being able to draw his portrait. But whenever I see it now, I don’t smile. Not anymore.

Now I don’t want to be unfair with the art with which I have grown up. Not when it’s my only escape from the harsh realities this world has never been tired of bringing on me. Not when it makes me feel special.

What I want now is to relive the days when me and my pencils are one. And we make beautiful and expressive things again – as beautiful and as expressive as the eyes that used to see through me.

The pain passes but the beauty remains.
- Pierre-Auguste Renoir