Some time back, I began a series of drawings with a project in mind: a coloring book, all about studies of hair. Well, after I’d got three of them inked, I had a few printed on card stock, for test runs.
I’ve been looking forward to doing an hombre on the woman’s hair, and I really enjoyed painting these. However I have to admit these are not ideal subjects for a coloring book, as I’ve suspected for weeks now. Not so great for colored pencil work, nor for people who don’t consider themselves artists. maybe. It’s one of those ‘back to the drawing board’ moments. Whether I’ll still work on some sort of coloring book, or work on something altogether new remains to be seen.
As he is in my memory, Handsome Red Two of our horses were in the dream, the Arabians, both of whom perished last year. So, too, the miscreant aptly named Pyewacket— a fierce disagreeable little cat whose provenance is known only inasmuch as she is the progeny of one of the feral cats that took up residence in the barn a few years ago.
I was trying to connect with the horses at turns. But my Night shade was finding them, not the real me— a defensive version, relating to Pye; always the trickster version,
It spooked and scared the horses, the gentle kind— So they told me, in their way, I must find them as myself.
I whispered in my sleep “I don’t know how.”
And Red somehow telegraphed the message to me through what technology he found in that place, it told me
When the stars are going out—
And you’re looking for a face before you leave—
Make it mine.”
And I tried like hell to escape the deep molasses of sleep, to find him; to remember— To shake it all off and just recall that one moment, of him.
Him, merged with my childhood; Magic; the Elysian Fields, the Farm— the Infinite; revisiting me. And I did, sort of— but he was talking about when the Stars Go Out. So I’ll meet him when I die.
I have to wait. (I’ll always look for his face.)
Animals are the closest I get to religion.
. . .
Later on, I painted that little sketch of him. Here’s the one I did when he passed:
And here’s one of Red and Comet, our red and black Arabian gentlemen:
As we walked to the train a fine mist began to fall. We’d not brought umbrellas; the rain was meant to wait until Sunday.
Saturday night on the train into town; people dressed to go out, to join the weekend throngs. An unaccustomed moment, as we tend to stay local.
The mist had become rain proper by the time we emerged island-side to East Village sidewalks full of hopefuls. Both establishments we visited for a rainy November birthday gathering were noisy, crowded— brimming with an optimism born in a cul-de-sac of Illogic. (An aspect of youth only fathomable in hindsight.)
I rendered some observations in the Moleskine. Realized too late that I’d only two blank pages left in it; had to retrace steps to the start of the book to find a third. (The filling of this book snuck up on me, despite or because of it being long in the tooth— I started it in June.)
Made our way home through twin deluges— to the train then from it, Brooklynside. Zac somehow beat us to my apartment, his suitcase filling the space between doors of the entryway. Reunion.
Replaced a gel-ink pen I lost last weekend; nice for smearing, getting some greyscale tones. These seem to really want some color, but I’d forgot to bring my half pans with me last evening. I may yet revisit and paint them, though.