Best_of_Drawing_2009_eMagazine

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DRAW SIP 09 Contents:AA feature

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AMERICAN

ARTIST The Best of

®

Drawing

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M AT E R I A L S

Materials and Techniques of Renaissance Drawing by M. Stephen Doherty

6

Graphite: The Drawer’s Humble Tool by Bob Bahr

20

Custom and Handmade Paper by Bob Bahr

36

MASTE R S & APPROAC H E S

The Revival of an Influential Drawing Course by M. Stephen Doherty

44

Studying Drawing With Professor Eakins by Gerard Haggerty

58

THE FIGURE

The Human Form: How to Put It All Together by Dan Gheno

64

Representing a Studio Model in an Outdoor Setting by Sharon Allicotti

84

The Creative Possibilities of Draping a Model by Sharon Allicotti

86

Eleven Reasons to Attend Figure-Drawing Sessions by Sharon Allicotti

88

LANDSCAPES

Constable’s Sketchbooks by Lynne Bahr

96

44

Master Landscape Drawings: Evidence & Interpretation by M. Stephen Doherty

104

D R AW I N G F O R O T H E R M E D I A

From Drawing to Canvas by Joseph C. Skrapits

116

The Tradition of Drawing From Memory by Joseph C. Skrapits

124

Capturing the Muse: Drawings by Sculptors by Joseph C. Skrapits

132

Drawing Logic: Drawing for Sculpture by John Taye 88

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DRAW SIP 09 Contents:AA feature

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COVER

Bargue plate drawing by Jayme del Rosario, courtesy of Judith Pond Kudlow’s NYK Academy. Photo by Nathan Kraxberger

104 Copyright © 2009 by Interweave, a division of Aspire Media, all rights reserved. Title registered ® in U.S. Patent Office. The contents of this publication may not be reproduced either in whole or in part without consent of the copyright owner. American Artist The Best of Drawing is printed in the U.S.A.

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DRAW SIP 09 Editor's Note:Editor's Note

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AMERICAN

ARTIST

Editor’s Note

The Best of

Drawing

®

EDITORIAL EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

The Big Picture

M. Stephen Doherty

We’ve tried to present a wide range of articles in Drawing magazine over the last six years so that our readers could find stories in every issue that addressed their exact needs. To do so, we needed to space out articles on particular topics across several years—we may have to wait a while to run another article on landscape drawing, for example, if we are going to make an effort to present all the topics readers want covered. That’s why a special issue such as this one is so exciting—it allows us to group together previously published articles to create a very focused publication that’s a perfect fit for readers who want something specific from our artist-writers. The title of this publication is The Best of Drawing, but it may be better to think of this as a carefully curated overview of the drawing process. We went through all our issues of Drawing and chose articles that covered the essential areas of draftsmanship. We start with materials, the first thing a draftsman must have to begin. Our editor-in-chief, M. Stephen Doherty, fully explored the materials of the Renaissance and the artwork of a great Italian Renaissance draftsman, Parmigianino, to help readers understand Western drawing’s classical roots (page 6). I had much too much fun researching and writing the lengthy piece on graphite—arguably the most common drawing material of the modern world (page 22). A look at custom-made paper closes out that section (page 36). Two popular articles were chosen for the Masters & Approaches section— one on the Bargue drawing course, which Van Gogh utilized early in his career (page 44), and a look at American master Thomas Eakins’ systematic approach to draftsmanship (page 58). Drawing the figure is a practice that can immensely help artists from their beginning exercises to their dying day—we can express the breadth of human emotion and experience through depictions of the human body, a neverdepleted well of inspiration. Dan Gheno offers an overview of figure drawing in his piece (page 64), which was previously only available in a special issue published two years ago. Specific instruction on figure drawing from Sharon Allicotti (pages 84, 86, and 88) round out this section. Prehistoric artists depicted the land (and the beasts that inhabited it), and this subject matter has never left the draftsman’s repertoire. Lynne Bahr and Steve Doherty cover this aspect of drawing on pages 96 and 104. In many cases drawings of landscapes were done as preparatory work for paintings or other forms of art. The last section of this special issue addresses this function of drawing. You’ll find informative, instructional articles on drawing for sculpture (page 132), transferring drawings to another substrate (page 116), and honing your drawing skills through memory training (page 124). The Best of Drawing is, we hope, the best way to survey the essential aspects of draftsmanship through Drawing magazine’s lens—one that places an emphasis on traditional techniques, competence in key skills, and representational art as the ideal jumping off point for any kind of art you may choose to pursue.

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THE BEST OF DRAWING

DRAW SIP 09 Contribs:AA feature

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Contributors

Sharon Allicotti ("Representing a Studio Model in an Outdoor Setting," "The Creative Possibilities of Draping a Model," "Eleven Reasons to Attend Figure-Drawing Sessions") is an artist who lives and works in Glendale, California. View her art or contact her at www.allicotti.com.

Course,” “Master Landscape Drawings: Evidence & Interpretation”) is the editorin-chief of Drawing.

Dan Gheno (“The Human Form: How to

Lynne Bahr (“Constable’s Sketchbook”) is a freelance editor and writer based in New York City.

Put It All Together”) is a New York artist whose work can be found in many private and public collections, including the Museum of the City of New York and the New Britain Museum of American Art, in Connecticut. He teaches drawing and painting at the Art Students League of New York and at the National Academy School of Fine Arts, both in New York City. He is a professor emeritus at the Lyme Academy College of Fine Arts in Old Lyme, Connecticut.

M. Stephen Doherty (“Materials and Techniques of Renaissance Drawing,” “The Revival of an Influential Drawing

Gerard Haggerty (“Studying Drawing With Professor Eakins”) is an artist and writer who teaches at Brooklyn College.

Bob Bahr (“Graphite: The Drawer’s Humble Tool,” “Custom and Handmade Paper.”) is a freelance editor and writer based in New York City.

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DRAW SIP 09 Parmagianino:AA feature

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Materials Techniques Renaissance Drawing and

of

A 2004 exhibition at the Frick Collection included a rich collection of drawings by Parmigianino, “one of the most undeniably distinguished but also endlessly surprising artists of the Italian Renaissance,” writes the show’s curator. by M. Stephen Doherty


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Self-Portrait in Profile ca. 1530–1540, brown ink, 4 x 41⁄2. Graphische Sammlung Albertina, Vienna, Austria. THE BEST OF DRAWING

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Drawings

often reveal more about an artist’s personality, ideas, and methods than any other aspect of their art. That is certainly the case with Girolamo Francesco Maria Mazzola (1503–1540), known as Parmigianino, whose remarkable drawings provide evidence of his prodigious talent, his quick hand, and his fatal tendency to procrastinate. In honor of the 500th anniversary of his birth in Parma, Italy, the National Gallery of Canada in Ottawa (October 3, 2003, through January 4, 2004) and The Frick Collection in New York (January 27 through April 18, 2004) presented a major exhibition titled “A Beautiful and Gracious Manner: The Art of Parmigianino.” The show included 51 exquisite drawings, seven jewellike oil paintings, and a dozen historic prints considered to be some of the first ever created personally by an artist (as opposed to a professional engraver). It was curated by David Franklin, the deputy director and chief curator of the National Gallery of Canada, and coordinated by Denise Allen, an associate curator at The Frick. Parmigianino was fortunate to have been born into a family of artists when some of the greatest artists of all time were active, including Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael, and Michelangelo. Although he was orphaned at age 2, Parmigianino was raised by two uncles who were well-established painters and ran the Mazzola family workshop. The prodigious young man received training in a workshop filled with prints and plaster casts of antique sculptures, as well as copies of contemporary works in Florence and Rome, and there is some indication he may have also studied with Correggio. As a telling indication of events to follow, Parmigianino’s talent was first recognized in his drawings. His repre8

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OPPOSITE PAGE, TOP

Studies of Female Heads, a Griffin, and Finials ca. 1522–1524, red chalk and brown ink, 71⁄8 x 55⁄8. Private collection. OPPOSITE PAGE, BELOW LEFT

Female Martyr ca. 1522–1524, oil on panel, 173⁄8 x 101⁄8. Collection Städelsches Kunstinstitut und Städtische Galerie, Frankfurt, Germany. OPPOSITE PAGE, BELOW RIGHT

Circumcision ca. 1523–1524, oil on panel, 161⁄4 x 121⁄4. Collection Detroit Institute of Arts, Detroit, Michigan. RIGHT

Circumcision ca. 1523–1524, brown ink and brown wash with white heightening, 101⁄4 x 8. Collection the Louvre, Paris, France.

sentations of figures, griffins, and finials revealed a perceptive vision, a quick and accurate hand, and a skillful use of materials. He surpassed his contemporaries in handling the three most common drawing materials: red or sanguine colored chalk, black chalk, and pen-and-ink. “The range of styles Parmigianino essayed in red chalk during these early years is impressive,” writes David Ekserdjian in the catalog for the exhibition (Yale University Press, New Haven, Connecticut). “One approach ... is effortlessly polished and tautly disciplined, but also very delicate. ... By contrast, Parmigianino concurrently employed red chalk to achieve dramatically energetic effects, whether in a fully resolved compositional study for

an unexecuted altarpiece or in a garzone study for the figure of Saint Vitalis in one of his frescoes for San Giovanni Evangelista. Red chalk was generally used in this period for highly finished solutions, and Parmigianino was well aware of its potential for heavily chiaroscural, sculptural drawing. “Parmigianino’s use of pen—in isolation, or with wash—in this first Parmesan period is equally manysided,” Ekserdjian continues. “There is nothing in the work of Correggio or any of Parmigianino’s other Parmesan rivals that satisfactorily explains his precocious confidence with pen and wash. One possible explanation might be the influence of Leonardo da Vinci upon Lombard draughtsmanship. “Another novelty that may date

from this moment is his use of pen and wash on blue paper. This type of paper, which was originally produced in Arabia but within Italy appears to have been a Venetian specialty, allowed artists to experiment with a colored ground without any need for preparation. In Venice itself, blue paper tended to be used by artists such as Carpaccio as a backdrop for meticulously disciplined pen and wash drawings, sometimes heightened with white, a more forgiving medium than metalpoint that achieved a comparable visual effect. ... Also around this time, or perhaps a bit later, Parmigianino began to exploit the potential of naturally buff-colored paper, not for pen and wash but instead for a combination of black and white chalks.” THE BEST OF DRAWING

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ABOVE

Virgin and Child in Glory With Saints Jerome and John the Baptist, also known as the Vision of Saint Jerome ca. 1526–1527, oil on panel, 1333⁄4 x 58. Collection National Gallery, London, England. LEFT

Entombment (first version), ca. 1524–1527, etching, 103⁄4 x 8. Collection The British Museum, London, England.

