6 posts tagged “original”
Here are the sketches I mentioned in the previous post.
I took Aubrey's suggestion and decided to try charcoal. Unfortunately, there was no charcoal around, so I took an 8B graphite pencil and did a few doodles. I wanted to get an idea of the horse's anatomy before attempting it in brush and ink. I've decided to be a little honest and show you the trial drawings as well.
The first is one of my favourite horse positions, which I used to demarcate the three basic parts of the body (you can see the pencil lines clearly.) The second was merely some doodling to get a feel of the horse's shape and posture, and the last was to get an idea of how the neck and chest muscles would "knot up" when a horse rears.
Of course, it's easier said than done. When I finally attempted the inkbrush sketches, I floundered. Gaaah.
This was an attempt at a perspective (note the foreshortening of the front left leg) which turned out ... er ... not so correct. While I think I got the musculature and roundness right, the front legs have gone wrong somewhere. I like the way I captured the movement though - especially in the swishing tail.
The poor animal looks like he's on steroids!
I tried the rearing pose again. I didn't get the back legs quite right, maybe because I hadn't any space left at the bottom of the page.
At last. Something close to what I wanted.
The other versions:
And finally a random sketch, this time not so happy:
But the glumness belies some good news: one of my oldest internet friends (we go back three years!) was blessed with a baby girl on Saturday the 5th! We've met only twice or thrice, and I couldn't even attend his wedding in June last year. But I'll hopefully get to meet him and his wife and newborn this June! I'm so happy for him! Wheeee!
So I tried out some more stuff yesterday. But this time, I avoided the fountain pen completely.
Lauri was right - cats are harder to draw because of their fluidity. Even when they're still, their sinuous lines give the feeling of constant movement. So I decided to paint my favourite animal since childhood - the horse. Since the horse is such a large and powerful animal, and its structure and musculature smacks of solidity and sturdiness, I figured it would be easy to capture a horse that is not moving.
I've always believed that horses are the most beautiful creatures on earth. The very sight of a horse running with its mane trailing behind and hooves kicking up dust is enough to keep me on the edge of the seat, covered in goosebumps all over. (No wonder I loved the film Seabiscuit.) When I want to feel invigorated or refreshed, all I have to do is visualise a jet black horse, untamed, unsaddled, galloping along a beach as the waves thrash against the shore and a strong breeze fans his mane and tail. It works.
Unfortunately, my rendition does not live up to my art-geekery.
Here's the darker version. I think the darker shading makes the horse look more statuesque,
but not necessarily alive. More like a granite sculpture.
Once I finished the sketch, I realised that a standing or still horse is best captured in a solid medium like pen, charcoal, or with more viscous paints such as oils or acrylics. I suppose the ink and brush would have worked better if the horse was in motion. It's not necessarily a rule of course - it's just that, to do justice to an animal as beautiful as a horse, it's better to use a medium that would complement the horse's action in the best possible way.
Bah humbug. The simple truth is, I need to work harder at my brush and ink rendering.
But on the bright side - I sketched another girl, and it turned out marvellous in comparison to the earlier one.
And the dark version:
I experimented with some more brush-and-ink techniques yesterday. I'm not a trained artist, and I used ordinary Sunlit Bond paper which made it hard to blend the strokes, but these two turned out reasonably okay. I did these from imagination, which is why they don't look real, and there are a couple of light strokes which are hard to see in the scanned image, though they're visible on the actual paper.
I used a #00 round brush to draw the outlines and filled them in with a # 6 round brush. The ink was ordinary black fountain pen ink, with varying degrees of dilution. I added a few definitions with a fountain pen containing the same ink.
I love how the folds of the girl's dress have turned out and I particularly like the way I've fleshed out her lips and upper left arm. However, I still need to work more on the lighting of her face, neck and hair, and I think the use of fountain pen to detail her eyes and nose bridge was a bad idea.
