courAGE!

With my birthday this week, I'm halfway between 65 and 70 -- an interesting time to recall my reactions when, in my early thirties, I discovered the magnificent drawings of 20th century artist/activist Kathe Kollwitz.

In addition to her powerful works on behalf of the dispossessed, she drew self-portraits throughout her life. The early ones show a frank fresh-faced girl with deep intense eyes. The later ones, like the one above, show -- well, the inevitable sagging chin line and wrinkles. I can remember (so long ago!) thinking, "Wow. That took a lot of courage."

I haven't as consistent a personal record to look back on, but inevitably I've made many self-portraits in my time. (After all, one reason artists do self-portraits is to make use of a convenient model who's not likely to complain, "But you made my nose too long."). In learning to draw, I made this one in my early thirties.

Another surviving self-portrait recalls my early forties:

And this one, also from my forties, was intended as the study for a painting that never materialized:

Surely I must have done a self-portrait some time in my fifties, but nothing surfaced in my studio clean-up.  In my sixties, though, I've painted two self-portraits. This one, "At 60 in Favorite Shirt" has been described by a friend as "a bit grim."

And so the next year, I painted one that's a bit more mellow, in which I reflect on and reflect my own "Gemini Split."

Is there another self-portrait, drawn or painted, in my future? No doubt -- since the temptation is always there. But in my mid-sixties, would I really have Kollwitz's gumption? In looking at one of my best "classical realist" drawings (shown below) -- also from my thirties -- I've had the idea that maybe I'll draw this same pose again and let my forearm and hand show the changes of three decades. All it will take is a little courage.

Tree People

Most of the pleasures of the home we'll be leaving soon have had more to do with the outdoors than with the antiquated interior -- witness the ancient pear and plum trees in our backyard. From the very first sight, I've been enchanted by the interrelationship of these two trees and the particular shapes and thrusts of their branches.

Looking at old sketchbooks, I've found that I've made almost one drawing a year, trying to capture my fascination with these trees. 

They were even my models for a long-ago assignment to create an imaginary exhibition poster. (This imaginary exhibit was so enticing to my feline fans that they clawed the poster off the wall!)

At some point, the fascination was articulated for me in the writings of Renoir, who has proven to be one of my important teachers. He wrote: "When you have learned to draw a tree, you will be able to draw the human figure." Suddenly, I realized that somehow the form of these trees echoed the drawings I most love, Michelangelo's "studies for the Libyan sibyll." Notice here the curve of the spine, the movement of the arms, and the gesture of the left hand (also pictured in a unique study, just below-left of the torso):

-- compared to our plum tree:

We bought our old house in 1985, long before Teardown Mania hit Vancouver's real estate market. Even then, we were the only potential buyers who wanted to live in rather than to demolish it. The pear and the plum trees gave us years of fruit for wines and jams, along with the daily enchantment of their beauty and their attraction to birds and insects. In turn, we were able to give them a 25-year renewed lease on life -- and are perhaps still their debtors.