Reba F. Snyder, a paper conservator at the Morgan Library in New York City, points out that while Parmigianino may have created exceptional drawings early in his career, there was nothing innovative about his choice of materials. “Red and black chalk were quite common drawing materials long before the Renaissance, and they continued to be used extensively by artists until more mechanical drawing instruments were introduced in the 18th century,” she explains. “The obvious reason these materials were used so extensively is that red and black chalk were naturally occurring minerals in many parts of Italy,” Snyder continues. “It was mined, or cut 10

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from the ground, until the supply eventually became exhausted. Parmigianino and his contemporaries had available a plentiful supply of chalks in varying shades of red depending on the amount of iron in the ground. The chalk was used by the artists just the way it came from the earth, a natural combination of clay and iron oxide. It might be shaped in their hands and put in a holder, and the artists could sharpen the end to draw fine lines or round it off for broader strokes. While working, the artists are likely to have had available three or four different pieces of chalk of varying colors and degrees of softness. They would sometimes smear the chalk with their fingers or a

stump, scrape it with a sharp tool, or wet it with water to create a wash.” The pens and ink Parmigianino used to make drawings with hatched and crosshatched lines were also quite different from the steel nib pens, technical pens, and bottled inks used today. “Artists made their own pens by carving the ends of feathers or reeds,” Snyder indicates. “There was nothing exotic about the materials, and they likely used the feathers readily available from ducks or crows, which varied in size and could be shaped into fine or broad points. With different amounts of pressure, these could be used to inscribe thin, faint lines, or dark, wide marks. “The ink was probably iron gall


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ABOVE RIGHT

Drapery Study for the Vision of Saint Jerome ca. 1526–1527, black and white chalk, 9 x 63⁄4. Collection Ashmolean Museum, Oxford, England. RIGHT

Study of the Virgin and Child for the Vision of Saint Jerome ca. 1526–1527, red chalk, 93⁄4 x 61⁄2. Collection École des Beaux-Arts, Paris, France.

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LEFT

Madonna of the Rose ca. 1529–1530, oil on panel, 421⁄2 x 341⁄2. Collection Gemaldegalerie, Dresden, Germany. RIGHT

made from oak galls,” Snyder adds. “The husk was produced by a tree in response to wasp stings or disease. The oak galls were steeped in water, and other ingredients, including iron salts, were added to make the ink. There were many formulas, some of which produced brittle, dark brown ink that eventually flaked off the drawing. Black ink was also made from carbon and gum, and natural sepia ink was made from the cuttlefish. Sepia was not commonly used in the 16th century; however, it did appear in seaside towns like Venice where the cuttlefish was readily available. In the 18th century, bistre, another brown ink made from the soluble components of soot, was popular with artists. Of course all of these inks varied in color and density depending on the formulas used to make them and the aging of the ink on paper.” Most of Parmigianino’s drawings are relatively small, with figures no more than a couple of inches in height. In part that is because paper was a precious commodity in the 16th century. “Large sheets were available, but most drawings were done on relatively small pieces of paper,” explains Snyder. “Unless artists were preparing cartoons for a wall or ceiling fresco, they usually made small drawings, often using both sides of a sheet. There were paper mills all over Italy making various kinds of papers, but artists used those papers very purposefully. Every square inch was filled with figure studies or compositional sketches, 12

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Study for the Madonna of the Rose ca. 1526–1529, black chalk with white heightening, 101⁄2 x 73⁄8. Private collection. BOTTOM

Sleeping Man ca. 1527–1530, red chalk, 71⁄2 x 101⁄2. Devonshire Collections, Chatsworth, England.

with the paper being turned in different directions to use all the available space. “Another explanation for the scale of the surviving Renaissance drawings is that collectors often cut drawings into several pieces,” Snyder adds. “They did so because they thought the presentation of the drawings would be more beautiful. The condition of these drawings speaks to the history of

drawing connoisseurship.” Snyder points out that the red and black chalks available today are not exactly like those used by Parmigianino. “Over the centuries, the highest quality sources of chalk were exhausted and the variety of chalks was diminished,” she explains. “By comparison, the natural materials available today are not nearly as plentiful or as varied, but we

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Adoration of the Magi ca. 1527–1530, brown ink and brown wash with white heightening, 131⁄4 x 91⁄2. Collection Städelsches Kunstinstitut und Städtische Galerie, Frankfurt, Germany.

now have a great variety of manufactured artists’ materials. “The revolution in artists’ materials occurred in painting, not in drawing,” Snyder says in summary. “Oil painting was new, but drawing with chalk and ink was not. Our appreciation for artists like Parmigianino is based on their creative use of those standard materials.” There are aspects of Parmigianino’s work that do appear to be quite innovative. He may have been the first artist to create prints with his own hands rather than in collaboration with a craftsman who would translate his drawings into etchings. While he did prepare drawings for interpretation as engravings, etchings, and chiaroscuro 14

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woodcuts, there is evidence that he was so obsessive about supervising the adaptation of his images that he may have taken over from the craftsmen hired to make the etchings. “If this analysis is broadly correct,” writes David Franklin, “then Parmigianino’s perfectionism would have the unintended effect of making him the de facto father of Italian etching.” At age 21, Parmigianino traveled to Rome with four portable paintings and a collection of drawings he intended to use as calling cards to solicit commissions from Pope Clement VII and wealthy patrons. He made use of his time by drawing copies of the figures in Michelangelo’s

Sistine Chapel ceiling and Raphael’s Vatican frescoes, and he also made drawings directly from live models. Unfortunately, Parmigianino’s time in Rome proved almost fruitless in terms of major commissions, in part because the city was undergoing military turmoil that finally erupted in 1527, forcing Parmigianino to flee to Bologna. He eventually returned to Parma in 1530 and made hundreds of drawings in preparation for painting fresco decorations and panels. Throughout all these travels, Parmigianino made both studies and independent drawings that were not preparatory for paintings. In addition to working on figure compositions, he designed architectural frames for altarpieces, tomb sculptures, bronze statuettes, arms and armor, jewelry, and cutlery. He is even known to have created a few erotic drawings. Indeed, Parmigianino was so obsessed with making drawings of all sorts of subjects that “his industry was often directed towards avoiding his real professional responsibilities,” observes Eskerdjian. A number of important painting commissions went unfinished, including fresco decorations for the vault and apse of Santa Maria della Steccata in Parma. About 100 drawings for the project survive, underscoring the artist’s insistence on perfection and on an endless process of refinement. After eight years of work, Parmigianino had still not completed the fresco and his patrons put him in jail. A sympathetic collector bailed him out, perhaps in exchange for a group of drawings, but the artist fled Parma, became ill, and died at the age of 37. Despite Parmigianino’s tragic death at a young age, Eskerdjian concludes his essay on the artist’s drawings by stating, “It is first and foremost the beauty, richness, and range of his graphic works that make him one of the most undeniably distinguished but also endlessly surprising artists of the Italian Renaissance.”

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ABOVE

Virgin in Glory With the Adoration of the Shepherds and Saint Francis ca. 1529–1530, brown ink and gray wash with white heightening on blue paper, pricked for transfer, 15 x 121⁄2. Collection Ashmolean Museum, Oxford, England. LEFT

Study for the Steccata Ceiling, With Three Canephori and the Vault ca. 1531–1533, brown ink and green, blue, and brown washes with white heightening, 81⁄4 x 7. Collection The British Museum, London, England.

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atthew J. Collins, the principal assistant to artist Charles H. Cecil and a teacher of painting and drawing in the Charles H. Cecil Studio in Florence, Italy, confirms Reba Snyder’s conclusion about the differences between modern and Renaissance drawing materials. “I’ve been studying Old Master drawings for the past 10 years, and it has been difficult finding drawing materials and papers that even come close to those used by the masters,” Collins says. “I first became interested in learning more about the masters’ work in 1993 when I saw an exhibition of Italian Florentine drawings at The Art Institute of Chicago,” Collins remembers. “I made copies of drawings by Cristofano Allori (1577–1621) and his father, Allesandro (1535–1607), and I realized it was difficult to emulate the variety of colors and marks they achieved with the materials available today. I decided to conduct research to see if I could locate or prepare materials that had the same qualities as those used in the 16th and 17th centuries. “The natural sanguine the masters used was more fluid and velvety than the Conté crayons we use today,” Collins explains. “Conté is grainy and gritty compared to the soft material the Italians once mined in the earth. It doesn’t allow for the same flowing, rhythmic lines or the subtle blends Parmigianino achieved in the 16th century. Cretacolor brand drawing pencils are the best commercially manufactured drawing pencils I have found so far. “In some ways the modern black and sanguine pencils are suited to the world of photographs that influence contemporary artists and not to the elegant forms observed by the masters,” Collins continues. “It is important to rediscover those earlier materials so contemporary artists have a better chance of achieving the same rhythms in their drawings. “There is some evidence that Michelangelo mixed wax with chalk to make a slightly harder drawing material that could be sharpened into a fine point,” Collins adds. “For that reason I’ve been experimenting with making my own drawing instruments by first

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RIGHT

Saturn and Philyra ca. 1531–1535, oil on panel, 291⁄2 x 25. Private collection.

