Work in Progress, Part 2

Today’s picture shows the progress we’ve made on the portrait bust over the last couple of weeks.  Once again I stress “we”, for without a model there can be no portrait.

My model solved my dilemma with her straightened hair by arriving one day wearing a traditional Creole head-tie.  The madras “headkerchief” can be tied so that the corners make one, two three or four points.  The number of points carry a message to would be suitors. 

One point means, my heart is free.

Two points, my heart is engaged but you can take a chance.

Three points, my heart is already taken.

Four points, I have a place for whoever desires.

Teamwork

Between sessions, my most recent model is studying Business Management.  Last week, as part of her course work, she had to make a presentation on the subject of teamwork.  For her topic, she cited the artist and model as one of her examples.

Her choice speaks volumes about her understanding of the crucial role of the model.  Furthermore, it set me thinking about a host of others who have contributed their skills to the sculptor’s work.  

Not least on the list are those master craftsmen who for centuries have made the tools for the job.  This link http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gvr2nZeAfNc will give you glimpse of what’s involved.  Then comes the moulders, who job is to take the initial waste-mould and then the intricate piece-mould.  And finally, the multiple skills of the foundry workers. 

Over the years I have been privileged to share the work of these incredibly accomplished artisans.  Sadly their numbers are in decline and there is an urgent need to train future generations before their skills are lost forever. 

To make full-circle, let me come back to the contribution of the model.  From a life-time’s practice I’ve learnt to make my own tools and take my own moulds.  Given a furnace, I can cast in bronze.  But without a model, sympathetic to the work at hand, I can’t even begin.

Today’s sketch shows one of my models relaxing between sessions and I dedicate it to all of those who have worked behind the scenes to make my work possible.

Work in progress

I hate the finality of finish but favor work in progress. 

The portrait bust shown in today’s picture was started just over a week ago.  As a work in progress, it will continue to evolve over the next couple of weeks.  The day will then arrive when the end result has to be cast, once and for all time.  

I found my model, not in some halcyon Athenian bower, but selling mangoes by the road side.  Had I have grabbed her there and then, she’d have come with her hair plaited in cane-rows.  Alas, by the time I arranged for her to sit for me she had straightened out her God-given hair.  Why oh why do so many West Indian women fall for a foreign concept of beauty at the ruination of their own?

Never mind, by the end of this week, I’ll see that her clay image reflects the the race to which she was born.

How long has this been going on?

Being cast away on a tropical island has its disadvantages.  Other than local fare, the world of concerts, plays and exhibitions is thousands of miles away.  It is difficult to keep pace with developments in the arts and until the advent of the internet, well-nigh impossible. 

These days, thanks to the world-wide-web, I can make the virtual best of it.  When I sketched the Northern and English Ballet fifteen years ago, the inspirational Ballet Black http://balletblack.co.uk/ didn’t exist.  My next visit to the UK will be timed to tie in with one of their performances. 

In similar vein, nowhere in my fifty-year old collection of LP’s will you find recordings of the virtuoso jazz violinist Regina Carter.  In those days, she didn’t exist.  If you hear of a painter and sculptor walking on water it’s me, determined to get to one of her concerts.  In the meantime, here she is at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YAU5QSYmUsk

I can even search and find a rare and lost Stan Kenton and June Christy 10” LP that includes the song that I’ve used for my title.  I suspect I’ll find it on my brother’s shelf of LP’s.

Today’s sketch is one of a series that I made of the Northern Ballet at rehearsals.

He died from too much living

When I am finally called upon to embellish the gates of heaven with angles, kindly remember to chip on my grave stone, “He died from too much living”.   In the hereafter, rather than resting in peace, I hope to be up to as many tricks as I have been in this world.

One of my daughters once screamed at me to, “Get a life!”  Well, if I haven’t had a life, I don’t know who has.  Set against your average eighteen year old, I’m living life as if there's no tomorrow. 

It is therefore refreshing to occasionally meet an eighteen year old who is likewise, bubbling with life like crazy.  Such was my good fortune when I was recently booked to give a talk to students at the Dominica State College.  Regardless of the arrangements made beforehand, there was no one to meet me or set up the auditorium. 

To my rescue came an unforgettable biology student by the name of Umarie, henceforward known as “Frazzy” on account of her zany hair style.  With the words, “leave it to me”, she literally dragged her fellow students in by the scruff of the neck. 

She afterwards volunteered to sit for one of my portrait classes.  Thank you Frazzy,  you’ll take pride of place amongst the my angles.  In the meantime, here’s the five-minute demonstration sketch that I made of her.

PS. Come back again, you kept my students awake!

If anyone else tells me to .... .. !!!!

I am not insured, I do not have a pension, I have nothing put aside for a rainy day, I have never paid into a funeral fund and I've never “backed-up”.

Since my computer crashed five days ago, I've lost count of the number of times I've been told to “back-up”.  I'm getting sorely tempted to tell them to .... ... !!!! 

The same people that tell me to “back-up” laugh at my cell phone. It's twelve years old and still going strong. Unlike the slim new models, it has a battery powerful enough to jump start my pick-up. My flash-drive is of the same vintage and it's been twice through the washing machine. The clock on the wall has been ticking away for a hundred years and at seventy I can give most eighteen-year-olds a run for their money.  Why, oh why, did my trusted Windows XP lap-top give up the ghost so soon?

 

While someone tries to salvage what's on my old hard drive, I'm trying to find my way around the new-fangled lap-top on the right.