Last semester I spent two weeks drawing, then painting a pear. By the time I was through, my poor organic model was practically fruit pulp. But, I'd developed a newfound appreciation for the fruit. Its assymetrical shape, the ebb of green and flow of yellow across the skin, the way my fingers felt sketching its form in charcoal...all things imprinted in my memory.
This morning, as I padded through my kitchen, the morning light glinted off a past-ripe pear, bathing it in a remarkable glow that only one who'd spent weeks drawing pears could wholly appreciate. My fingers itched to draw it, to replicate its lumpy, bumpy imperfection with charcoal. To bathe a sheet of Strathmore in smudgy, shallow marks, as I'd nervously learned to do barely a year ago.
Months have passed since I've drawn with charcoal, as I've progressed further into coursework which emphasises design through black pens and sterile, meaningless forms rather than through a heartfelt experience with color and emotion. I've not yet clicked with coursework in which exact replication of reality is rewarded with an A, but a deeper meaning and heart is left unconsidered. Truthfully, I dread it terribly and miss the year I spent standing at an easel, interpreting my reality. Sterile and meaningless aren't my forte, as nearly everything I create looks far from perfection but is filled with heart and meaning.
My schedule disagreed with a drawn-out sketch session. And so, I ate the pear instead, which was nearly as enjoyable as my nostalgic longings for my easel in studio 301.