For the tabby, I used a #8 flat brush in addition to the #00 and the #6. I'm not happy with the overall appearance of the cat - the proportions have gone awry - but I still like the ambiguous brush strokes around the edges that give an idea of the fur's thickness. I also like the variation in the darkness of the markings, and the whiskers on the cat's right have turned out well. Again, I used a fountain pen for a few details, but, like the case of the girl, maybe that wasn't such a good idea.
I darkened these a bit on Photoshop to see how they look:
I think I need to get over my fear of using raw, loose brush strokes. My previous inkbrush sketches were much better, though I admit I was very emotionally involved in them when I did them, which may have made a difference.
These two are my favourites:
All said and done, I love sketching, especially with brush and ink. The fluidity of the medium is very liberating. I'd love to receive tips from any watercolour experts/ enthusiasts.
I deliberately chose the song and the film and put the words with the scenes. Hope you like it.
(Here's the Google link in case Youtube doesn't work.)
Warning: Spoilers included.
... more photochopsuey.
A Short Story
The rumble comes suddenly. First I hear it, then I feel it beneath my feet. The Earth's snores. I wouldn't blame her; the toxic fumes of industrialisation have probably worsened her sleep apnoea.
I look up at the sky – or whatever is visible of it from a sidewalk of the urban shopping area. Renovated Victorian buildings jostle for space alongside billboards and lamp-posts; the sky seems far away, left out of the hallowed circle. Monsoon clouds as out-of-season as last year’s platform shoes are slowly rolling in; a heavy breeze, like a gigantic invisible mouth, blows on the dying embers of red autumn leaves. Yet, the leaves do not blaze emerald with renewed strength; instead, they scatter with the gusts, eventually out of sight, leaving bare branches in their wake. Here and there pointillist patches of green cling valiantly as if in knowledge that their perseverance will be rewarded by showers.
I clutch my shopping bag safely to my chest. These are the new-fangled
"environment-friendly" paper bags, they said, which pleased me. Nestled
within was a treasure; a gorgeous coral satin negligee for my new
sister-in-law, a black bomber jacket for my brother, earrings of pearl
set in sterling silver for a cousin, and a snazzy pair of Nikes in time
for a nephew’s inter-collegiate basketball tournament. I feel like
Santa Claus, except I drive a sports car instead of reindeer and my
toys are in a fancy paper bag instead of a sack. Unfortunately, it will
be a while before someone makes environment-friendly bags that are
strong enough to withstand Nature's windy tantrums.
I regret wearing my new shoes - faux leather camping boots that cost a
bomb and look smashing, but I doubt if they'll be the same after wading
through ankle-deep puddles of acid rain. I regret wearing my new maroon
rain parka because a passing car will splash muddy water all over me
and ruin the French velvet trim. I regret buying that new shade of
lipstick I didn't really want because it’s a deep violet – too Goth for
my taste. Why did I buy it? To impress someone. Who? Anyone. I don't
know. And in all likelihood, probably never will.
The bill peeks out of the paper bag, ready to fly away and take with it
all proof that I bought all this; with my own money, which I earned
from my respectable job as a ad copywriter, which I secured through my
own meritorious college education, which I got on a scholarship. All
proof that I have even lived. I tuck it in deeper inside the paper bag,
then on second thought, decide that it is a better idea to put it into
my grey purse in full view of everybody. It would be stronger proof of
the power I wield through my financial independence. Brandish thy
ruby-studded sword in the enemy’s face, I say.
(What enemy?)
I stop at the traffic junction of the two lanes, one going north-west
and the other going south-west, that meet the one-way road opposite;
along that road, in the midst of banks and restaurants, is the car
parking. That’s the trouble with space in the cities nowadays – they’re
filled to the brim with too many buildings that have too many people,
who have too many cars, mine included. The parking is a good hundred
metres away from the mall, and every time I go shopping I have to wade
through a blanket of traffic-generated dust and smoke – dust and smoke
that defeats the purpose of bathing, let alone makeup. (Yes, that
lipstick really bothers me.) But I can’t go return it; it wouldn’t be
proper, because a few hundred rupees shouldn’t mean much to someone
like me, right?
