somewhere out there

 

Second drawing in the series 'somewhere out there', completed yesterday evening, that is the evening of 25 November 2020. I worked on in artificial light until late in the eveing, taking my time, unhurriedly placing white touches of the pencil on the black paper. Yesterday was especially poignant, as it was the anniversary of my maternal Grandmother's death; she died when I was just twelve years old, but I can remember the day as clearly as though it had been indeed yesterday. Something about the quality of my mother's voice as she took the telephone call alerted me and I knew without being told that the person with whom I had had not an easy relationship had died.I loved her, as I love my mother, both women presented and still present, in the case of my mother, difficult personality traits, as I am sure that I do also.

It would appear that my drawings are about so much more than scatterings of stars in imaginary galaxies; how can I convey the texture of each day, each evening, which seem to me to be intrinsic to each drawing?It may be that the titles for each drawing could communicate something of the feeling tone of the time during which they were made. If the overall title; the title of the series, is 'somewhere out there, there is nothing to prevent me from titling each indivdual drawing within the series., thus taking into account the quality of the light on each particular day, for example. Yesterday was a cool, calm day. The quality of the light was beautiful; silvery gold ; a tranquil sunset closing a tranquil day. My mother and I compare weather notes each day; yesterday I was able to describe the luminous afternoon for her. I refrained from reminding her that it was the anniversary of her own Mother's death, for it would have caused her such pain. Instead I remembered my Grandmother in my own fashion, dating the drawing made that day, with care on the back, holding her in my thoughts as I worked.

Her name was Violet Lanchbury, sister of the composer and ballet conductor, John Lanchbury. She came from a gifted family; her brothers and sisters were clever, but it seems to me  that although gifted intellectually, they were not so in circumstance. They were born just before the outbreak of the First World War; they were adults during the Second World War, adults bringing up families. My Grandmother removed her family to South Yorkshire following the bombing of their London house, during which her beloved goldfish which lived in a tank on the kitchen windowsill were killed; this was her deciding factor. I have pondered upon this over the years since my mother recounted their loss to me. I can visualise the shattered tank on the flagstones, see the beautiful golden fish scattered and mutilated; the image is as sharp and poignant in my mind's eye as though I had been there myself.

I do not believe that my mother has recovered from the traumatic experience of having lived through war years in London, despite her having been evacuated, effectively, by her mother at the age of eight, just two years into the war. My Grandmother spoke little of it to us, her grandchildren; I do not know how much she and my mother talked of it. I only have my mother's recollections and her precious writings to communicate something of the quality of those times. Perhaps the titles for my drawings could reflect something of that.

somewhere out there

 

A more meditative, measured approach; a better drawing.I took time over this drawing, was not swept along by the urge to finish, thought carefully about where upon the paper I placed each star, began by drawing the most tiny; just pin points of white to denote the tinest of stars. Fewer stars, a more believable drawing. Before I began the drawing, I sat with the piece of sooty black paper upon my drawing board, and just looked and thought. Slow drawing is more conducive to the drawing's success, and is calming for me at this time of international crisis. I am, as I wrote in an earlier post, conscious of the precious photographs behind me, and the nearness of the beautiful piano, which has remained silent for the last few days; I have not had the concentration or the will to practise. Drawing and practising the piano both require patience, but the activities are very different. Perhaps this afternoon, a still, pale afternoon in late November will be the afternoon when I resume my study of the Satie. 

I am aware of persistent low mood, which has no doubt affected my will to practise, and is affecting my will to draw; it is difficult to summon the necessary motivation. It is , however useful to experience inactivity sometimes; I have researched an artist whose work I have found that I hold in high regard; her name is Frances Richardson, and her drawings are beautiful; spare graphite pencil drawings of repeated noughts and crosses in geometric configurations. Whilst looking at images of her work, I remembered drawings of my own which prefigured the recent starfield drawings; drawings of imaginary constellations drawn in grey and black on a neutrally toned paper made by the same mill as the mill that makes the black Crowsnest. The drawings sought to represent the configurations of stars as they might appear on a star chart, or map; I looked at them with a sense of how I might remake them, make fresh drawings with more attention paid to the placing of the tiny black or grey discs denoting the stars. I have looked at star atlases, and stars are often represented in this way. 

At present a new starfield drawing lies upon the drawing board; as before I am paying great attention to it, so that the act of making the drawing is extremely slow paced and the concentration required is considerable. It feels better to draw like this, as though I were really drawing, rather than just dotting a piece of black paper with little white discs, far too many and appearing, on close inspection to be exactly that. Such a long time it takes to hone and mature one's craft;but I feel that I have learned an immeasurable amount during the passage of the last few days, it has been a reflective period.

