Portrait of an art class
Portrait of an art class
Day 22: write a poem that engages with another art form. I go to a local art group once a fortnight, so this seemed an obvious choice.
The sitter sits, relaxed, composed,
Hands gently clasped, a smile playing across her lips
An impulse soon regretted, discarded.
I sit and look, then move my chair
To get a better angle.
Lay out my pad, pencils, eraser,
Pick up a fine line pencil,
Take a breath, plunge in,
Make a line, any line, make a start.
One line follows another
Skull, forehead, cheek, nose, chin,
The outline of a head emerges
Then brow, ears, lips. Eyes always last,
Despite convention, peer advice.
Decide to risk some colour,
Skin tone so hard to replicate
Not pink, nor brown, nor yellow, quite,
Green, blue and purple all combine
To make their mark.
A likeness needs distance:
Screw up your eyes and squint, until
The face dissolves, exists as shapes,
Blocks of light and shade.
The sitter sits, still as a statue,
I sigh, and stretch, flex fingers,
Sit back and look again.
The nose too long, the lips too thin
The sun has moved the shadows.
A darkness here, highlight there,
Everything is fixable, to a point.
It's hard to know when to stop,
When further marks obscure,
Rather than reveal the likeness.
Always finishing too soon, I use the time
To draw their clothes, as eloquent
As the laughter or frown lines on their face.
By unspoken consent, at 4pm
We release our pent up breath,
Lay down our tools, line up our work.
Each style so different, the face emerging
To a greater or lesser extent.
We murmur praise, are humble in our deprecation,
Thank the sitter, and pack away our work.
Perhaps it will go better next time.
© Copyright 2019. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
Day 22: write a poem that engages with another art form. I go to a local art group once a fortnight, so this seemed an obvious choice.
The sitter sits, relaxed, composed,
Hands gently clasped, a smile playing across her lips
An impulse soon regretted, discarded.
I sit and look, then move my chair
To get a better angle.
Lay out my pad, pencils, eraser,
Pick up a fine line pencil,
Take a breath, plunge in,
Make a line, any line, make a start.
One line follows another
Skull, forehead, cheek, nose, chin,
The outline of a head emerges
Then brow, ears, lips. Eyes always last,
Despite convention, peer advice.
Decide to risk some colour,
Skin tone so hard to replicate
Not pink, nor brown, nor yellow, quite,
Green, blue and purple all combine
To make their mark.
A likeness needs distance:
Screw up your eyes and squint, until
The face dissolves, exists as shapes,
Blocks of light and shade.
The sitter sits, still as a statue,
I sigh, and stretch, flex fingers,
Sit back and look again.
The nose too long, the lips too thin
The sun has moved the shadows.
A darkness here, highlight there,
Everything is fixable, to a point.
It's hard to know when to stop,
When further marks obscure,
Rather than reveal the likeness.
Always finishing too soon, I use the time
To draw their clothes, as eloquent
As the laughter or frown lines on their face.
By unspoken consent, at 4pm
We release our pent up breath,
Lay down our tools, line up our work.
Each style so different, the face emerging
To a greater or lesser extent.
We murmur praise, are humble in our deprecation,
Thank the sitter, and pack away our work.
Perhaps it will go better next time.
© Copyright 2019. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
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