Opposite, near the car parking, I notice an elderly woman. I see her
every time I visit the mall; she’s blind, and makes a living hawking
roasted gram. Her husband, who’s also blind and elderly, sits a little
distance away, wrapped in a tattered purple shawl patterned with
fluorescent, almost iridescent yellow flowers. I haven’t seen him that
often; he doesn’t seem particularly disabled, and I’ve often wondered
why he doesn’t work like she does, though I seem to remember him
sometimes directing the owners of the cars whenever they’re reversing
out of the parking lot. He probably used to have extraordinary hearing
in his youth, as do most blind people; but now he’d be a little deaf.
One can’t possibly be aurally keen after years of staying all day in
the vicinity of blaring traffic horns.
Probably lives off her earnings, I think. Just like other husbands. There’s no parasite like old parasite.
Together, the sight of their tiny ramshackle cart of pulses against row
upon row of shiny sleek cars makes for that typical tradition/modernity
composition, dutifully executed by all those kids in the arts college
downtown, who end up putting the same kind of paintings at every
exhibition; of street urchins watching city schoolboys playing cricket,
of the teenage girl with a baby sibling on her hip selling balloons at
traffic junctions. Of elderly hawkers selling roasted gram in front of
a gargantuan shopping mall.
The light turns red, and I start to cross. Of course, just because the
pedestrian sign is green doesn’t mean we have the right of way. A
couple of bicycles zip past in violation, and one pockmarked fellow
leers at me and shouts out something I don’t hear and don’t care to
hear; but nevertheless, I pull my parka down over the back pockets of
my jeans.
As I approach the old woman, I impulsively reach into my purse and pull
out a five-rupee note, as I always do. I can never eat anything off a
street while I’m dressed like this, but I can also never walk by her
and not contribute to her daily bread while I’m dressed like this. But
I’m protected from the stares of the public by the one-way traffic that
hurtles past the parked cars, away from me. Also the sunglasses, which
I like to think of as a cover for this - my occasional two-minute
private rebellion against the trappings of my upper-class comfort. When
I’ve been in this area at night-time, I’ve even driven all the way home
with one hand on the steering wheel and the other popping gram into my
mouth, with the local radio station playing Bollywood songs of
yesteryear. No chance of being spotted; in the dark busy lanes of
Mumbai, when every car is just another set of blinding headlights and
honking horn, I’m invisible and safe from the embarrassment of being
spotted slouching below my income.
I walk towards her, when there is a loud cracking sound. Suddenly the
atmosphere is awash with grey wetness. The honks in the passing traffic
behind me grow more pronounced and punctuate the atmosphere with
increasing frequency; splattering sounds of running feet pick up tempo.
In between, my ear catches a few shouts of delight.
I turn back to the old woman, intending to give her the note and slip
away. I can’t buy the gram now; it’d be too soggy, obviously, but the
rupee note can be tucked in somewhere in the folds of her sari and used
when it’s dry, and I’d be done with my Benefaction For The Week. But
she’s ignoring me; instead, she’s hurriedly covering all her precious
gram with cheap plastic lids. Her husband is helping her out, which
surprises me; I never thought that man does anything other than sit in
a place all day and chatter with other vendors.
He puts a lid on the last black-iron vessel of gram, and just as I step forward, takes the tattered purple shawl off his shoulders and wraps it around his wife, so it’s covering both of them. His arm around her shoulder, they walk away quickly, pushing the cart, huddled together, the warmth of their bodies impervious to the rain.
Blurred figures run past, their movements and voices painting mixed
emotions: squeals of delight. Two boys run with chickens tucked in
their arms. A lone businessman in a long khaki raincoat, his head
unprotected, hails taxis. All this when there was hardly any lightning!
Two men carrying their shoes in their hands, united under a broken
black umbrella, navigating the slush. Hurry, the electricity might get
cut. A group of college girls on their way back from a soppy movie.
Muffled sounds of togetherness.
And in the midst of it all is me, standing right outside my parked car
in the downpour, drenched faux leather and velvet and paper bag of
treasures, far poorer than anyone else in that junction.
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