Does drawing lift one's mood, or does one require a more elevated mood in order to enable one to draw? I suspect that both conditions come into play. Certainly, when I apply myself to my craft, after a while I experience a lessening of the debilitating effects of depression or lowered mood, although when I am at my lowest, the capacity to draw is lost to me completely. At present, then, I am able to place white marks on black paper, evalutae, meditate and reflect, although I admit that these processes are slowed, as though I were caught up in one of those dreams in which all mobility is slowed, or impossible, like trying to run underwater. But I don't wish to hurry over the drawing, my slowness is deliberation; it is the act of sitting down to the drawing which is the most difficult at the moment.

I know that my father is smiling at me; each time I turn around he is there, he looks over my shoulder at the drawings. My drawing board lies upon the table, the window is to my left, this afternoon, tranquil light filters through the branches of the Cotoeaster, which still bears a few Autumn gold leaves. The piano is but an arm's length from me, I am secure within the narrow confines of my working space; I could not wish for a better studio. 

Eager for the delivery of newly ordered paper, I wait impatiently for post-none today, maybe tomorrow! I know that the paper, a fresh consignment of Old Master Crowsnest , is on it's way; a question hovers in my mind, do I go ahead and order another paper from the Old Master range? 'Frobisher' is pale, off white and would perhaps be perfect for the star atlas drawings. It is pleasurable to think on them; I'll bide my time before ordering, and perhaps experiment a little on paper less beautiful and expensive.

It is now late afternoon,, the days are short and still shortening as we turn towards the December ; the garden is in shadow, in just half an hour dusk will have descended and I shall close the curtains against the darkness. I must needs repair to my place of work and continue with my drawing whilst there is still light in the sky. Natural light is perfect to draw by, electric less so, but imagine how difficult drawing would have been by candlelight. Whilst daylight prevails, albeit the nild light of late afternoon, I shall take myself to my waiting work.

Remnants

 

More remnant drawings, made on Nepalese Lokta paper, a very different animal to the Old Master Crowsnest that I wrote of in the previous post. This paper is fine, soft and tissuey; I can rub, and indeed do, coloured pencil sharpenings into the surface in a manner impossible with the Old Master. The paper has a slight velvet sheen, and is fragile, so that applying a moistened pencil point to the surface removes some of the paper; this does not happen with the Old Master. I love both papers and take pleasure in the differing techniques available to me when I use them.

The drawings above were made in a flurry of activity over the course of just a couple of days; in that respect they are very different to the starfield drawings which each take several days to complete. It is helpful to engage in different ways of working, although I was very distrustful of this way of going on at first. 

I work at the end of the long room downstairs, at the table by the window. Behind me is the piano and on the wall above the piano, the two photographs that I wrote of in an earlier post, that of my father, and that of the three kittens at the lodge in Hampshire. Each day I sit at my drawing board and work, taking comfort from knowing that the piano is but an arm's length away. A friend sent me a copy of Eric Satie's Gymnopedie for my recent birthday, which I am in the process of learning; the music lies open on the piano. Somehow, the delicate, spare compositions complement my work and practice. It pleases me to think that my father and the kittens are close by as I practise and draw.

somewhere out there

 

Not Nepalese Lokta paper this time, but a paper handmade in a small mill in Montreal and obtainable through a London stockist. Old Master 'Crowsnest' is a sooty black and made to a seventeenth century recipe using sisal, cotton offcuts and waste from the fashion industry; an old recipe made modern. The paper has a fine tooth and readily accepts detail, which the Lokta paper does not, so the touching of a needle sharp white pencil point to the surface leaves a minute white mark. These drawings take days to make and the making of them is an absorbing, calming process; I realise that when I first sit down to my task, I am holding my breath, which, after a few marks have been made, I gradually and consciously expel from my lungs with a sense of release. Thus open to the Universe, I can begin. 

I work right up to the edge of the paper, which has four lovely deckled edges, so that the entire sheet of paper is covered with tiny points of light , or stars. My starfields are imaginary; it's just possible that the configurations of stars and star clusters that I draw have their place in the actual heavens. When I am drawing, I think of the little girl that I was, on that evening when my father and I stood and looked up at the star filled canopy above us, and I had my first taste of infinity. The star drawings, which have the collective title,'somewhere out there', and form an ongoing series, are thus dedicated to my father. It is my hope that he would have liked them.