In the Zone. Anne King.
Athletes talk about ‘being in the zone’ when they feel their bodies can go on for ever; they are ‘charged’. The same can happen when drawing and you can choose to take yourself there. While in the zone your focal power will be extremely strong. You will work intuitively, without criticizing your work. Using predominately the right side of the brain you will tap into your intuitive side, and be able to create drawings with great feeling.
Speed drawing is one way to get ‘in the zone.’
Drawing at speed, you have no time to listen to the ‘inner critic’. It is like taking a short cut; your eye and hand communicate instinctively, and after twenty minutes of fast drawing exercises, you will find that you are drawing better than ever. Your eye-hand co-ordination will become fine-tuned, and you will be drawing naturally, without tension. That is the time to start the long drawing.
It is referred to as right brain drawing (think flowery letter R) as opposed to Left brain drawing. In fact you use both sides of your brain when drawing, but using predominantly right brain will get you into the zone, whereas the left brain is more logical, and its interference will constrain your drawing with its need for perfection. How many times have you looked at a drawing and admired the ‘feeling’ conveyed, even though a line here and there may be wrong? That drawing with feeling was done more with the right brain than the left. The object of the speed drawing exercise is to override the left side of your brain.
To speed yourself into the zone ideally you need a model to hold quick poses for you. This isn’t possible for most of us, so set up a still life of varying shapes and sizes, overlapping each other and on different levels, so that your eye has to travel around the set in all directions. Don’t worry about making it pretty, this is just an exercise.
Set up your easel and have plenty of newsprint and charcoal handy.
Get a kitchen timer, and work out a 30 - 45 minute programme for yourself. Write it down and stick to it, as though you were in a class. Try to work loosely, keeping your charcoal on the paper as much as possible, and your eyes more on the set-up than on your paper.
Hold your charcoal in the palm of your hand, arm outstretched, as though the charcoal is an extension of your arm. Keep your eyes moving quickly over the whole set up. You are aiming to get the whole thing down even in the one minute exercises. Don’t worry about the drawings ‘looking good’, they will be little more than scribbles at first. You are drawing for your own benefit, to achieve the zone. Once there, you can get out your good paper and really go for it.
An example of a programme might be:
5 x 1 minute drawings,
5 x 3 minute drawings,
1 x 5 minute drawing,
1 x 20 minute drawing.
Of course you can come back into the last drawing and work on it at length, but having that initial 20 minute limit forces you to keep up the speed and stay in the zone, so that the feeling of the work is maintained.
After 20 minutes of constant drawing, you stand back and have a good look at the work. This is the time to analyze the drawing and discover what needs ‘working up’, what should be ‘knocked back’, and where to highlight with white pastel.
Doing this exercise two or more times a week will move your drawing skill ahead noticeably. Reading isn’t enough, only by doing the exercise will you discover quite how powerful it can be. Working at speed challenges your spatial perception, fine tunes your eye-hand co-ordination and by-passes the critical side of your brain. When all these are achieved, and you are working hard and fast, you will be in the zone!
Monday, November 5, 2007
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
relating to Butcher of Panzano
When this was published in the saturday Age, the Editor noted that the Florentine steak used to be served with bone on. This was stopped during the Mad Cow era. So glad he told me!
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
The Butcher of Panzano
The sweet sound of La Boheme floated out on the warm spring air in old Panzano, Tuscany. As the grey stone street curved down the hill the music got louder and louder. We passed little shops that looked unchanged for an eternity; the bakers, enoteca, the vegetable shop, all closed because it was Sunday, silent and dark behind their copper-edged windows.
Rounding the corner we spotted a large blue ceramic cow with flowers in her hair standing to the left of the street, while on the right was the only shop open in the village. People were moving in and out, music was playing; it had all the hallmarks of a successful gallery opening back in Australia.
The smell of fresh blood soon disillusioned me. It was a butchers shop but like no other I had seen before. Behind the counter were a husband and wife team of great strength and character, in their forties or fifties, he with a strong Italian face and piercing eyes, she with a dramatic air and original zany glasses. He sang along with a few bars of the aria, and said, “Welcome welcome, come in and try the foods, have a glass of chianti”, and a young apprentice appeared offering drinks.
