On Seeing Leaves

I've begun reading Harold Speed's "The Art and Science of Drawing." I've been trying to read a borrowed copy, but finally bought my own--I take such pleasure in the act of underlining and starring sentences, of jotting down notes on the page; I connect with what I am reading and I remember more.

I've barely finished the preface and introduction and my mind is already swimming with ideas about what art is and what I am trying to do. A big part of my journey as an artist is seeing the extraordinary in the ordinary and feeling something in connection to it. I often take mental note of things I encounter and have surges of emotion in response to things I see, but I rarely record them. This is an enormous resource to draw from in my artistic development, and is equally important as the drawings and paintings I produce.




On Monday I walked home from my evening drawing class, sometime after ten. The streets were empty, the night was crisp and sky clear. A layer of frost covered the thousands of leaves that crept up onto the sidewalks and spilled into the streets. The ground moved with me as I walked, the leaves sparkling with a multitude of tiny reflections of the moon's bright light.

Last night I walked home from posing for the evening portrait class. It had been sleeting on and off throughout the day, but a softer snow fell as I walked. I paused to catch a snowflake on my tongue, and became attuned to a quiet rush of sound. Snowflakes were hitting the leaves on the ground in such a melodic way that for a moment I thought I was walking close to a cascading river.

This morning I sloshed to school through the slushy remains of about an inch of snow. Many of the leaves laying along the sidewalks, in the gutters and streets had nearly disintegrated. Stems and thin membranes colored brown and yellow and mush stuck to one another in thick piles. I imagined myself wading through a leaf stew that had been cooking for too long. I feel for the squirrels. Winter has announced its arrival.