ABOVE

Saturn and Philyra ca. 1531–1535, brown ink and brown wash over black chalk, 61⁄2 x 41⁄4. Collection The British Museum, London, England. LEFT

Saturn and Philyra ca. 1531–1535, brown ink and gray wash with white heightening, 41⁄4 x 3. Collection Royal Library, Windsor Castle, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.

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making a paste of beeswax and turpentine, then adding sanguine dust to form a stick of red chalk.” In his pursuit of the perfect drawing materials, Collins has consulted Sandro Zecchi, a well-known art-material retailer in Florence and an expert on art materials. “Even though the original sources of sanguine in Corsica are depleted, Zecchi says he has found a supply in France,” Collins explains. “He won’t tell anyone where he gets the clay, but he sells chunks of stone of varying degrees of quality that can be cut into slices and put into a holder for drawing. The stones are rather expensive and a customer at Zecchi’s has to sort through all the ones available to find the best. The stones have to be cut into strips or slices with a saw, and those slices have to be cut down into little sticks that can be sanded to fit into a holder and sharpened to a point.” While Collins has made some progress in locating and adapting modern drawing materials, he has had less success finding papers that come close to those available in the Renaissance. “I have a small stash of 19th-century papers that are exquisite, and I use small pieces of them to make drawings, but most of my drawings are done on cream-colored sheets of Modir Italian paper that has a slightly textured surface. The tone of the paper allows me to add highlights with white chalk. “Most of the other papers I’ve tried either have a grain so distinct that it distracts from the drawn lines, or they are too smooth and don’t pull enough chalk off the stick,” Collins goes on to say. “I’ve also tried a number of handmade papers, and I’ve found them to be too spongy. I have talked to several mills about the qualities I am looking for in a drawing paper in hopes they will come up with something more satisfactory.” Collins adds that he likes doing silverpoint drawings on papers that he prepares. He coats the surfaces of cold-pressed watercolor paper with a

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LEFT

Portrait of Victor Edelstein by Matthew J. Collins, 1996, sanguine on cream paper, 71⁄2 x 6. Collection the artist. OPPOSITE PAGE ABOVE

Female Study by Matthew J. Collins, 2004, sanguine and white chalk on cream paper, 10 x 7. Collection the artist. OPPOSITE PAGE BELOW

Copy of Cristofano Allori Drawing for Judith With the Head of Holofernes by Matthew J. Collins, 1994, black and white Conté on blue Canson Ingres paper, 10 x 71⁄2. Collection the artist.

liquid made from a combination of glycerin, gum arabic, and bone-white chalk and allows the surface to dry to a hard finish that can be scratched with strands of sterling silver. “The coating is made using the formula Cennini recommended in his classic book on artists’ materials” (The Craftsman’s Handbook, by Cennino D’Andrea Cennini, translated by Daniel V. Thompson Jr., Dover Publications, Mineola, New York), he explains. 20

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Collins concludes by saying his research is intended to support the education program of the Cecil Studio. “Our school is different from others in that we look at nature through the language and rhythms of the Renaissance masters,” he explains. “We are concerned with investigating the idea of beauty and the means of expressing beauty.” For more information on Zecchi’s art supplies, write: Zecchi Colori Belle ArtiRestauro, Via dello Studio 19/r, 50122

Florence, Italy; call: 011-39-055-21-14-70; or fax: 011-39-055-21-06-90. For more information on the Charles H. Cecil Studio, write: Ms. Danielle DeVine, Dept. DRAW, Borgo San Frediano 68, 50124 Florence, Italy; call: 011-39-055-2851-02; or e-mail: [email protected]. For more information on the Parmigianino exhibition and a copy of the catalog, call The Frick Collection at (212) 288-0700, or visit the museum’s website at www.frick.org. ❖


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Raw Materials for Drawing in Ink, Charcoal, and Silver The raw materials shown above are used by New York artist Karen Gorst to create drawings in the manner of artists in the 15th and 16th centuries. Starting in the lower left-hand corner of the photograph is a reed pen filled with a sliver of sterling silver that Gorst uses for silverpoint drawings on prepared papers and boards. Next is a rolled paper stump for carefully smudging charcoal; two bamboo-reed pens for ink drawing; natural galls to be boiled with ferrosulphate to make ink (see the formula below); left- and right-handed quill pens made from goose feathers; additional natural galls; a bottle of ferrosulfate; two pieces of willow charcoal; particles of gum arabic used in making ink; and pieces of both sanguine and white chalk. Stated briefly, her formula for making ink is to mix 3 parts boiled oak galls, 2 parts ferrosulfate, and 1 part gum arabic. “Boil the oak galls and water to the consistency of tea and let that sit for two to three weeks so the liquid will ferment,” Gorst explains. “Add the ferrosulfate and strain the liquid. It should immediately turn black. Then, add the gum arabic.” Gorst teaches medieval techniques of drawing and calligraphy at a number of New York locations, including the Center for Book Arts (phone: 212-481-0295; www.centerforbookarts.org) and Kremer Pigments (phone:212-219-2394; www. kremerpigments.com). She also conducts workshops in public schools and art centers around the country. For more information, contact Gorst at [email protected].

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Graphite: The Drawer’s

Humble Tool

The graphite in pencils is common and largely uncelebrated, but its history, applications, and physical properties are worth a closer look. by Bob Bahr

H

ow little does our society think of graphite pencils? Well, small ones that cost about three cents are given away free at some government offices where forms need to be filled out. Ditto at horse-racing tracks—even at miniature-golf courses. In these situations, they are likely used for just a few seconds, then thrown away. The pencil’s luck is little better in the art world. Graphite pencils compete with charcoal as the least valued media—at least in terms of asking price for a finished piece—a further insult when one considers that a detailed graphite drawing can take much longer to execute than an oil painting. It wasn’t always this way: Graphite used to be a rare commodity—rare enough to spawn imitators. Counterfeiters would sell pencil-shaped wood with the “lead” merely painted on. Others would make pencils with graphite in place only for the first inch or so of the writing end. The mineral was so valued at one point that graphite mining involved the kind of security used for the extraction of a closely related form of carbon: diamond. Operators of the graphite mine at 22

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Borrowdale, in England’s Lake District, locked the entrance to the mine each night and searched the miners at the end of each day for smuggled pieces. According to Henry Petroski’s exhaustive—and somewhat exhausting—book on the subject [The Pencil: A History of Design and Circumstance (Knopf, New York, New York)], a saying in the Lake District in the 17th century held that “a mouthful [of graphite] was as good as a day’s wages.” As the reserves dwindled in that mine, which was renowned for its pure, highquality product, the owners occasionally flooded the pit in the late 1600s to control supply of the material and to prevent its illegal removal. Graphite’s ups and downs are directly tied to its usefulness. Artists and tradesmen had long known about graphite’s ability to make marks, but it was rarely found in pure form and therefore didn’t distinguish itself from other marking materials. Artists interested in fine lines worked in metalpoint using silver, gold, zinc, or true lead, which left a faint, metallic line that could be removed using the soft parts of fresh bread,


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Graphite leads at the Caran d’Ache factory in Switzerland.


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General Pencil Company sells graphite in the form of pencils, sticks, even fist-sized chunks.

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wadded up. Because graphite made a darker mark, it was referred to as black lead. The discovery of the Borrowdale deposit, which was initially only valued by the locals for its ability to mark their sheep, represented the first time that pure graphite could be cut into a stylus and wrapped in string to make a writing instrument that made a consistent, dark line. Its fame spread—and so did the confusion of its true nature: Graphite is better thought of as a higher form of coal, with no relation to lead. To this day, some parents erroneously worry that their child could get lead poisoning from the graphite in a pencil. It’s important for artists to know graphite’s physical properties in order to use the material to its best advantage. The mineral is metallic in appearance, almost glassy, which accounts for its sheen when applied in concentration. Graphite is useful for its superlubricity, which it gets from the weak atomic bond between the hexagonal “sheets” that its components form and this weak bond’s interaction with moisture. This slipperiness means it can be difficult to apply another material on top of a layer of graphite. Artists warn that if drawing materials are mixed, the softer media (charcoal, for example) should be laid down first, because a harder material (such as graphite) would eliminate the tooth on the surface. Graphite came out of the Borrowdale mine in large, pure chunks, allowing pencil makers to simply cut it into


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CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT

Connie XI by Costa Vavagiakis, 2003, graphite, 251⁄2 x 191⁄2. Collection the artist.

Maria VI by Costa Vavagiakis, 2005, graphite, 69 x 48. Collection the artist.

