Drawing can be an intimate act.
I’m now feeling desperate to start the task of drawing my chairs. When I think about it my heart beats a little faster and my pupils dilate.
There is a part of my brain connected to my eyes and my hands that can’t let go. I need the ink to flow in steady lines beneath my fingers. I want to feel the texture of the papers… Tracing paper… Layout… Tissue…. Anything that lets the light and truth through…
If I close my eyes I can imagine the lines appearing as my hand sweeps across the paper. Cool fingers make creases and smooth them out again. Caressing the tissue into a smooth plane for the ink to flow across. The line is even. The line has a slow rhythm. I have to keep the ink moving… If I stop, it blots…
I imagine the close surface of the layout paper… Ink gliding across gracefully, there’s no grab at the ink like there is with the greedy tissue… The touch is sleek….
The tracing paper has to be a virgin surface. I use gloves sometimes… And I remove a sheet from the Middle of the pack. If I get greasy finger marks on it, ink resists… I need it clean…
My brain, in that state of flow keeps the line almost continuous. Errors in observation of line only matter if I falter and stall. What matters is a confident line…
I can keep the line going for hours once I start. I forget to drink and eat.
A sigh escapes as I finish… A deep breath… I close my eyes and put down the pen slowly… As if commanded by the FBI at gunpoint….
I put up my hands… Surrender…
Fantasy drawing porn……
Is it just me?
