2nd Fall 504AV
Age 13
Late morning
Murphys' family home
Little Rozz had 2 sketchbooks. One large one in which she'd draw beautiful things by means of an untamed hand. The other a small one which she'd carry with herself at all times, should idleness take over and she'd find herself in dire need of a suitable occupation. When such a need came, it was there she'd doodle and practice all the techniques which Mr Smith would tell her to practice. And obedient she was, and meticulous. That morning before her lessons was truly an idle one for, having no intention of social decorum with mama or pa, the girl simply shut herself in the lucid light of fall that shone in though her window much in the same way as it always did. Magically showering everything in golden glitter. Naked toed upon mahogany floor boards, keeping in that ray of sun, keeping warm and pleasant with that little sketch book upon her lap and a pencil at hand. This morning was about control and to have control, one's feet had to be snug and toasty.
Naturally, being of such a young constitution, little Rosalie Murphy still deemed those unimaginative, life like, perfectionist pieces which she'd see in galleries. Her artist's eye, a third eyes of a sort still needed years of conditioning. But if there was anything she truly wanted to do perfectly, it was to perform tonal drawing with utmost proficiency. Thus, she knew precisely what to do; years and years of practice of control over that weapon of her's which she so frivolously named a pencil. A tool, it was of power over that pristine white of the fine paper from which her sketchbook was constructed.
"To know is to see." she spoke before writing those words atop the page. A motto of a sort, repeated over and over by Mr Smith, every time he would lecture her accordingly on the many convoluted topics of art. A motto she truly became quite fond of.
The first exercise was simple. It was one she repeated often, each time with more and more proficiency and due to it's very simplicity she enjoyed it. It seemed that the simpler the task at hand, the easier it was done, thus more enjoyable it was, even if not bearing the same rewards in the end. As a prerequisite, with long swipes of the pencil, she engraved two long horizontal lines in the paper. A pressure which was a little hard on the soft fibre, yet she had no intention of rubbing them out any time soon.Then those horizontal lines were sectioned, forming a long stripe of pinky nail sized boxes into which she worked, shading each one in. Each one would gradually get darker until a haphazard, jagged gradient would form. Pressure was the key and pressure needed control which she still somewhat lacked so the transition was coarse, lacking that ageless skill of her tutor's. Still Rozz did not give up, simply repeated the exercise again on an even longer stripe of boxes beneath that preliminary one.
Quickly she realised what it was that she was doing wrong in the first stripe, as the next one went with barely varying consequence. Too little a subtleness, to harsh a gradient, only this time longer. For up till now Rozz was holding her pencil in much the fashion of a writer, close to the point. And were as in the crafting of letters this fashion brought greater control over fluidity and calligraphy of each item, in tonal drawing it only impaired that ability to control pressure accordingly. Thus, she simply drew another stripe, yet this time without sectioning it. Fingers griping two thirds up the pencil, swinging it from side to side as softly it la on the paper. In fact during the first few moment she didn't even press upon it, simply created that motion and the item's own weight provided enough pressure to form shading. The further along she went the lower down she held the pencil, only the scribble harshly that opaque graphite black at the very end of the long line. Perhaps the result was far from perfect, for there were moment when the gradient transitioned too harshly between tones and involuntary lines were formed. The light grey also didn't flow into the white of the paper particularly well.
Then again, how many 13-year-old's actually paid attention to such things as tone in their juvenile scribbles which so readily lacked both proportion and a three dimensional quality? To be honest with herself, Rozz was proud of her achievement. For even if she was yet no master of drawing, she was better than the average and that was good enough.
The next step was improving that gradient, but she was no longer willing to work within the confinement of a box which threw her. Rozz wanted a perfect gradient that flawlessly melted dark, jagged black lines into white. With a heavy hand, the little girl artist made a singular dark line beneath the boxes and from it she began working, grasping and putting into good use some techniques and tricks she learned from the previous exercises. For if one thing was certain, it was that drawing techniques came easy to her. The trick however was to abandon old ones for the sake of the newer, better ones. One thing however, was to be able to form such a gradient, another to use it successfully in drawing form.