Rainbow XII by Costa Vavagiakis, 2006, graphite, 121⁄2 x 91⁄2. Collection the artist.

small rods and lay it in the slots of blank pencils, then glue another piece of wood over the slot to encase the graphite. This product was in demand the world over. But because of diminishing supplies and embargoes due to war, those outside of England experienced years of graphite scarcity. The situation became dire enough for France’s Minister of War to commission the noted engineer Nicolas-Jacques Conté to discover an acceptable substitute for the Borrowdale graphite pencil. According to legend, it took him less than a day, in 1794, to come up with the process still used today to optimize a limited amount of graphite. Conté found the answer by efficiently separating pure graphite from its matrix, mixing the resulting fine-powdered graphite with clay and water, forming 26

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the mixture into the desired shape, allowing the thin strings to dry, then firing them in a kiln at about 1,800 degrees Fahrenheit. (In contrast, Conté crayons, which represent an extension of the engineer’s innovation, often contain wax and/or softer clay and frequently utilize colored chalk or another type of pigment.) This process not only created a consistent, effective pencil lead but it also allowed Conté to manufacture leads in various degrees of hardness. That’s why today the softest, darkest leads, such as 6B or 9B, are nearly 90 percent graphite, while the hardest leads, such as 6H or 9H, are less than 50 percent graphite. Approximately 5 percent of a pencil’s lead composition is wax; when graphite strings are impregnated with wax, they create smoother-flowing lines.


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Advanced mining techniques for finding the mineral, and the discovery in 1847 of a large deposit of graphite near the Siberian border with China, have allowed graphite’s price to stay very low. Pure graphite in its natural form is no longer particularly desirable. Artists do indeed use graphite in solid sticks, in pencils made entirely of 99.95 percent graphite, even in fist-sized chunks—but it all enters the factory as a powder—what Katie Weissenborn, an executive at General Pencil Company, likens to “gray sugar.” From that state it is mixed, molded, and fired into a variety of shapes and hardnesses, just as Conté suggested. It’s generally assumed that the softer the graphite in the pencil, the darker the mark— and this is true because the clay in harder pencil leads does not contribute much to a line’s darkness. But as the graphite content increases, so does the sheen. Artists’ feelings on graphite’s sheen run the gamut, but love it or hate it, this shiny reflectivity is something a draftsman must take into consideration. Costa Vavagiakis, a New York artist and instructor who draws detailed figure drawings with a graphite pencil, points out that the sheen can affect one’s process. “It acts like a shiny painting,” he says. “You have to maneuver to not let that sheen distract you—otherwise, it can be a total ‘flashout’.” Fernando Freitas tells his students the sheen is unavoidable. Freitas, the senior instructor of the Academy of Realist Art, in Toronto, says graphite’s reflectivity becomes a bigger factor

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in areas where a 9B or 8B pencil has been used. “It becomes almost a mirror,” says Freitas. “But if you don’t use nonreflective glass when framing the piece, the viewer will never encounter it.” New York artist Sherry Camhy makes sure viewers of her work encounter graphite’s sheen—she builds her drawings on black paper, with 9B graphite serving as the lights. This artist turns what many consider a disadvantage into one of the most compelling aspects of her work, and she accomplishes it by seeing the entire process in reverse. It’s a novel solution. “I’ve never explored graphite’s sheen as an advantage because it only seems to happen in the shadow patterns,” comments Freitas. Camhy instead lets the black of the paper provide the shadows, and allows the sheen of the graphite to provide the highlights. Frederick Brosen also uses graphite in a fashion that seems contrary to logic. Despite graphite’s superlubricity, the New York artist puts down a graphite underdrawing for his watercolors that is so thoroughly toned, Brosen says it’s “almost like laying a light glaze over a complete grisaille.” He reports no trouble with the watercolor paint adhering 28

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LEFT

BELOW

627 West End Avenue

Jesse and Friend

by Frederick Brosen, 2006, watercolor over graphite, 32 x 24.

by Fernando Freitas, 2007, graphite, 12 x 16. Private collection.

to the graphite layer, but Brosen does recommend harder graphite, such as a 6H pencil. “Subsequent washes of watercolor will not mix with a hard graphite like this,” he says. “With softer leads, you run the risk of having some of the graphite mix with the washes and gray the colors.” The artist reports that the more opaque watercolor hues hide the sheen, and even when the more transparent colors don’t, he doesn’t mind. “I happen to like what the graphite does to the finish on the paper,” says Brosen. “But actually, one often can’t really tell which is the graphite and which is the watercolor. They sort of fuse together.” The other popular underdrawing medium is charcoal, which is slowly charred wood. Many oil painters prefer to do their underdrawings with charcoal because the charcoal can be brushed off, has a darker tone, and doesn’t have graphite’s slipperiness, but even graphite’s slickness has its proponents. English artist Christopher Cook buys graphite in powder form, mixes it with oil and resin, and pushes this mixture around on a prepared panel until an image begins to emerge. “This mixture produces a very slippery quality—especially on my nonabsorbent surTHE BEST OF DRAWING

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faces—that encourages improvisation and risk-taking,” reports Cook. “I have so far resisted the temptation to use anything except damar resin and stand oil in the mixture, as the pure graphite has allowed me enormous range of expression. The larger particles capture intensely detailed touches very well yet also allow geological attributes to form in the image: erosion, sedimentation, rock strata, and so forth. There seems to be plenty more work yet to come from this intense focus.” Intensity and graphite drawings seem to go hand in hand. Pencils usually imply lines, and tone made from line can only cleanly come from lines that are very carefully drawn, be they parallel or crosshatched. “For me, a large part of the work is the process,” says Meghan Gerety, a New York artist who draws silhouetted details of trees and other natural forms. “It’s not so evident in some reproductions of my work, but in person you can see all the graphite strokes, all the time that went into it. I am interested in how the process is reflected in the

In the Context of War by Meghan Gerety, 2007, graphite on watercolor paper, 72' x 52'.

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work. If you focus on the process, you can achieve the sublime.” Gerety often starts with a color photograph of a tree or other subject, then photocopies the image to reduce the information—particularly the color and details. Tight realism is not her goal at all. “I like the contrast between the gestural nature of the subject and the obsessive nature of my process,” she explains. “I am interested in the idea of the place, the emotional or spiritual essence of a location.” Gerety’s use of a multitude of lines to create tone is not uncommon, even though graphite’s many forms allow for a seemingly limitless number of ways to create dark passages in a drawing. Adds Vavagiakis, “The line is really a point of departure as much as it is a point of arrival. The line has to be a ballpark figure in the beginning. One must start gestural and then work toward pinpoint accuracy.” The artist uses hatching to create dark areas but he will also use a stump to create smooth, subtle tones—although he warns that many of his fellow instructors consider stumping an 32

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undesirable crutch, especially in creating transitions. “It can get too velvety,” says Vavagiakis. “I sometimes will stump—I see it like a glaze, with hatching being like a scumble. Diego Catalan Amilivia and his peers have developed a technique with stumping where they sort of scumble over a tone—they stump an area and then hatch over the top of it. They are going for high luminosity and sharp tactile definitions to emphasize the form.” The key to precise hatching, which is crucial for a cleanlooking drawing, is having a sharp point on the graphite pencil. Brosen uses a mechanical pencil, always sharp. Vavagiakis favors no particular brand, but he usually works from softer to harder lead. “I start in the middle range—usually an HB or a B,” the artist says. “I want to cover ground.” He may end up with a 9H in his hand. It may seem counterintuitive to start with the darkest pencil first, then move to a harder, lighter lead, but the issue is erasability. One must press down harder with hard lead, which leads to a slight


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scoring of the paper. No eraser can completely eliminate the resulting marks because any additional work in the same area will show the valley of the scored line because it will hold more of the newly deposited graphite. “The worst thing you can do is score the paper. But if you do, it’s not the end of the world,” comments Freitas. “You just have to work more carefully to fill in the trench. Still, if you tilt your head the right way, you will always be able to see it.” On the other hand, very lightly applied lines from a soft, dark pencil can be pulled up with an eraser—but they shouldn’t be rashly eliminated. Those early, preliminary lines should be left in place even when the artist realizes some of them are wrong. “A beginner erases by erasing the mark,” Vavagiakis says. “A professional knows that a mark is something you work off of. Make the adjustment first, then get rid of the unwanted mark. The further you get in your drawing, the more sure you are about the marks, and the harder you go.” The artist uses a vari-

ABOVE

Light and Illusion Metaphor by Sherry Camhy, 2005, graphite on black paper, 33 x 54. Collection the artist. OPPOSITE PAGE

Etude by Sherry Camhy, 1997, powdered graphite on gray paper, 141⁄2 x 191⁄2. Collection the artist.

