Title: Fools Gold on a Thailand Spoon
Medium: Pencil on 210gsm smooth paper
By Penelope Rose Cowley
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THINKING OUT LOAD
Doubled handed Art and tings' that inspired it.
By Penelope Rose Cowley
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TWO PEN PENNY?
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Observation through the senses in the mind and transformed in cognitive networks, firing peptides and giving impulse to equal creative activity Is for me a fundamental curiosity which I have been exploring through various means that you may have seen on this website.
However does the activity have rules? Some would argue that all art is subjective, individual perception is individual. Others would argue that there is a truth; composition, form, transitional tones, structure and magic. Creating a drawing on a surface such as a life model on paper does have rules. Yes, artists will break them if they wish. I thought I knew them, I now know, I know nothing at all. Before one decides to break rules (if that is the desire) one must know them first, comprehend execute and experience the magic first hand. To try and skip this process, I have come to realise, is futile. Skill only comes with effort. Talent is an irrelevant concept.
Our existence provides us with an imagination of infinite possibilities. This is intensively seductive, is it not? What human would deny the persuasive currents of this seduction? Many it would seem. Monotheism for example provides a singularity for the masses- a finite solution for the expansive universe. Dichotomies pounding against each other in an everlasting battle between ‘good’ and ‘bad’ feel like to me resounding wavelengths through an evolving consciousness, discording, refracting harmonies and simply cancelling each other out when ‘bad’ and good’ beat to the same rhythm. My curiosity is not satisfied.
In a Pontcanna studio in Cardiff a beautiful model lays her head back, arms up partially obscuring her face, her body arcs into what she has told me is said to be a ‘moment of ecstasy pose’ by the artist whose studio I am lucky enough to be in. She lies elegantly in pain (I know from being a life model myself). I am keen to capture on paper the magic of her form. The north light of the studio echoes off the walls, the spot light beams on to her, the paintings propped up against the walls talk in silence of their own joy in existing. The artist prepares the stations, I am clumsy and he in my utter wonderment has decided he will teach me. I know nothing of art and my heart begs for it, I want to surrender, give up the battle and be taught.
I am seduced by her position, I am so nervous I can hardly draw for my tutor sees more than I. I hear the movement of his pencil, finding the rhythm of the figure on to the smooth surface energetically forming life into the fibers. Between the tutor and the model I am lost in awe. I want to stand still and feel the air moved by them on my skin that this alone is more than my soul would ever wish for, left to seduction I would be nothing but a cathode absorbing and decaying at last into dust of the earth. I am here to learn. To say I am humbled is inadequate. I am discombobulated when he strokes in transitional tone and she breaths out of the surface, it is immense.
The overwhelming seduction of infinite possibilities of this mysterious life have been swirling and pulling my curiosity in dynamic motions. Wanting to do everything at once has left me in the eye of the storm. To walk into the currents with skill and effort and to learn the rules of the storm is the gift of magic given by wizards.
Finite focus; observe, draw, use the rules with effort will come one day skill and when time has etched deep furrows on my skin only then perhaps my crows feet will crease at a truth, then this vessel will seize, happily into the earth again.
Until then I will try not to burn all that I have made in a pit of disillusionment. The teacher is here, in my mind his words, breathe along the axons the motion of my body turns towards their meaning.
It would seem to be irrelevant, the conduct of feeling self assured and confident, insecurity in the same light is of no importance, I’m not sure why I thought it was… and I did - seeking it out running desperately from fear and rejection and of my own self destruction. Self-esteem or self estimation is not useful; it is fiction and a lie to oneself. Self-respect is perhaps a more truthful revelation. I have been a child letting off esteem, lost in the mystery of ‘what are we? Rather than what we can do?
I have estimated that I am an artist, however, this is not for me to say and it hardly means anything at all without the focus and effort. It is not enough to just say ‘ I am an artist and create furiously at will all that is captured in the networks of cognition.
Finite focus will offer a truth that I recognise as a tingle of pure ecstasy down my spine, a reverberating awe that stands before me as in the chambers of the Pontcanna studio. To aspire from the ground up like a seed, as an infant, to form ‘New Signals’ of truth.
‘All art is subjective’ is a statement over used and the proposition is a conjecture by some wordsmith that it would seem does not comprehend the rule I am prepared to learn.
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