Last weekend, L checked out this book from the library:
He is ALWAYS checking out "How to Draw" books, and truthfully, I'm not a big fans of them. They take all the fun out of winging it, with all those circles and squares, connected by lines and such.
But this book was different. Instead of the typical routine, this book gave examples of different facial elements and body parts for the reader to piece together his own creation, in this case, a monster. So when M saw the book on Saturday night and asked if I would draw with him, I said "Sure."
Have I told you before how happy I am to have all sons? I don't know what I would've done if I had birthed a daughter. Probably would've made a wreck out of her.
After a good 15 minutes of looking through the book, deciding on which nose to use and which eyes to make, we got to drawing. This project had already gone 10 minutes too long, so I finished up fairly quickly.
M would have nothing to do with such marginal participation.
"What's it called? You have to add more details. And write some words about pumpkin pie."
So I named it and added more detail. And wrote something about pumpkin pie.
M's masterpiece, while not a conventional monster, has a dark intensity that I like.
Mine is a little more by the book, which means, minimal creativity. But the coloring is quite nice.
When L found out that we were having a grande old time drawing monsters with HIS book, he insisted that I go another round, this time with him.
Now any great artiste will tell you that a work of art (no matter how bad) takes a great deal of energy to create. Fortunately, I am no great artiste, so I was game for Monster Drawing, Round 2.
So began another 15 minutes of perusing and planning for the perfect monster. I played along, patiently. And when I put my pen to paper, something odd happened. It was as if my hand had developed a mind of it's own; inexplicably, it was now guided by a supernatural monster-drawing presence. As if I was suddenly channeling the ghost of Picasso himself.
What became an exercise in patience, turned into an exercise in fear, for this is what I scrawled.
Alright, so it's not Picasso quality, nor is it even all that scary. But is was creepy enough to make me wonder what is going on my subconscious.
L's work of art was just that: a work of art.
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