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“A beginner erases by erasing the mark. A professional knows that a mark is something you work off of.” —COSTA VAVAGIAKIS

TOP

ABOVE

Home

Terrain

by Stephen Sollins, 2002, graphite on 12 catalogue pages, 30 x 32. Courtesy Michell-Innes & Nash Gallery, New York, New York.

by Stephen Sollins, 2001, graphite on catalogue page, 161⁄2 x 225⁄8. Courtesy Michell-Innes & Nash Gallery, New York, New York.

ety of erasers on his drawings, from a typewriter eraser to a stringlike polymer eraser, but the primary choice of Vavagiakis and most artists and drawing instructors is the kneaded eraser. “You can use it to create hard edges or granular ones that help suggest a lost edge,” says Freitas. “If you roll the eraser to a point, you can very specifically tap dots in the marked area. You can key in on pockmarked areas and lighten certain spots to make them read the same as other dots in that area. You can press it flat and get a chiseled edge to sharpen a hard line for a contour on a drawing.” 34

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Artists who work in graphite rarely recommend pencil sharpeners. Instead, they suggest shaving the pencil to a point with a knife or razor blade, then perhaps sharpening the exposed lead with sandpaper. A sharp point doesn’t just allow for sharp lines. It also prevents undesired scoring of the paper. “If a pencil is sharpened properly, this forces an artist to have a light touch, or the point will snap,” explains Freitas. The type of paper used with graphite is not a grave consideration. Graphite does not require the paper to have much tooth—in fact, too much tooth can impede the flow of a mark. “Find your preferred paper then stick with it,” Freitas simply says. “Master it.” Vavagiakis prefers paper that is externally and internally sized so it can withstand much reworking. Dan Gheno, a devoted drawer, art instructor, and regular contributor to Drawing magazine, uses ordinary bond paper for gesture drawings and favors Bristol board for more finished graphite pieces. Delicate beauty can emerge from simple tools. Vavagiakis, a meticulous artist, began drawing with his dad’s flat carpenter’s pencil, and he still recommends that variety to students who need to loosen up. Most artists may gravitate toward a specific brand of pencil, but even the exacting Freitas says, “If a student wants to pick up his or her pencil at the dollar store, I’m OK with that.” The magic is in what you make with it. Says Cook, “I enjoy the elemental status of graphite, a form of pure carbon that is a close relative both of soot and diamond. These radically different states of the same element provide a good metaphor for my creative process, especially the notion that something base can become precious.” ❖

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Custom & Handmade Paper Choosing handmade and custom-made paper over machine-made paper involves trading consistency and low cost for an artisanal product with unique traits. For some artists, it’s not a choice at all. by Bob Bahr

A

successful drawing requires the right mix of several elements, including the artist’s ability, the artist’s vision or idea, and the chosen drawing material. Artists have drawn on all sorts of surfaces throughout history, including handmade paper—the only kind of paper around until the advent of machine-made papermaking in the early 1800s. Today, a small, devoted group of artists still seek out the more expensive and rare handmade paper, maintaining that it both enhances their working process and adds to the viewer’s experience. For them, a few small art-supply chains and mail-order companies are invaluable sources of the artisanal product. “There is nothing more exciting than drawing on handmade paper,” says Kathryn Clark, co-founder of Twinrocker Handmade Paper, a papermill in Brookston, Indiana. “When you get up close to it, you see it’s really different from machine-made paper. Daydream When you look at a drawing, it’s by Jamie Wyeth, 1999, really important to get close to it, mixed media on handmade wove paper made by and that’s when you notice the difDieu Donné, 29 x 21 ⁄ . ference in handmade. The surface Collection David Wyeth. © Jamie Wyeth. texture is more alive.” Twinrocker 1 4

has made paper to custom specifications for artists such as Robert Rauschenberg, Jasper Johns, Jim Dine, James Rosenquist, Robert Liberace, William Matthews, and Robert Motherwell, plus a host of lesser-known artists who couldn’t find just the right paper in a typical art-supply store. All Twinrocker paper is handmade, and the staff of six maintains a rotating inventory of paper available for purchase as overruns of special orders. An e-mail newsletter alerts interested customers of what’s currently on Twinrockers’ shelves. Jeffrey Ingram Stone asked Twinrocker to make a paper suitable for his drawings, which incorporate graphite renderings, gouache, pen-and-ink work, and watercolor washes. “I couldn’t find paper that I liked,” recalls Stone. “I wanted to put on a heavy impasto, and I needed a paper that would retain the brushstrokes. I wanted it to be very thin and delicate, yet something that could hold up to watercolor and pen-and-ink work. The other papers’ sizing wouldn’t hold brushstrokes, or the paper didn’t have the tooth I was looking for, or I couldn’t find the color I wanted. I’m very, very particular, and Kathyrn was great. She would send me test after test after test. I would come back THE BEST OF DRAWING

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Twinrocker co-founder Kathryn Clark making a 22"-x-30" sheet of paper at her papermill.

with, ‘I want this weight,’ ‘I want more tooth,’ ‘warm up this color.’” Stone ended up with a parchmentlike paper with a brownish, middle value, which he named Toledo, because he had noticed that it was the same color as the buildings in that Spanish city. Twinrocker attracts drawers and discriminating watercolorists, but it also makes stationery and decorative

“[Handmade paper] adds significance to the work. It’s significant in itself.” —Melanie Nerenberg, Kate’s Paperie. papers. “If it starts with P and ends with R, we make it,” says Clark. Most of their output is sold directly to artists, among whom it enjoys considerable word-of-mouth praise—but it also sells a small amount to retailers such as Kate’s Paperie, Dick Blick, Daniel Smith, and New York Central Art Supply. The papermill, which is now located two hours outside of Chicago, was founded in 1971 by Clark and her husband, Howard, in San Francisco. From 38

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the start, their ambition was to operate a small papermill that could offer intense customer service. The couple moved to Indiana in 1973 to be with a sick relative and decided to relocate their operations to the family farm, where they’ve been ever since. It is now one of two notable custom-paper handmills in the United States. Twinrocker starts a custom-paper job by asking the artist to describe the surface, color, size, and thickness preferred. Sizing and texture are considered next. “We then make a trial so the artist can experiment with it,” explains Clark. “We make adjustments until we produce the perfect paper for them, and then we save the formula. Once we know the specifications, we can make it again and again.” The cost of the custom order depends on the size and thickness of the paper. A setup fee of $200 applies to papers created from a customized pulp, and the minimum order of sheets is $500. In New York City, the Dieu Donné Papermill has worked closely with artists since it first began beating pulp and pressing paper in 1976. For years, Dieu Donné supplied handmade paper to outlets such as New York Central Art Supply, but the organization filed for not-for-profit status in


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New York artist Jeffrey Ingram Stone asked Twinrocker to make this sketchbook to his specifications. BELOW

A detail of Stone’s sketchbook made from handmade paper from Twinrocker.

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This laid paper from Dieu Donné is a cottonlinen blend.

This is a sample of abaca, from Dieu Donné, a paper made from the abaca plant—a close relative of the banana tree—found in the Philippines. Its slippery, long fibers create a slightly uneven surface, but its admirable durability is shown by abaca’s use in the production of marine ropes.

1988, and now focuses on working directly with artists at its mill on 36th Street. “We’re not so much a production mill,” says Paul Wong, Dieu Donné’s director. “We’re usually more involved with the artist and their project. Our focus is custom-paper orders—we’re here when you can’t find a particular color or some other trait in a paper available in the marketplace.” Like Twinrocker, Dieu Donné’s minimum order is $500 and an artist may send specifications to the papermill for a unique product. PRI NTMAKE R AN D PAPE R ARTIST Laurence Barker once called handmade paper the hyphen in “support-medium,” stressing its assertive role in the creative 40

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process. Those who sell both handmade and machinemade paper are also quick to point out handmade paper’s collaborative personality. “The main difference between the two is that handmade has more character; there’s more of a sense of the person who made the paper,” says David Aldera, the paper buyer at New York Central Art Supply, an artist, and something of a paper guru in New York art circles. “The main reason someone would choose handmade paper is for the aesthetics. It is for people willing to work with the inconsistencies that handmade paper is more likely to have, inconsistencies in texture, absorbency, weight, and other traits. Papermaking is like baking a cake—you can follow a recipe, but it won’t always come out the same


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Cover stock produced by Dieu Donné Papermill.

Simon’s green cold-pressed cotton rag paper from Twinrocker, suitable for drawings and pastels.

This cotton-rag paper from Twinrocker has a coldpressed finish on one side and a hot-pressed finish on the other to give artists their choice in one sheet.

This cotton-rag, cold-pressed paper from Twinrocker was created for drawing with graphite or charcoal. Like the other papers shown here, it has no sizing, making it less than ideal for watercolor painting.

way. It’s an issue of human error and skill.” Adds his coworker and paper-department manager Kathy Hyde, “You might notice a richness to the surface. I think you can build a relationship with the surface of a handmade paper.” Hyde and Aldera both say the appeal of handmade paper is largely aesthetic and perhaps even romantic. At Kate’s Paperie, Melanie Nerenberg, the retailer’s marketing director, also sees both sides to the handmade paper issue. “Once you put the human hand in it, you allow the possibility for human error,” she says. “Conversely, there is something incredibly enticing about a unique surface. It may excite the artist. It may remove someone from their comfort zone. You know paper from Arches is going to

“Artists swear that handmade paper behaves differently, and once they work on it, they never go back.” —Kathy Hyde, New York Central Art Supply.

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LEFT AND BELOW LEFT

The two sides—and very different surfaces—of Dieu Donné’s 100% silk laid paper. This paper looks delicate, but it is very tough. Technically, it is not paper because it is made from an animal product. This unusual surface provides an artist with significant challenges—and, possibly, rewards.

harmful to the paper anyway. Archival mist will negate the acidity or buffer the paper if you are concerned about it.” Aldera says he also believes the archival properties of good handmade paper are essentially the same as machine-made. The difference for artists usually comes down to two factors: aesthetics and cost. Handmade paper will cost two or even three times the price of a good, machine-made paper. (But Hyde points out that handmade paper’s higher cost may work to the artists’ advantage, forcing them to “commit to what they are doing, invest in the piece of paper and the work on it.”) With machine-made paper, an artist is trading uniqueness and the artisanal aspect of a handmade item for consis“There is nothing more exciting than drawing on tency and inexpensiveness. “Machinemade paper is so regular that it is aeshandmade paper. When you get up close to it, you thetically boring,” claims Clark. “We see it’s really different from machine-made paper.” make paper as consistent as we can —Kathryn Clark, make it—it’s not wild or uneven. But co-founder of Twinrocker Handmade Paper. just by making it by hand, there’s an aliveness to it. The person who looks at it goes, ‘Wow! What is it about this respond a certain way, but a handmade paper from Nepal is that’s so different?’ The artist gets to work on a surface that is really exciting to draw or paint on.” going to respond very differently. It’s more unpredictable.” Many artists prefer that paper be as innocuous as possible Nerenberg says only about 10 percent of the paper at Kate’s Paperie is handmade, which seems to reflect the market for to avoid distracting the viewer from the rest of the artwork. And some have no problem making a silk purse from a sow’s handmade paper in general. ear—and even like it. “I prefer the cheapest paper around,” Archival properties appear to be roughly the same for says New York artist Dan Gheno. “It allows me to decide what both handmade and machine-made paper. Nerenberg kind of texture I will put on it.” Gheno usually uses an inexexpresses some lingering concern about handmade paper, pensive bond paper or sketch paper from Utrecht Art but adds, “The reality is, we’re talking about deterioration Supplies, neither of which pills like expensive paper might, he over a very long period of time, and we are talking about says. His favorite brand of bond paper is Borden & Riley. people adding materials [paint, water, and the like] that are 42

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Expert, Timeless Instruction “The main difference between [handmade and machine-made paper] is that handmade has more character; there’s more of a sense of the person who made the paper.” —David Aldera, paper buyer at New York Central Art Supply.

