Evans’ Rag

Vol 1 Issue 35

Life Drawing

I used to think it would be a kick to be one of those artists who create striking 20-minute charcoal sketches of woman models in strong, sweeping strokes of nude women. I will attest to liking nude women. See a problem?

This is Art, so how could this be bad?

Because my college sketches were so pathetic? How pathetic we shall not discuss. But back when I tried out life drawing, those sketches were mostly sad attempts. I could draw landscapes somewhat better than ‘happy little clouds,’ but people stumped me. I hope all the newsprint sketchbooks were disposed of, though there’s still some stuff packed in the attic that hasn’t seen the light of day in a while…

By comparison, my first live-in companion was born to draw people, capturing expressions like a photographer, and I never figured out how she did it so effortlessly–no big prep or study–she just drew–and she was a way better writer, but we shan’t discuss that either. Our son, Ryan was well on his way to become an artist like his mother.

Ryan took his mother’s gift for drawing to business school at Virginia Tech, sad irony.

Perhaps after a ton of practice I might get the proportions recognizable as humanoid, but then came the model’s hands, her long fingers doing a gesture, slender shoulders, her hips and those other parts we like. Breasts weren’t so hard, a line and a circle, but draw faces?

“Draw the eyes first.”

Our art professor told us to warm up with 60-second gesture drawings. Quick, without looking at the paper–look at the subject! Then what? The charcoal pencil gave me no clue. Eyes, it became quickly obvious, need to be in the same plane and level with each other. Oh crap, what do you do for a perspective?

And the discomfort of wondering–isn’t she getting cold, the model? What on earth could she be thinking? Hope she won’t see my sketch! Kinda cute–actually very much cute–and is that bad thing to notice? What did all those French artists think?

Man, was I distracted.

If I wasn’t careful, I’d begin to picture a backstory for her–because I can do that better than sketching.

I never drew a nude man; maybe they’re less complicated? How much would I ever draw of that wrinkly sack and his dangling participle? Getting personal, don’t you think?

Thus went two years or so of life drawing in college. Though even today, if you hand me a straight edge, triangle and 2B leads, poché, ink on parchment board, I can kill that stuff.

I think there may be an empty sketch pad or two still in the attic–who knows?

Our Mutual Companion? 

Our dog. Let me clarify that from the outset. Our dog. D argues that she’s mine when she takes a dump in the wrong place, but that’s a myth. Layla’s dumps aren’t mythic, though.

Arriving late yesterday to the beach, D said “Don’t let her go out on the deck; there’s a dead bird.” Sure enough a fluff of dead feathers lay there.
Layla is about instinct – the way we all are, whether we wish to admit it.

For hours today–into the afternoon, Layla stood watch on the deck. Actually, she wanted to investigate the pine forest grown up around the place we like to retreat to when we can in early winter.

Layla is totally focused on what’s beyond the pines, sure she’d bolt for it if allowed–released from prison. “I can damn well smell that miscreant!”

OK, settle down. You need to eat.

The two little girls on the beach skip toward her: “Can we meet her?” Their mother smiled. Layla lunged forward for as many face licks as she was allowed. Then proceeded to dig herself a hole she could climb into–charming the heck out of the kids. Was the hole to entertain herself or the kids? Probably both.

Earlier today I read a BS science study about how dogs have genes so they love us. Why BS? Maybe it’s just a very incomplete story? Here’s my question: why are we humans so certain the species is the only one that has emotions, that cares to be alive?

The couple in the SUV arrived late, emptied their vehicle of people and two sizable, white bull terriers, with Layla eyeing them from the deck. Both their weary canines were led immediately into the neighboring lawn (it’s a rental), “Potty? Need to potty?” He was no small man himself. “Potty?” Those bull terrier might have needed to take a piss, but ‘potty’?

Hell, dude. You keep us in this motion sickness machine for how many hours and now you expect us to perform on command? There’s some good stuff here we need to sniff first.

Enough to give a dog constipation on his first day at the beach.

Living Decades Beyond the Creatures I’ve Loved

If I could speak in a language they’d understand, living decades longer than any of the animals who’ve lived with me, I’d want them to understand I know no better than they, and less than I should.

My first cat was a young wilding needing shelter out of the weather who argued her case so fervently by the front door one cold November night, who was I to naysay her? Calicoe of Siamese decent, she stated succinctly she was damn cold! And needed to eat. Thus it began.

She had more personality than beauty–and she was bonded to me in a way most cats aren’t. Miss DC (for Damn Cat) never got married, though she did get knocked up good once and delivered four beautiful offspring for the record.

After the apartment fire, I buried her poor smoke-inhaled body under the Miami International Airport, crying the whole while.

Years later, D and I took in a five-year old husky–our first–who needed a home. D’s mother said he needed a home ‘cause he was howling over his miserable life chained to a backyard doghouse on the other side of her fence. And the first time we hung his harness over his shoulders to run, he proceeded to demonstrate how running at a steady trot was his life and legacy.

Butz never wanted to sleep indoors except when it was raining, and even then he’d stare out the sliding glass door mournfully. We didn’t need a thermometer to know how cold it was; we’d just look outside on the deck: if his tail was wrapped covering his nose, it was below freezing, just the way he liked it.

When Butz died from a brain seizure, and after we’d grieved for months, we brought two puppies home, bewildered fluffs of fur and terrified of where their mother had gone. I never photographed them enough, though I tried.

We four ran years through rain, sleet, across a stream whether frozen or not, and beside it for more than a decade, summers and winters and I tried understanding what they were telling me. Something about simple living in the moment.

Then Molly the Rottweiler landed in the lake, and D dragged her out again, a thunderbolt of a beast if there was one. Most dogs are cowed by human contact; she had scores to settle. I named her Molly for being such an angry Irish irruption, though her ancestors came from Germany. Loyal as the day. Nobody messed with D when Molly was around.

Now we have the penultimate ‘I love you guys’ husky that D named Layla. Not indiscriminately loving–she hates cats, raccoons and squirrels in that order–but wants to love anyone who’ll stop their walk to hold a hand to sniff. Sometimes the dogs she tries to cow don’t take too kindly to her being such an alpha puppy, so we cross the street when we pass by. But she’s sweet to actual puppies like she never had one, or maybe she did and remembers; we adopted her at five as well.

I’ve tried explaining to Layla that cats, while perhaps overly dramatic and always arrogant like they’re the most important creatures alive, are really just love covered in fur. Honest. Only Layla doesn’t understand cat and has no intention of learning the language.

Should I take all these experiences with our companions as signs? As messages from the universe? Certainly as lessons in living a good life.

Thanks, but We Won’t Be Needing Freddy Krueger’s Knife

Now that I’ve studied it a little closer, it’s possibly just a fish-gutting knife, but man is it wicked-ugly. Plain steel ‘cause it’s rusting in spots, but pray what is it doing at the back of the kitchen pantry shelf behind the stacks of beer cozies?

We have a ritual arriving at the beach house after being away–finding the linens that go with the correct beds, and cleaning out the kitchen. It’s a tradition.

To review, we don’t need ten thousand wood skewers, especially not the burnt one, nor come to think about it, the stacks of beer cozies, nor whatever the hell was donated and stuffed way to the back of the pantry. Thank you for the thoughtful gestures, but please go home with what you brought, bought or didn’t use.

Frozen gummy bears, old ice cream sandwiches, not so frozen Vodka named “Premier” or any less than Gray followed by Goose. All good to go. Please take the open bag of frozen pancakes while you’re at it.

Partially opened packs of napkins aren’t necessary. Toilet paper is, and please leave one roll. And a paper towel roll would be great.

30-count styrofoam ‘guestware’ is kindly meant, but please! We recycle what we must, but FYI, the blue cereal bowls are stored in the upper cabinet by the stack of blue plates. And the dishwasher does OK if you rinse the stuff beforehand so we can make due without the styrofoam.

We don’t need Harris Teeter’s “Your Home — full-size crystal plastic dinner forks.” Really, but thanks for thinking of us.

We won’t discuss the cake sprinkles left for the mice, and will willingly overlook a desiccated hot dog bun or two dropped behind the couch by the two-year old, ugh, no, that needs to be found before Layla does. Her stomach isn’t as young as it once was.

Anyway…

Happy Thanksgiving!