The place was an assault on the senses from all fronts: the rich smell, loud music, the sawdust beneath the feet, and impressive artwork. On the marble slab inside the shop stood a sculpture two and a half feet high of a classical female nude in graceful pose. Above it a traditional oil painting was beautifully executed, of fruit and fowl, and handsome drawings and prints were casually displayed. On the bench was laid a feast of the proprietor’s wares for us to try; cecchini (lard on bread flavoured with onion garlic and herbs) slices of tuscan bread with the peppery olive oil of the region for dipping, platters of his own salami, mortadella and meat loaf. So were all our senses enchanted by this clever butcher of Panzano. Naturally we bought his meats!
I left with a puzzle, – on the wall outside was a single red rose in a silver vase with a plaque beneath. To my limited knowledge of Italian it read, “In honour of the Florentine beefsteak – died 2002” I still wonder why.
Rounding the corner we spotted a large blue ceramic cow with flowers in her hair standing to the left of the street, while on the right was the only shop open in the village. People were moving in and out, music was playing; it had all the hallmarks of a successful gallery opening back in Australia.
The smell of fresh blood soon disillusioned me. It was a butchers shop but like no other I had seen before. Behind the counter were a husband and wife team of great strength and character, in their forties or fifties, he with a strong Italian face and piercing eyes, she with a dramatic air and original zany glasses. He sang along with a few bars of the aria, and said, “Welcome welcome, come in and try the foods, have a glass of chianti”, and a young apprentice appeared offering drinks.
The place was an assault on the senses from all fronts: the rich smell, loud music, the sawdust beneath the feet, and impressive artwork. On the marble slab inside the shop stood a sculpture two and a half feet high of a classical female nude in graceful pose. Above it a traditional oil painting was beautifully executed, of fruit and fowl, and handsome drawings and prints were casually displayed. On the bench was laid a feast of the proprietor’s wares for us to try; cecchini (lard on bread flavoured with onion garlic and herbs) slices of tuscan bread with the peppery olive oil of the region for dipping, platters of his own salami, mortadella and meat loaf. So were all our senses enchanted by this clever butcher of Panzano. Naturally we bought his meats!
I left with a puzzle, – on the wall outside was a single red rose in a silver vase with a plaque beneath. To my limited knowledge of Italian it read, “In honour of the Florentine beefsteak – died 2002” I still wonder why.
Feel good piece
I knew at first sight he wasn’t the full two bob. I felt sorry for him, standing beside the carriage door, clutching the handles of his pushbike. His head rolled and lollopped around, slack mouth abnormally red. I couldn’t see his bike, but he obviously loved it, head hanging down and peering from side to side. Absolutely fascinated.
Someone was looking after him. His dark hair was a smart pudding-basin around his forehead and ruddy ears, and his moustache was neatly trimmed. His hands, fiddling with the bike handles, constantly in motion, seemed to be all wrist bones and knuckles, protruding from the skimpy sleeves of his jacket. He pushed at his lower face, and then returned awkwardly to the bike handles, again and again, caressing, totally absorbed.
He got off at Boronia. I realized the bike wasn’t. It was a special walking aid with brake cables. He gyrated along behind it awkwardly, but his peaceful face, and the proud way he held the handlebars told the story. To him it was a bike – a shiny, chromium-plated bike. It was his ticket to freedom. He made his way down the platform, unaided, with the wind in his hair.
Someone was looking after him. His dark hair was a smart pudding-basin around his forehead and ruddy ears, and his moustache was neatly trimmed. His hands, fiddling with the bike handles, constantly in motion, seemed to be all wrist bones and knuckles, protruding from the skimpy sleeves of his jacket. He pushed at his lower face, and then returned awkwardly to the bike handles, again and again, caressing, totally absorbed.
He got off at Boronia. I realized the bike wasn’t. It was a special walking aid with brake cables. He gyrated along behind it awkwardly, but his peaceful face, and the proud way he held the handlebars told the story. To him it was a bike – a shiny, chromium-plated bike. It was his ticket to freedom. He made his way down the platform, unaided, with the wind in his hair.