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Cost and convenience may dissuade many artists from working on handmade paper, while others have no choice—their artistic vision involves a paper that doesn’t exist. Jamie Wyeth has worked with both Twinrocker and Dieu Donné in search of an unusual surface for his art. “My quest has been to find an archival cardboard,” Wyeth says. “I want it to look like junk. I’d gone to cardboard manufacturers and the only archival cardboard they could supply was gray. In order to get brown archival cardboard, I’d have to make 50,000 pounds of it at once.” Wyeth says he prefers the “give” that cardboard has, plus the feel of it, the look of the surface, and the discernible pulp and “junk” in cardboard. He’s been working with Dieu Donné lately, but not to his complete satisfaction. “We haven’t reached the bad look that I like,” Wyeth says. “I realize cardboard ends up eating itself— just breaking down, self-destructing—but I literally like cardboard.” Projects like Chuck Close’s pulp paintings also require custom work that can best be done by a small papermill like Dieu Donné. Sculptors and multimedia artists keep Dieu Donné booked at least two months in advance, and their artist list includes such luminaries as April Gornik, Neil Welliver, Cy Twombly, Richard Serra, Maurice Sendak, Ed Ruscha, Richard Tuttle, William Kentridge, Lesley Dill, Sol LeWitt, Claes Oldenburg, Terry Winters, and Close. The most successful artists can afford to have their paper and other materials handmade and custom-made. But the allure of handmade paper extends to anyone with an exacting artistic vision. “Handmade paper signifies how important the details are,” says Nerenberg, of Kate’s Paperie. “It adds significance to the work. It’s significant in itself.” Adds New York Central’s Hyde, “Artists swear that handmade paper behaves differently, and once they work on it, they never go back.” ❖

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T H E R E V I VA L O F A N

Influential Drawing Course 2004 saw a museum exhibition and a new book that made Charles Bargue and Jean-Léon Gérôme’s 19th-century drawing course available to art students once again. by M. Stephen Doherty 44

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Study for The Opinion of the Model by Charles Bargue, ca. 1867, graphite, 93⁄4 x 61⁄2. Collection The Walters Art Museum, Baltimore, Maryland. OPPOSITE PAGE

The Artist and His Model by Charles Bargue, 1867, hand-colored photogravure issued by Goupil & Cie, 241⁄2 x 19 (full sheet). Collection Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris, France.

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From its initial publication in 1868 to 1873 until the first decades of the 20th century, the three-part drawing course formulated by Jean-Léon Gérôme (1824–1904) and Charles Bargue (1826/27–1883) was one of the most influential art-education programs in the world. From Paris to London to New York, most major museums and art schools owned a complete set of the 197 loose-leaf lithographs and expected students to copy them. Diego Rivera, Pablo Picasso, Vincent van Gogh and hundreds of other art students spent weeks and months making exact copies of the lithographs of plaster casts, great master drawings, and life drawings. Van Gogh was so convinced of the benefits of following the course that he completed at least three separate sets after the 60 plates in Course III. But despite the importance of the Cours de Dessin, as it was titled, the educational program was supplanted by free, less rigorous methods as Modern art became the dominant international movement. By the 1950s, the academic method of drawing plaster casts and copying works of art, as well as spending days and weeks working directly

ABOVE LEFT

The Foot of Germanicus (Course I) All the artwork in this article was created by Charles Bargue and was published from 1866 to 1871 unless otherwise indicated. The lithographs were printed as individual sheets from stones measuring approximately 24" x 18". The copyright for all the plates in the Drawing Course is held by the Musée Goupil of Bordeaux, France, which has given permission for the plates to be copied for educational purposes only. LEFT

Woman’s Arm, Bent (Course I). OPPOSITE PAGE

Leg of the Crouching Venus (Course I). 46

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from live models, was so discredited that sets of the Bargue lithographs were seldom used by students. Only a handful of complete sets remained when, in 1983, art historian Gerald M. Ackerman began searching for the plates to republish them in book form. After 20 years of research, study, and writing, Ackerman published a book containing all the Bargue lithographs and instructions on how to use them. Concurrently, the Dahesh Museum of Art, in New York City, mounted an exhibition of the original plates. Photographs of Van Gogh and Picasso copies, as well as drawings and paintings by Bargue, supplemented the exhibition. Gérôme and Bargue originally conceived the drawing course as a way of addressing what they believed was a 48

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serious lack of skill and taste among students of design and the decorative arts. Gérôme, his colleagues, and his students began making drawings of plaster casts and a selection of paintings; Bargue was engaged to copy those drawings on lithographic stones to be printed by Goupil & Cie, the most important art publisher and dealer of the time. Courses I and II were published in 1868 while Course III, which appears to be the work of Bargue alone (since his is the only name on the frontispiece), wasn’t published until 1873. Course I of the Cours de Dessin included 70 lithographic prints of plaster casts, progressing from the simplest images of an ear, a foot, or a hand up to the final plates in which complete classical sculptures are presented for copying. Most of the objects are shown

ABOVE

OPPOSITE PAGE

Homer

Female Torso, Rear View

(Course I).

(Course I).

twice, once as a schematic line drawing with grid lines to help with measurements, and a second time with threedimensional shading. Students were expected to make exact copies of each drawing in charcoal, laying in the schematic lines and then adding shading. As they worked, the students would observe both the Bargue lithograph and their copies from a measured and demarked distance to make sure their completed drawing was exactly the same size as the printed plate. The second part of the Bargue/ Gérôme course presented 60 lithographs of drawings and paintings by


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OPPOSITE PAGE, ABOVE LEFT

Copy of Portrait of a Young Boy by Thomas Couture (1815–1879), (Course II). OPPOSITE PAGE, ABOVE RIGHT

Copy of a Roman Woman by Adolphe-William Bouguereau (1825–1905), (Course II). OPPOSITE PAGE, BELOW LEFT

Copy of Head of a Young Italian Girl by Émile Levy (1826–1890), (Course II). OPPOSITE PAGE, BELOW RIGHT

Copy of Self-Portrait by Andrea del Sarto (1486–1530), (Course II).

artists considered the greatest of any historical period. Included are Michelangelo figures from the Sistine Chapel, Raphael paintings of women and men, Hans Holbein the Younger portraits, and drawings by artists of the time, including Gérôme, Gleyre, and Couture. Those were presented as models of both expert skill and good taste. By making exact copies of these plates, the art student would gain an understanding of form, line, value, and aesthetics. Course III, Charcoal Exercises in Preparation for Drawing the Male Academic Nude, was designed only for fine-arts students because it was assumed that designers and decorators didn’t need training that led to drawing a live model. The 60 lithographs were referred to as academies, meaning drawings or paintings of male models in poses considered to be “noble and classic.” Female models were not used in life-drawing classes in 19th-century academies until quite some time after the middle of the century, and students were expected to learn to draw the female form from statuary and other works of art. The first proofs of the Course III lithographs showed completely nude men, while the more modest later sets included loin clothes draped over the men’s genitals. Bargue’s lithographs in Course III were outline drawings of the models,

almost all with no facial features and very few notations within the outline to indicate volume or anatomical detail. In most cases, the outlines are drawn in straight segments, and the joints are delineated as sharp angles. That’s because students were encouraged, when drawing the curve of an arm or leg, to simplify the contour of the part into straight lines. First, one

ABOVE

The Daughter of Jakob Meyer by Hans Holbein the Younger (1497–1543), 1525, black and colored chalks, light green wash background on paper, 151⁄2 x 143⁄4. Öffentliche Kunstsammlung Basel, Kumpferstichkabinett. Holbein’s work was admired in the 19th century for its “primitive” or “naïve” qualities, and a number of the plates in Course II are based on his drawings and paintings.

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marks the beginning and end of the curve, then, “by finding the apex of the curve and marking it, and joining the three marks, an accurate approximation of the curve is produced from which the curve can later be developed,” Ackerman explains. “If you draw a curve without any help, you will probably draw an arc, and you may not know when to stop.” Written instructions were never published with the drawing course because it was assumed that the instructors who made the plates available to their students knew the longestablished, conventional routine of teaching drawing and could explain the recommended procedures. But a hundred years after the course was abandoned, few teachers can adequately explain how the Bargue lithographs might be used. In writing his book, Ackerman was left with the monumental task of preparing such detailed instructions. “The course had no text, and although it was self-evident that these were beautiful drawings—inspiring and exemplary models that any figurative artist would prize and want to copy—I as an art historian and not a trained artist found it hard to imagine my writing an explanation of the plates and their use,” Ackerman explains in the preface of his book. He goes on to credit Daniel Graves, to whom the book is dedicated, for urging him to write the book and for teaching him how to draw. After studying with Graves in Florence for five semesters over a 10-year period, Ackerman felt

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Copy of Young Woman Kissing Her Child by Auguste Toulmouche (1829–1890), (Course II). RIGHT, ABOVE

Copy of Study of a Baby by Timoléon Lobrichon (1831–1914), (Course II). RIGHT, BELOW

Copy of Head of a Child by Jules Lefebvre (1836–1912), (Course II).