Holding the pencil at a distance from the tip was now a default, as well as allowing the tool's own weight to create shading, gifting it only with the velocity of backwards and forwards movement across paper. and which each moment as she did so, she felt her hand loosen up, her wrist becoming a little more fluid on the stationary arm, fingers assisting in the occupation with minuscule movements of their own. Gently, almost innately she began layering the faint marks, one atop another to create density, thus increasing darkness. The pressure on her behalf only slightly steered, using mark density rather than mark pressure to create her gradient. Alas after a long long time of going back over and over thing, the gradient was formed and almost perfect. Naturally again she repeated this with yet more proficiency. And again, another gradient, this time a little wider, slowly becoming careless as the exercise grew boring.
It seemed that perhaps it was that layering of marks which gifted little Rozz with greater control. Perhaps she would work with that, rather than agonising over obtaining the precise pressure upon the soft, black graphite, willing it to do her bidding. And if this took far more time, well more time she would put, for true masterpieces take time. Alas one of the 3 gradients that now filled half a page of her sketchbook, was completely flawless, albeit the creation of such seemed murderously difficult. Only seemed however, for in reality even a novice would be easily able to master the exercise. It was simplicity at it's best. It was the case that only few really tried. Rozz was one of those who did try and succeeded. Using such gradients in far more confined spaces however, adapting them to the creation of a free dimensional drawing on paper, knowing where and when to use them and what should the darkest shade be. Tonal shading: for short. That was the tricky part which took mastery to perfect. That was what Rozz could not yet do. That was way beyond her reach.
The very next task was the creation of three dimensional models; spheres. Having already a well animated forearm, Rozz swung it in circular motion, producing it entirely from her shoulder, before with that motion and several rounds, a circle was finally placed on the next page. For she could never understand why some found drawing circles and ovals so difficult. Having built up enough velocity in one's movement, a human being could easily draw fairly good circles, straight lines and the lot. Mr Smith could do it so well, she too could. Why couldn't' others? Why would they use rulers and compasses when free hand drawn geometry is so much simpler and more organic, more natural looking? Some things in this world perplexed her.
Age 13
Late morning
Murphys' family home
Little Rozz had 2 sketchbooks. One large one in which she'd draw beautiful things by means of an untamed hand. The other a small one which she'd carry with herself at all times, should idleness take over and she'd find herself in dire need of a suitable occupation. When such a need came, it was there she'd doodle and practice all the techniques which Mr Smith would tell her to practice. And obedient she was, and meticulous. That morning before her lessons was truly an idle one for, having no intention of social decorum with mama or pa, the girl simply shut herself in the lucid light of fall that shone in though her window much in the same way as it always did. Magically showering everything in golden glitter. Naked toed upon mahogany floor boards, keeping in that ray of sun, keeping warm and pleasant with that little sketch book upon her lap and a pencil at hand. This morning was about control and to have control, one's feet had to be snug and toasty.
Naturally, being of such a young constitution, little Rosalie Murphy still deemed those unimaginative, life like, perfectionist pieces which she'd see in galleries. Her artist's eye, a third eyes of a sort still needed years of conditioning. But if there was anything she truly wanted to do perfectly, it was to perform tonal drawing with utmost proficiency. Thus, she knew precisely what to do; years and years of practice of control over that weapon of her's which she so frivolously named a pencil. A tool, it was of power over that pristine white of the fine paper from which her sketchbook was constructed.
"To know is to see." she spoke before writing those words atop the page. A motto of a sort, repeated over and over by Mr Smith, every time he would lecture her accordingly on the many convoluted topics of art. A motto she truly became quite fond of.
The first exercise was simple. It was one she repeated often, each time with more and more proficiency and due to it's very simplicity she enjoyed it. It seemed that the simpler the task at hand, the easier it was done, thus more enjoyable it was, even if not bearing the same rewards in the end. As a prerequisite, with long swipes of the pencil, she engraved two long horizontal lines in the paper. A pressure which was a little hard on the soft fibre, yet she had no intention of rubbing them out any time soon.Then those horizontal lines were sectioned, forming a long stripe of pinky nail sized boxes into which she worked, shading each one in. Each one would gradually get darker until a haphazard, jagged gradient would form. Pressure was the key and pressure needed control which she still somewhat lacked so the transition was coarse, lacking that ageless skill of her tutor's. Still Rozz did not give up, simply repeated the exercise again on an even longer stripe of boxes beneath that preliminary one.