Shadow
It raced along beside us, now horizontal, now vertical, as the bank receded and advanced again. Razor sharp in the crisp winter sunlight. Flickering and rippling it moulded itself, now to the grass, now the rough ground then swooping up to smear itself, serrated, along an old paling fence. So near I could have touched it – then gone again – sliding over the concrete and rusty metal and slowing to a halt, damping down the babble of graffiti which jostled for position on the station wall.
art/life theme
The negative spaces in our lives
(the space between the objects)
allow the light to shine through.
(the space between the objects)
allow the light to shine through.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Thoughts on couples
Autumn brings
Rounded love, deep and pure,
But oddly detached
Rounded love, deep and pure,
But oddly detached
.............
Play, ply me with fun
We’ll be serious soon enough,
And then we’ll be dead.
............
In warmth of afterglow
Skin on skin, interwoven
Hearts minds bodies.
In warmth of afterglow
Skin on skin, interwoven
Hearts minds bodies.
Thoughts on drawing
I draw,
Transporting energy from the living
Onto the paper.
My left hand makes a whole new world
Change brings energy.
Exploring lines
With feeling, reveal
The soul of the artist.
Bold lines, strong and dark,
show the strength,
courage is the reckless line.
Transporting energy from the living
Onto the paper.
My left hand makes a whole new world
Change brings energy.
Exploring lines
With feeling, reveal
The soul of the artist.
Bold lines, strong and dark,
show the strength,
courage is the reckless line.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Giving Birth to a Dancing Star
“We learn wisdom from failure much more than from success; we often discover what will do, by finding out what will not do and probably he who never made a mistake never made a discovery” Samuel Smiles.
I learn to paint and draw through a constant round of trial, failure, then trying again, until that technique has been conquered. It never stops – there is always a challenge and that’s what makes it exciting for me. Artists are never happy with their work; they return to the same themes again and again in their lives. Picasso’s bulls, Matisse’s odalisques, Monet’s waterlillies. They have their reasons, but I bet they are also determined to ‘get it right this time.’
Creative people are subject to emotional highs and, much worse, lows. When in this dark vacuum the whole business of making art seems difficult and fraught with terror. Fear of the blank white canvas is a well known artist’s block. In my periods of darkness I am convinced that I am worthless, and that the art world is a sham, trivial, pointless and heavily rigged in favour of a lucky few. This can go on for years until I somehow reach within and find the equilibrium so necessary to open up my heart to inspiration. The beauty has always been there, but I have been blind for the long dark period.
“Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding” Khalil Gibran.
Within the vortex I try to convey my thoughts and feelings in a visual way through drawing and painting. It becomes harder and harder, trying to do this thing that I’ve never succeeded at before, but now have a burning need to do. Many wasted sheets of paper and canvas later I am still no nearer to conveying my ideas, and am now plunged into despair by my ineptitude. I give up making art all together and stop attending exhibitions, reading about painters and all the other things that have up till now made my life a pleasure.
“We could never learn to be brave and patient if there were only joy in the world”. Helen Keller
Three years pass, I somehow come out of the shadow, and find inspiration wherever I look. Life takes on new meaning, and painting and drawing become an exquisite joy again. During the void, my visual problems have been churning over in my brain, unbeknownst to me, and have resolved themselves. I find myself able to show my feelings and thoughts in my work to some small degree. I venture out on a new set of paintings, delighted with the different shapes and colours appearing under my brush.
“Understanding is acquired by means of suffering or distress or experience. Will, desire, pain, envy etc are all natural, but understanding is acquired.” William Blake
And this quotation, from Friedrich Nietzsche, should give comfort to any person struggling to emerge from the dark zone:
“I say to you: One must have chaos in oneself in order to give birth to a dancing star.”
Anne King
I learn to paint and draw through a constant round of trial, failure, then trying again, until that technique has been conquered. It never stops – there is always a challenge and that’s what makes it exciting for me. Artists are never happy with their work; they return to the same themes again and again in their lives. Picasso’s bulls, Matisse’s odalisques, Monet’s waterlillies. They have their reasons, but I bet they are also determined to ‘get it right this time.’
Creative people are subject to emotional highs and, much worse, lows. When in this dark vacuum the whole business of making art seems difficult and fraught with terror. Fear of the blank white canvas is a well known artist’s block. In my periods of darkness I am convinced that I am worthless, and that the art world is a sham, trivial, pointless and heavily rigged in favour of a lucky few. This can go on for years until I somehow reach within and find the equilibrium so necessary to open up my heart to inspiration. The beauty has always been there, but I have been blind for the long dark period.
“Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding” Khalil Gibran.
Within the vortex I try to convey my thoughts and feelings in a visual way through drawing and painting. It becomes harder and harder, trying to do this thing that I’ve never succeeded at before, but now have a burning need to do. Many wasted sheets of paper and canvas later I am still no nearer to conveying my ideas, and am now plunged into despair by my ineptitude. I give up making art all together and stop attending exhibitions, reading about painters and all the other things that have up till now made my life a pleasure.
“We could never learn to be brave and patient if there were only joy in the world”. Helen Keller
Three years pass, I somehow come out of the shadow, and find inspiration wherever I look. Life takes on new meaning, and painting and drawing become an exquisite joy again. During the void, my visual problems have been churning over in my brain, unbeknownst to me, and have resolved themselves. I find myself able to show my feelings and thoughts in my work to some small degree. I venture out on a new set of paintings, delighted with the different shapes and colours appearing under my brush.
“Understanding is acquired by means of suffering or distress or experience. Will, desire, pain, envy etc are all natural, but understanding is acquired.” William Blake
And this quotation, from Friedrich Nietzsche, should give comfort to any person struggling to emerge from the dark zone:
“I say to you: One must have chaos in oneself in order to give birth to a dancing star.”
Anne King
A small village in Provence
Eygalieres
Creeping down the stairs in the early morning, the lightwell above casts a rosy glow on the natural handmade tiles of the staircase. I note the one with the dogs footprint deeply embedded in the clay as I do every time I walk up or down, thinking again of the vision and attention to detail of the people who had renovated this fine 19th century French ‘mas’, or farmhouse, in the south west of Provence.
I am glad to be up early before the others; glad to have a few minutes to myself to savor the dawn, and to pay attention to the strange and wonderful sensations of the place.
I cross the long dining room, dark except for the weak light coming through glass panes in the front door. At one end, a wide stone fireplace is filled with swathes of fragrant lavender, above it a gutsy modern painting in the style of Cezanne who was a native of this area. The French oak sideboard bristles with local wines, red white and a remarkable rose, which changes my taste in wine forever. The long table seats 16 or more but we never use it, preferring the kitchen which is flooded with morning light. It is an inviting room at any time, with its scrubbed table, huge Lacanche range and profusion of copper saucepans, conical sieves, colanders and large metal serving spoons hanging above.
The kitchen is a recent addition to the house. Two walls are completely glass from the waist up in narrow panels between steel frames to deter would-be criminals, which are the bane of the wealthy absentee landlords of Provence. It is not unusual for whole house contents to be removed, and so we have a resident caretaker living in a flat attached to the house to keep an eye on things, mow the lawns, feed the chickens, and look after the swimming pool. The pool is large and inviting, with a low white drystone wall surrounding it and a changing room and shade area alongside. There are comfortable reclining chairs and umbrellas and a paved deck edged with an appetizing hedge of rosemary.
I open the front door and step out onto the stone paving. At once the heady fragrance of lavender surrounds me and looking straight ahead over a good 100 metres of lawn area, I see in neat straight lines, a mass of lavender, more than I have ever seen in my life. Some is trimmed down into neat round clumps but the majority is in full flower, not the glorious bright purple of the high season but still abundant..
To my left on the paving is another large table and chairs ideal for al fresco dining. The sturdy façade of the house is honestly built of local stone in a natural blonde shade. It has big arched windows on this the south face, which allows the light to flood into the study and lounge in wide dusty shafts, picking up the creamy white covers on the big comfy sofas.
The lounge or ‘salon’ is large, 75 square metres, with a massive fireplace and two grand pianos, one a Steinway, as the owner is a concert pianist. The ceiling hangs low overhead supported by massive dark beams, each a whole tree. This gives an effect of reassuring solidity, softened by the addition of warm woven rugs and cushions.
The north side of the house is almost completely windowless to protect it from the raging mistrals which come in three day bursts, and have been known to drive men insane. We experienced an autumn mistral, a ferocious gusting wind, which literally pushed your body along if you didn’t resist it. The full force of an icy winter mistral would be hard to take.
