Thus, said a young lad to his mate many years ago as he watched me sketching on the streets of Halifax, my hometown in England. My eight-year-old son would sadly have to admit that, his dad cannot do better. In his eyes, all I do is scribble. Maybe scribble is the best I can do and to make matters worse I encourage my class to let themselves go and scribble for all they are worth.
Here, to make matters doubly worse is scribble in detail. It is from a sketch that I made of Denise as she modelled for last Saturday’s life class. I see similarities between the lines of a scribbled sketch and a jazz musician’s improvisations around a well know standard. I leave you to get into the swing of my scribbles.
But within the scribble is a line, an angle, an emphasis which provides the key to understanding the entire piece, setting the eye on a journey that quickly makes sense of what initially might seem little more than a scribble. I too can scribble, but I lack the ability to plant that line, that angle, that emphasis.
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