Quickly she realised what it was that she was doing wrong in the first stripe, as the next one went with barely varying consequence. Too little a subtleness, to harsh a gradient, only this time longer. For up till now Rozz was holding her pencil in much the fashion of a writer, close to the point. And were as in the crafting of letters this fashion brought greater control over fluidity and calligraphy of each item, in tonal drawing it only impaired that ability to control pressure accordingly. Thus, she simply drew another stripe, yet this time without sectioning it. Fingers griping two thirds up the pencil, swinging it from side to side as softly it la on the paper. In fact during the first few moment she didn't even press upon it, simply created that motion and the item's own weight provided enough pressure to form shading. The further along she went the lower down she held the pencil, only the scribble harshly that opaque graphite black at the very end of the long line. Perhaps the result was far from perfect, for there were moment when the gradient transitioned too harshly between tones and involuntary lines were formed. The light grey also didn't flow into the white of the paper particularly well.
Then again, how many 13-year-old's actually paid attention to such things as tone in their juvenile scribbles which so readily lacked both proportion and a three dimensional quality? To be honest with herself, Rozz was proud of her achievement. For even if she was yet no master of drawing, she was better than the average and that was good enough.
The next step was improving that gradient, but she was no longer willing to work within the confinement of a box which threw her. Rozz wanted a perfect gradient that flawlessly melted dark, jagged black lines into white. With a heavy hand, the little girl artist made a singular dark line beneath the boxes and from it she began working, grasping and putting into good use some techniques and tricks she learned from the previous exercises. For if one thing was certain, it was that drawing techniques came easy to her. The trick however was to abandon old ones for the sake of the newer, better ones. One thing however, was to be able to form such a gradient, another to use it successfully in drawing form.
Holding the pencil at a distance from the tip was now a default, as well as allowing the tool's own weight to create shading, gifting it only with the velocity of backwards and forwards movement across paper. and which each moment as she did so, she felt her hand loosen up, her wrist becoming a little more fluid on the stationary arm, fingers assisting in the occupation with minuscule movements of their own. Gently, almost innately she began layering the faint marks, one atop another to create density, thus increasing darkness. The pressure on her behalf only slightly steered, using mark density rather than mark pressure to create her gradient. Alas after a long long time of going back over and over thing, the gradient was formed and almost perfect. Naturally again she repeated this with yet more proficiency. And again, another gradient, this time a little wider, slowly becoming careless as the exercise grew boring.
It seemed that perhaps it was that layering of marks which gifted little Rozz with greater control. Perhaps she would work with that, rather than agonising over obtaining the precise pressure upon the soft, black graphite, willing it to do her bidding. And if this took far more time, well more time she would put, for true masterpieces take time. Alas one of the 3 gradients that now filled half a page of her sketchbook, was completely flawless, albeit the creation of such seemed murderously difficult. Only seemed however, for in reality even a novice would be easily able to master the exercise. It was simplicity at it's best. It was the case that only few really tried. Rozz was one of those who did try and succeeded. Using such gradients in far more confined spaces however, adapting them to the creation of a free dimensional drawing on paper, knowing where and when to use them and what should the darkest shade be. Tonal shading: for short. That was the tricky part which took mastery to perfect. That was what Rozz could not yet do. That was way beyond her reach.
The very next task was the creation of three dimensional models; spheres. Having already a well animated forearm, Rozz swung it in circular motion, producing it entirely from her shoulder, before with that motion and several rounds, a circle was finally placed on the next page. For she could never understand why some found drawing circles and ovals so difficult. Having built up enough velocity in one's movement, a human being could easily draw fairly good circles, straight lines and the lot. Mr Smith could do it so well, she too could. Why couldn't' others? Why would they use rulers and compasses when free hand drawn geometry is so much simpler and more organic, more natural looking? Some things in this world perplexed her.