To my right is a bench seat below the kitchen window and a white pebbled parking area which leads crisply to the little chicken shed where a couple of dear little chooks give us two large free range eggs each day and keep us amused with their antics. One day I spotted a crazy dance, the chickens leaping up and down in turn to peck the grapes off the vine which was 20 centimetres or so above their heads. When the shed door opened they would race off together across the lawn towards the orchard and olive grove, their legs striding out in enormous leaps, and a joyous cackle trailing behind them.
Behind the olive, almond and fig trees is a huge vegetable garden, with 10 metre rows of oxheart tomatoes, orange and red capsicums, corn, sprawling vines of plum tomatoes, large leaf parsley, chives, basil and garlic. Everything needed for a good Mediterranean meal, except the fish and meat, and that can be bought from the Friday market which takes over the main street of the village Eygalieres, five minutes away by car.
Alongside the vegetable garden is a patch of luscious vines, 100 Cyrah (Shraz) and 10 Viognier, used for making wine each year in the old stone barn, and some very rare Jacquez vines, banned for wine production because of their grapes’ high sugar content.
Each day, it is a pleasure to take a basket and walk down to the vegetable garden to gather supplies. I follow the sunny stone path around the raised kitchen herb garden,
stop and peer into the bristling reeds surrounding the frog pond, where two or three large brown speckled frogs plop into the water at my approach. Later we would see the tadpoles hatch, and the large flat waterlily pads would be scattered with dozens of tiny frogs.
I brush through a narrow channel in the lavender patch on to the orchard and nut trees picking the soft ripe black figs, popping one in my mouth and carrying the rest carefully so they won’t get squashed.
In the vegetable garden, I nudge the leaves away from the mass of writhing plum tomato vines. Gathering the bright red fruit, my mind runs through a litany of delicious uses I can put them to. We make fresh and tasty tomato salads with basil and chives, our own rich pizza topping, semi-dried tomatoes which burst powerfully on the tastebuds, and many roasted and grilled tomato dishes. They are so ripe and sweet; they lend themselves to creating beautiful meals. I move on to the capsicums, and collect 5 or 6 at a time, small slightly bitter orange ones I haven’t seen before and big red juicy ones, which go so well with the basil parsley and chives which I cut in great fistfuls, and stand in vases around the kitchen.
By eight o’clock, we’re all up, and a volunteer drives to the village to collect the croissants. Each of us has our favorite. I like the plain ones, warm and flaky from the oven, which smell so appetizing. Chris likes the ‘au chocolat’, and Jurgen’s pleasure is ‘one with the world’ as he calls it, a delicious concoction of croissant, cream custard and almonds. We gather round the table, and a contented groaning ensues, as we devour the lot, spread with lashings of butter and confitures and washed down with cup after cup of strong fresh coffee from the Miele machine installed in the kitchen. And so another day begins.
Anne King
Creeping down the stairs in the early morning, the lightwell above casts a rosy glow on the natural handmade tiles of the staircase. I note the one with the dogs footprint deeply embedded in the clay as I do every time I walk up or down, thinking again of the vision and attention to detail of the people who had renovated this fine 19th century French ‘mas’, or farmhouse, in the south west of Provence.
I am glad to be up early before the others; glad to have a few minutes to myself to savor the dawn, and to pay attention to the strange and wonderful sensations of the place.
I cross the long dining room, dark except for the weak light coming through glass panes in the front door. At one end, a wide stone fireplace is filled with swathes of fragrant lavender, above it a gutsy modern painting in the style of Cezanne who was a native of this area. The French oak sideboard bristles with local wines, red white and a remarkable rose, which changes my taste in wine forever. The long table seats 16 or more but we never use it, preferring the kitchen which is flooded with morning light. It is an inviting room at any time, with its scrubbed table, huge Lacanche range and profusion of copper saucepans, conical sieves, colanders and large metal serving spoons hanging above.
The kitchen is a recent addition to the house. Two walls are completely glass from the waist up in narrow panels between steel frames to deter would-be criminals, which are the bane of the wealthy absentee landlords of Provence. It is not unusual for whole house contents to be removed, and so we have a resident caretaker living in a flat attached to the house to keep an eye on things, mow the lawns, feed the chickens, and look after the swimming pool. The pool is large and inviting, with a low white drystone wall surrounding it and a changing room and shade area alongside. There are comfortable reclining chairs and umbrellas and a paved deck edged with an appetizing hedge of rosemary.