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THIS PAGE

An Archer (Course III). OPPOSITE PAGE, ABOVE LEFT

Seated Man, Rear View (Course III). OPPOSITE PAGE, ABOVE RIGHT

Seated Man, Hiding His Face in His Hands (Course III). OPPOSITE PAGE, BELOW LEFT

Man in Profile, Leaning to Right (Course III). OPPOSITE PAGE, BELOW RIGHT

Seated Young Man, Three-Quarter View, Hair Somewhat Long (Course III).

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CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT

Standing Man, In Profile, Holding Out His Open Left Hand (Course III).

Standing Man in ThreeQuarter View, Holding a Pole With Both Hands, His Left Leg Crossed Over the Right (Course III).

Standing Young Man, Turning His Head to the Left, Right Hand Extended (Course III).

Standing Man in Profile, Hiding His Face in His Hands (Course III).


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confident enough to write the recommendations for using the Bargue plates, with the help of Graves and artist Graydon Parrish, his co-editor. In order to faithfully pursue the Bargue drawing course, an artist must be prepared to devote a considerable amount of time and energy to the effort. Ackerman recommends spending up to 15 hours over several weeks on each copy, always working from a standing position. “It’s quite typical, in the schools where the drawings are still used, as in the Florence Academy of Art, to spend three to five weeks of three daily hour sessions making exact copies of the plates in Courses I and II,” he explains, “and it would take less but still considerable time to copy each of the plates in Course III, considering that the student would be more advanced.” Furthermore, Ackerman strongly recommends that artists use the sight-size method of standing a constant distance from the Bargue plates and the drawing surface so that the copies are exactly the size of the image seen from that distance. This practice will prepare the student for drawing from live models. For an appendix in the book that explains the use of the sight-size technique, Parrish prepared diagrammatic drawings to explain how artists should be positioned to use the technique. Charles Bargue Drawing Course, With the Collaboration of Jean-Léon Gérôme, by Gerald M. Ackerman (with the collaboration of Graydon Parrish), is published by ACR Edition Internationale, Paris. The Musée Goupil of Bordeaux, France, which owns the copy of the course reproduced in the book, has given permission for the Drawing Course plates to be copied and enlarged from the book for study purposes. The book is available from the Dahesh Museum of Art bookstore; copies may be ordered at www.daheshmuseum.org. ❖

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Man Pulling on a Rope (Course III).

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Studying Drawing With

PROFESSOR EAKINS An unearthed drawing manual from America’s consummate realist painter demonstrates the breadth of Thomas Eakins’ intellectual curiosity and the vigor of his methods. by Gerard Haggerty lease fill in the blank: “_______ is not a painter, he is a force.” The missing name is that of Thomas Eakins, and the cryptic pronouncement comes from the artist’s friend, admirer, and onetime model, Walt Whitman. Eakins’ A Drawing Manual, published in 2005, collects the long-forgotten manuscripts for his planned instructional book, helping us to understand the particular force that motivated his genius: an unwavering belief that logic, labor, and linear perspective could create what we see out of what we know. In the artist’s own words, “You can copy a thing to a certain limit. Then you must use intellect.” Eakins’ intellect encompassed a multitude of subjects. His vast expertise in linear perspective dovetailed with an informed enthusiasm for higher mathematics, a discipline he urged students to investigate because “it is so like painting.” A fascination with optics led him naturally to the camera, which, like perspective, can be used as a tool for objectifying sight. His contributions to the field of stopmotion photography alongside Eadweard Muybridge influenced the development of movies. Eakins, who had once considered becoming a surgeon, taught anatomy to medical students as well as artists. He published a scholarly article

P

disputing the conventional wisdom about how muscle groups work. (He was right.) Eakins loved bone and muscle, which he analyzed in ways that remind us that the term analysis traces its roots back to ancient Greek words signifying “to take apart” and “to resolve.” He took apart human bodies—animals’ too— and he advised his students to do likewise. Although some of his pupils at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts (PAFA), in Philadelphia, initially recoiled at the idea of dissecting cadavers, Professor Eakins reported they were won over after they saw the beneficial effects of the practice on their colleagues’ art. Most 19th-century American art schools styled themselves after the École des Beaux-Arts, in Paris, the institution where Eakins enjoyed the distinction of being the first American accepted to study with Jean-Léon Gérôme. The French Academy placed a heavy emphasis on drawing from plaster casts, but the curriculum that Eakins instituted at the PAFA stressed working directly from life, along with anatomy and linear perspective. The approach was remarkably progressive for its time, and so was the school’s policy of admitting women and men into the same classes. It’s THE BEST OF DRAWING

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BELOW

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Perspective Drawing for The Pair-Oared Shell

[Thomas Eakins at About Age 35]

by Thomas Eakins, 1872, graphite, ink, and watercolor, 3113⁄16 x 479⁄16. Collection Philadelphia Museum of Art, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

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by Frederick Gutekunst, ca. 1879, gelatin print on cream wove paper, 5 x 4. Collection the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

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possible to be too progressive, as Eakins discovered after he lifted up the loincloth of a male model in a coed class to reveal the articulation of the muscles beneath it. The press got wind of the story and sensationalized it. The misstep got Eakins booted out of the PAFA in 1886: a forced resignation, technically, from the school that he had both run and revolutionized. One year later, Eakins would be fired by the Drexel Institute of Art, Science and Industry, in Philadelphia, for repeating the revealing moment during an anatomy lecture. Well, times change. In 2005 The Philadelphia Museum of Art, in association with Yale University Press, published A Drawing Manual, the textbook that Eakins was developing until his job ended and his enthusiasm for the project waned. Kathleen A. Foster’s introductory essay, “The Tools of Art: The Drawing Manual of Thomas Eakins,” details the combination of luck and deductive scholarship that gave birth to the book. After the artist died one month shy of his 72nd birthday in 1916, his illustrations and text fell into the hands of his widow, Susan Macdowell Eakins. She passed them on to Eakins’ protégé and lifelong friend, Charles Bregler. The bulk of Bregler’s materials ultimately found their way into the Philadelphia Museum of Art. When the museum acquired a second cache of related documents in 1985, the pieces for the book were all there—too many pieces, actually, since Eakins had written multiple versions of some chapters and very rough drafts of others. The best art historians are also detectives. Editorial choices, including the chapters’ sequence, were made after scrutinizing watermarks, paper types, and the artist’s notes. Even changes in penmanship came into play. His father was a writing master, and the most elegant versions of Eakins’ handwritten text were assumed to represent his final draft— although penciled addenda on some of these pages also helped determine the last word. The resulting book, designed by Frank Baseman, is a work of art in its own right that evokes the no-nonsense clarity of Eakins’ teaching, and the look of drawing manuals that proliferated in his time. An illuminating monograph by Amy B. Werbel places Eakins’ book in the context of the “art crusade”—a phrase THE BEST OF DRAWING

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LEFT

This illustration opens Chapter VI of Eakins’ book, which deals with depicting the tricky perspectives of reflections on water. OPPOSITE PAGE

Chapter IV of Eakins’ Drawing Manual addresses mechanical drawings.

coined by Peter Marzio to describe the zeal for teaching drawing that swept across America in the first half of the 19th century. Two of the best-selling how-to-draw books of the time, Rembrandt Peale’s Graphics and John Gadsby Chapman’s The American Drawing-Book, both linked drawing to prosperity and the common good. Chapman proclaimed that art “gives strength to the arm of the mechanic, and taste and skill to the producer, not only of the embellishments, but actual necessities of life. From the anvil of the smith and the workbench of the joiner ... it is ever at hand with its powerful aid, in strengthening invention and execution, and qualifying the mind and hand to design and produce whatever the wants or tastes of society may require.” Eakins used Chapman’s textbook when he attended Philadelphia’s Central High School, a first-rate public school where Peale’s notions about drawing and daily(!) grading prevailed. Although Eakins’ writing is less florid than Chapman’s, the organization of his manual resembles both The American Drawing-Book and the curriculum at Central High School. The reader is introduced to linear perspective, mechanical drawing, and isometric perspective; but where Peale spends only two pages on linear perspective, Eakins devotes three chapters to the topic. A chapter on the science of reflections mirrors Eakins’ interest in optics, followed by what he claimed were “entirely original” theories about bas relief sculpture. Observations about stop-motion photography, equine anatomy, and mathematical formulae for refraction make up the books’ appendix, revealing that it is not just his love of linear perspective that qualifies Eakins as a Renaissance man. 62

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Those who dread the complexities of linear perspective will smile ruefully upon learning from Professor Werbel’s introduction that artists such as Gérôme and Jacques-Louis David often hired specialists to map out the perspective schemes that underlie their paintings. They will also take comfort from Eakins’ opening assertion that “the whole science of [linear] perspective is one of great simplicity and of easy comprehension.” Eakins leads us gently through the rationale for the system, using commonsensical examples like tracing what we see upon a windowpane placed at various distances from ourselves and our subject, and offering pithy truths such as “twice as far off, half as big.” Complications and geometry lessons accrue gradually. His black-and-white illustrations are crisp—though some of the geometric diagrams ought to be larger—and his language is as clear as glass. Eakins was a beloved teacher—praised by his students, who followed him en masse out the doors of the academy when he resigned, and praised as well by subsequent artist/educators such as Robert Henri. This elegant little book offers a real sense of Eakins’ plain-spoken pedagogy: in equal measure didactic and democratic, caring and exacting. Many how-to-draw books preceded and followed Eakins’ manual, and it is not the final word on the topic. But it is a valuable addition to one’s library and indeed to one’s life— because it provides an opportunity to study with an American master. ❖ For more information, or to order Eakins’ A Drawing Manual, visit www.yalebooks.com.


