A Trail of Sanded Stones: Scribbles.

Florence Sketchbook.

I entered this class, doubtful. Normally I dread drawing—my tendencies to seek perfect lines turn one quick sketch into six hours of torture, my eraser and I in constant battle.

And as I expected, the first few weeks were painful. Our prof would weave us in and out of the streets of Florence, stopping for twenty minutes here and there, pointing to nothing in particular and announcing, “sketch this.” And I would sit, frozen, pencil mid-air. I’d draw a few lines, scowl at the imperfections, erase, try again, crumple up the paper, try again, and then turn mournful eyes to my prof as she walked by to inspect.

And she would, in broken English, kindly say to me, “Just sketch the space, Brie.” But the space was enormous—people constantly moving, buildings surrounding me, carts selling leather goods, statues sprouting from broken cobblestone. And just as I was starting to absorb the wealth of information around me, we were off again, moving to the next space. Yet I had nothing to show, besides the soggy paper torn to bits in my clenched fist and a sour attitude.

However, as the semester has progressed, I’ve become more resolute. This is a ‘sketchbook’ class, Brie. Lighten up. I set timers, I use pen, I hide my eraser out of reach (currently it’s in the pocket of my raincoat). And when the time is up, twenty or thirty minutes, I shrug, put the cap on my pen, clean up my watercolors, and close my sketchbook firmly.

In the process, scribbling has taken on a new importance. Whenever I get too frustrated with my current sketch, I literally look away from my work and scribble over the page. This way, I can’t cling too closely to perfection. And there’s something about scribbles that seems to make a sketch more authentic. Even Da Vinci scribbled (I think).

Below are a few of my sketches (in order from newest to oldest). In a way, it’s heartbreaking to post them. But I’ve learned that, while not a perfect work of art, even sketches have their place. And I realize that if I don’t post them, come December 19^th, I might be tempted to leave my sketchbook behind in the dumpster on our street, with the shallow excuse that I didn’t have enough room in my suitcase. So here’s the proof---that I was enrolled in a drawing course and that I learned something along the way.

The drawing of a hand is sort of a joke. Our prof gives us homework every week. And this particular week, she was at a loss and simply instructed “draw a hand.” Seizing hold of all my artistic liberties, I decided to make it purple and yellow. Why not? I thought. A hand any other way is simple uninteresting. I assumed she wouldn’t care, that I had inserted a touch of modernity into the Renaissance structure of our past work.

But, when I showed her my drawing, she was silent, and turned to me, soberly. “The colors are…wrong. Don’t you think?”

I blinked, confused. “Uhh…I made the colors wrong on purpose, just for fun.”

Expressionless, she consulted her grade book, wrote something down, and replied. “Perhaps stay true to reality for next week.”

I guess artistic liberties have their limits.