I open the front door and step out onto the stone paving. At once the heady fragrance of lavender surrounds me and looking straight ahead over a good 100 metres of lawn area, I see in neat straight lines, a mass of lavender, more than I have ever seen in my life. Some is trimmed down into neat round clumps but the majority is in full flower, not the glorious bright purple of the high season but still abundant..
To my left on the paving is another large table and chairs ideal for al fresco dining. The sturdy façade of the house is honestly built of local stone in a natural blonde shade. It has big arched windows on this the south face, which allows the light to flood into the study and lounge in wide dusty shafts, picking up the creamy white covers on the big comfy sofas.
The lounge or ‘salon’ is large, 75 square metres, with a massive fireplace and two grand pianos, one a Steinway, as the owner is a concert pianist. The ceiling hangs low overhead supported by massive dark beams, each a whole tree. This gives an effect of reassuring solidity, softened by the addition of warm woven rugs and cushions.
The north side of the house is almost completely windowless to protect it from the raging mistrals which come in three day bursts, and have been known to drive men insane. We experienced an autumn mistral, a ferocious gusting wind, which literally pushed your body along if you didn’t resist it. The full force of an icy winter mistral would be hard to take.
To my right is a bench seat below the kitchen window and a white pebbled parking area which leads crisply to the little chicken shed where a couple of dear little chooks give us two large free range eggs each day and keep us amused with their antics. One day I spotted a crazy dance, the chickens leaping up and down in turn to peck the grapes off the vine which was 20 centimetres or so above their heads. When the shed door opened they would race off together across the lawn towards the orchard and olive grove, their legs striding out in enormous leaps, and a joyous cackle trailing behind them.
Behind the olive, almond and fig trees is a huge vegetable garden, with 10 metre rows of oxheart tomatoes, orange and red capsicums, corn, sprawling vines of plum tomatoes, large leaf parsley, chives, basil and garlic. Everything needed for a good Mediterranean meal, except the fish and meat, and that can be bought from the Friday market which takes over the main street of the village Eygalieres, five minutes away by car.
Alongside the vegetable garden is a patch of luscious vines, 100 Cyrah (Shraz) and 10 Viognier, used for making wine each year in the old stone barn, and some very rare Jacquez vines, banned for wine production because of their grapes’ high sugar content.
Each day, it is a pleasure to take a basket and walk down to the vegetable garden to gather supplies. I follow the sunny stone path around the raised kitchen herb garden,
stop and peer into the bristling reeds surrounding the frog pond, where two or three large brown speckled frogs plop into the water at my approach. Later we would see the tadpoles hatch, and the large flat waterlily pads would be scattered with dozens of tiny frogs.
I brush through a narrow channel in the lavender patch on to the orchard and nut trees picking the soft ripe black figs, popping one in my mouth and carrying the rest carefully so they won’t get squashed.
In the vegetable garden, I nudge the leaves away from the mass of writhing plum tomato vines. Gathering the bright red fruit, my mind runs through a litany of delicious uses I can put them to. We make fresh and tasty tomato salads with basil and chives, our own rich pizza topping, semi-dried tomatoes which burst powerfully on the tastebuds, and many roasted and grilled tomato dishes. They are so ripe and sweet; they lend themselves to creating beautiful meals. I move on to the capsicums, and collect 5 or 6 at a time, small slightly bitter orange ones I haven’t seen before and big red juicy ones, which go so well with the basil parsley and chives which I cut in great fistfuls, and stand in vases around the kitchen.
By eight o’clock, we’re all up, and a volunteer drives to the village to collect the croissants. Each of us has our favorite. I like the plain ones, warm and flaky from the oven, which smell so appetizing. Chris likes the ‘au chocolat’, and Jurgen’s pleasure is ‘one with the world’ as he calls it, a delicious concoction of croissant, cream custard and almonds. We gather round the table, and a contented groaning ensues, as we devour the lot, spread with lashings of butter and confitures and washed down with cup after cup of strong fresh coffee from the Miele machine installed in the kitchen. And so another day begins.
Anne King
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