Resistance to Art

Not knowing everything is embarrassing for some people.

As a recovering perfectionist, I get that completely irrational, ego saving nonsense.

When I hear artists interrupting, trying to beat an instructor answering a question, or explaining their way of doing things that somehow got them a crappy drawing and refusing to try another way, it’s all I can do to remain silent and model-y. From an outside perspective, figure drawing seems like it should be easy: just draw what you see.

Actually, figure drawing is hard. And perfectionism puts a stranglehold on the ability to learn, thus leading to more frustration on the part of the artist and me the model listening. So I wrote out something that I think might help people get over their impulses to defend their inexplicable inability to draw like Leonardo da Vinci in their first class.

Drawing and art do not have to do with intellectualism or being smart. They have to do with learning how to see.

You may expect to progress more quickly because other new areas of knowledge may have come more easily to you.

Accept that this may not.
Accept that learning to draw is a process.
Accept that everyone will do horrible drawings. (Yes, even you.) Treat yourself gently.

Allow yourself to listen to the instructor and try suggestions, even if (or especially if) they don’t make sense at all or are outside your comfort zone.

The instructor has been through this process of learning how to see, understands how difficult it is, and is there guide you and help you. Don’t be afraid to do what feels unnatural.

What is important is doing the work. Draw. That is the only way to get better.

When you walk into the studio, leave all perfectionist or “having standards” tendencies behind. Your job is to do the work, not judge the work.

Keep drawing. Keep listening. You will get better. And eventually, it will be art.

“A drawing is never done, it just stops in an interesting place.”

Art, Obesity, and Lying

I just read a great post about what  ”health” means. I want all those people who protest the idea in our culture that “certain bodies are beautiful, acceptable, and desireable while others aren’t” to shut up or relax. That’s what beauty is. It’s exclusive and/or temporary (Ex: a cherry blossom). More to the point, beauty is individual. Someone is beautiful because you can see something special about them.

As a figure model, I pose for artists and painters. The artists love to have someone with a little extra on their figures because it makes for a more interesting drawing. No human figure is the same, and that’s beautiful.  The human figure is beautiful, especially when seen through the eyes of someone who looks to see and create beauty.

The Greek saying “sound body, sound mind” brought us a lot of  great statues. The ideal of the male body wasn’t just about looking good, it was a symbol of the beauty of his thoughts. Obesity is wearing an out of control psychological problem on your sleeve. It’s an over-share.

Looking at people who are sick or fat  is disturbing because it reminds us of our mortality and weakness. Drink all the green tea you like, you can still get cancer. Doctors and bosses judge fatness because it looks like laziness and stupidity: those avoidable health problems linked to obesity cost money.

I’ve gained a little bit of weight, about 5-10 pounds. My boyfriend said that before I looked too skinny, but being skinny felt better to me. Now I don’t feel as free to move around. The heaviness of my belly presses on my epigastrium, and when I bike, the tops of my legs bump into it. I feel trapped. This is why I don’t understand “fat acceptance.” Being fat is accepting oppression and restriction, accepting it into your own body. Why push for acceptance of oppression?

I like feeling my body move, the muscles stretch and flex. I love how the wind and sweat feel on my skin, and how it feels to play a sport well. People who say they exercise “for their health” and not for fun make me sad. I picture florescent lights, a treadmill, a TV droning in the background. That is not healthy.

I also don’t believe in lying to people that you care about their health and that’s why you want them to lose weight. Because you can be fat and healthy (able to run around for a while without being winded). They know you’re lying, weight is personal, and they would make the choice to lose weight if they were ready. Fat is hiding. Guilt and shame have no place in something so personal as our bodies.

Guilt and shame bring excuses. Whenever defenders of fat talk about ‘hereditary factors’ or ‘medical issues’ or ‘metabolism’ or other reasons why an individual is fat, I scoff heartily. There are more fat people now than there were 40 years ago. That is not because a crap ton of new medical issues or hereditary factors have appeared, or that everyone’s metabolism ran out of steam at the same time. Gaining weight is done by consuming more energy units than you burn. This is really not a  mystery.

I believe in pursuit of self knowledge and identity. But “fat” is not an identity. It’s an escape.

Barcelona Chicago

Barcelona was good. I’ve had time to reflect.

We rented an apartment for the first 4 days quite by accident in El Raval.

El Raval feels a bit like Ukrainian Village in it’s hoodie restaurants, relaxed bars, and grunginess combined with weird shops. Why the bad reputation? Sometimes I feel like the same information gets recycled by content creators and no one bothers going anywhere.

The next place I visit, I’m going to get to know the city by jogging through it. Traveling light (and preplanned laziness) prevented me from bringing my running shoes, but perhaps next time I’ll chance it.

Not thinking about jogging and babies

But there are no joggers in Spain. Not once did I see anyone sweating in work out clothes. Any exercise must be got naturally by the 12 miles of strolling about that every Spaniard must do every day. And I didn’t see as many strollers. They must train their kids to walk, no whining. If ever I got comfortable comparing it to Ukrainian Village in terms of feel, the almost eerie absence of joggers snapped me out of it.

I regret not spending time alone. I regret not going to the beach. I regret not going to doing more research on where the hell to get a good meal, because we could have eaten better. Tourist cannot live on greasy prix fixe and tapas alone. I’m sure lunches could have been better, but definitely not dinner.

The Pharoah OF COURSE serves Italian pizza with Irish beer. One block from the Sagrada Familia. We didn't go.

Dinner doesn’t exist. Want a little sandwich and a beer? Fried balls of something with simple delicious plum wine? Maybe some anchovies wrapped around olives and a glass of cava? No, I’d like a hearty stew that will fortify me against a long night, and a break from all this damned drinking. Alas: “Eso, no.” I kept getting drunk on accident, and the best meal I had while there was doner kebab.

We found a Flat Iron and a Blue Line while in Spain. The Flat Iron was a rock and roll bar called Valhalla with a mixed crowd where everyone sang along to Pantera’s “Walk“. Linea Blaua was just a bar/breakfast joint (also by a Blue Line subway stop) where you could get a beer and fresh squeezed orange juice.

I eat croissants more regularly since I’ve been back, and my cafe con leche is still going strong, but I can now think of it as cafe amb let.

This was one of my favorite moments: