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Saturday, August 7, 2010

The Week That Was

Yesterday, I took stock of last week's work--looking for a common thread of stylistic similarities in my art. Didn't find one. So I didn't post. I've been looking for my style for years. Seems different subjects bring out different stylistic treatments and I do like a variety of subjects.

This lack of style--or my multitude of styles, bothers me. I'd really like my work to be recognizable--you now, when you see a painting across the room and say, "Hey, there's an L.W.Roth!" Doesn't look like that's ever going to happen unless I pick one genre, one medium and stick with 'em mostly. Focus. I guess I don't have it yet in my art; I do love it all.


During Kevin Costner's Firefly, I did a poor pencil drawing of her calling for a review of the charcoal drawing and blow up shot of the head. I did those this morning for today's study. The charcoal is much better than the pencil drawing--more of a likeness--she's got a faint smile, her lips are slightly parted suggesting she's talking, a bit of detail in her eyes and her head is tilted slightly more towards the camera. Good tilt in the charcoal, not enough in the pencil. Not enough likeness in either. More drawing focus before paint is put to canvas.

I could tell you my ineptitude was from one glass of wine too many the night before,which is true, but it was several movies and a nap before I even got out my drawing things--I should have been recovered. (I did manage the five star suduko puzzle, so I stopped worrying that I had done in all my brain cells). You'd think the older you get the wiser you'd be with the hard stuff--if you can call wine that. But I still have silly tendencies that take over every now and then with wine and chocolate mice pastry drawings. I'd like to get back to that drawing today, but I'm going to a swim party where there's no swimming. The group,I'm told,just like to stand in the pool and schmooze. Then there's no ball playing allowed. Mr. Wilson will have to stay home. This was sad news for a swimmer who doesn't know how to stand still in a pool; if I'm not swimming laps, I'm playing volley ball, not schmoozing. I'd keep Wilson company, if the host wasn't such a dear friend. Maybe there'll be chips?

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