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In this tutorial overview of the figure, we learn how to analyze and correctly draw different areas of the body, and then bring it all together. by Dan Gheno

The Human Form: How to Put It All Together

Y

ou wouldn’t build a house without referring to a blueprint or try to take a trip without consulting a map, anymore than you would set up your DVD player without looking at the instruction manual. Or, perhaps you would—as most of us do—resulting in a clock that flashes 12 a.m. in perpetuity and a timer-record function that never seems to find the channel or program that you wanted. Many of us approach figure drawing the same way, as if trying to reinvent the wheel each time we sketch the human form. There are a multitude of helpful guidebooks that provide crucial information about the figure and its underlying structure and overlying surface features. Artists have compiled this hard-wrought information over several centuries of looking and analyzing, each generation of artists building upon the previous generation’s discoveries. This knowledge can be found in the many artistic anatomy books on the market, as well as in general books on figure drawing, such as Richard G. Hatton’s Figure Drawing manual (out of print), but most of them go unread by the average art student and many of the art professionals fearful of squelching their “creativity.” It’s true, a little bit of anatomical knowledge can be a very dangerous thing. A cursory study of the subject can result in stilted, overworked, muscle-lumpy drawings by an artist

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infatuated with his new-found knowledge. I learned this the hard way when, at 10 years old, I tentatively began my study of anatomy. The sternocleidomastoid in the neck was my firstfound and favorite muscle for weeks. I couldn’t draw a neck that had any cylindrical solidity, but I certainly was proud of my “knowledge”—that is, until I started to read more anatomy books. The key, as many anatomists warn in their handbooks, is to learn anatomy so well that you can forget it. That way, it doesn’t interfere with your creative impulse, allowing your subconscious to quietly and spontaneously provide the technical information when you need it. After flailing about for months, memorizing muscles and drawing rubbery, flaccid drawings, I realized that I needed to reboot my studies. I began concentrating on the skeletal underpinnings of the human form as all the anatomy books recommend. Like all contrarian youths, I had a hard time accepting the truth: that the muscles follow the underlying curve of the arm and leg bones as well as the big planar shapes of the rib cage and the pelvis. But soon, I could see the results of my study: more rhythm and a sense of volume in my figure drawings. It would be impossible to present all the art world’s accumulated knowledge of the human form in one book, let alone in this one article. Whether you’re interested in


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Weighted Stasis by Dan Gheno, 2006, colored pencil and white charcoal on toned paper, 24 x 18.


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D

E

A

B C

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RIGHT

Sideview of the Muscles of the Body

Outreaching Figure

by Jan Wandelaar. Wandelaar (1690–1759) drew a series of anatomical plates for Albinus’ influential book on human anatomy over the span of more than 20 years. Albinus gave great credit to the artist of the copper plate engravings that filled this book, Tabulae Sceleti et Musculorum Corporis Humani. But Albinus felt that he was the ultimate author of the images, explaining that the artist “was instructed, directed, and as entirely ruled by me, as if he was a tool in my hands, and I made the figures myself.” Muscle names: A) serratus anterior, B) external oblique, C) pelvic or iliac crest with the posterior crest to the right of tag and the anterior crest to the left, D) deltoid muscle, and E) extensor muscle group.

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by Dan Gheno, 2005, colored pencil, 12 x 8.

drawing the figure in a traditional or expressive manner, it helps to read as many different anatomy books as you can stomach—every book repeats a certain core of information, but each book presents some surprises and reveals juicy facts missed by others. I hope the following serves as a road map that helps to get you started on your own voyage. In this article I will summarize what I consider are some of the more significant lessons that I’ve gained from my study of the human form, its structure, and anatomy. Concentrating primarily on the surface characteristics of the human form, I will explain how to use this knowledge to draw more volumetrically dimensional and gesturally dynamic figures. Although I will need to refer to some anatomical terms now and then, you needn’t worry. You won’t find them at all intimidating if you occasionally refer to the two elegantly simple diagrams by Jan Wandelaar.

The Core Figure The core figure, as I call it, is the most important part of the human form. Built out of the chest and pelvis, the core figure serves as the hub or the trunk from which all else emanates, including the entire gesture or posture of the figure, not to mention the neck and head, the arms and hands, and the legs and feet. As I’ve mentioned previously in my first article for Drawing (fall 2003), it’s extremely important to note that the chest and pelvis move in opposition to each other; they never sit straight, one above the other. In a standing position, the chest usually tips backward (see In the Distance), while the pelvis tilts forward. Meanwhile, in a seated position, the pelvis usually tips rearward and the chest slumps forward. No amount of detail will save your figure drawing if you don’t grasp this fundamental gesture of opposition. It’s sometimes difficult to perceive these relationships while drawing the human figure, especially if you’re not familiar with the supporting skeletal forms. Many of my beginner students exclaim in frustration, “I hear what you say, but I can’t see it—it looks like a jumble of bumps to me!” In response, I point out the visible, bony landmarks or muscle forms that you can use to analyze the tilt of these forms. On a standing figure, notice how the stomach muscle turns dra-

matically inward under the belly button. In the rear, the posterior pelvic crest (right of C) is often visible on a thin model, tilting forward in an almost parallel thrust to the stomach muscle. Even on a full-sized model, the upper buttocks or gluteus medius tends to follow the tilt of the pelvic crest underneath (see Weighted Stasis). Next I look at the breastbone or the bony surface of the rib cage sitting between the breasts and pectoral muscles. On a standing figure, this bony landmark always shifts backward toward the top. On the back of the torso, you can almost always see at least an echo of the lower rib cage’s structure underneath, even on a heavy model. This slightly curved form tips forward in near unison to the slant of the breastbone on the front of the chest. Although they are only two outside lines, they act like the parallel, vertical planes on a box. And when these two simulated boxes are stacked in opposing angles to each other, they create a dynamic contrapposto, or opposition of forms in the torso. THE BEST OF DRAWING

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So far, we have only considered the front and back planes of the torso. Most artists remember to draw in the side planes that run up and down the torso since the big light and dark shapes tend to break at this point. But although many of these artists know that the torso has a top plane, they frequently forget to draw it. The top plane can be envisioned as a sort of sloping tabletop that begins at the top of the shoulder or trapezius. It wraps downward across the top of the arms or deltoids (D), and bordered by the collarbones, or clavicles, continues to descend toward the centerline. Too many artists draw the collarbones horizontally straight across the torso, cutting off the depth of the plane and producing a 68

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LEFT

OPPOSITE PAGE

Standing Male Nude From Rear

Front View of the Muscles of the Body

by Michelangelo, ca. 1501, chalk and bistre, 15 x 73⁄8. Collection Albertina Museum, Vienna, Austria.

Muscle names: F) flexor muscle group, L) linea alba, N) infrasternal notch, S) suprasternal notch and the top of the sternum or breast bone, P) patella, T) inner end of the tibia, I) area near the midpoint of the body, close to the trochanter and slightly below where the major front leg muscles (rectus femoris) enters the pelvis.

by Jan Wandelaar.

paper-thin, cut-out version of the torso. Most often on a front view or side view, the collarbones slope downward into the pit of the neck, creating a broad plane that tilts dramatically forward. Along with the neck that sits obliquely upon its slanted form, this top plane acts like a natural cross-section that reveals the full depth and volume of the torso. It’s also crucial to the overall gesture of the figure; it provides another reference point for the tip of the rib cage, just as drawing the top or bottom plane of a box helps to show the form’s tilt in space. About the only time the collarbones look straight or seem to curve upward is when you look at them from a lower angle or when the figure is leaning back away from your point of view (see Sargent’s Nude Man). Once you’ve established the overall gesture of the core figure, you need to look deeper into the supporting structure. Find the centerline first, whether you’re drawing a front or back view of the torso. On a back view, you can see the centerline reflected in the central structure of the spine itself. The frontal centerline is a little more difficult to find, but it is implied in the bony space between the breasts (SN) and runs down the middle of the stomach, or the rectus abdominus. On thin or muscular models, you can often see the centerline running through a vertical line, called the linea alba (L), that divides the stomach muscle. The chest and the pelvis are built upon a bilateral structure, which simply means that one half of the form mirrors the other. But be very careful when drawing in the centerline. We usually see the torso in some sort of perspective recession. That means that the far side of the form, past the centerline, will take up less space. Even many advanced artists forget to consider perspective. Some of them think the centerline is too elementary to worry about, but in their haste, they often make the far side of the core figure too big. Nevertheless, don’t worry if you fall into this trap. Your gut will tell you that something is wrong, and once you run a belated centerline through your torso, you’re more likely to catch and correct your mistake.


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S

D

D

N E A F L B E F

C

I

P

T

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CLOCKWISE FROM BELOW LEFT

Female Nude Study

Slumping Figure

Gesturing Figure

by Pierre-Paul Prud’hon, 1809, chalk on blue paper, 231⁄4 x 121⁄2. Collection Pierpont Morgan Library, New York, New York.

by Dan Gheno, 2006, colored pencil, 14 x 12.

by Dan Gheno, 2005, sanguine crayon, 23 x 15.

In this slumping figure, the pelvis tips backward and the chest tilts forward, which compresses the abdominal area in between.

In this drawing I first imagined the underlying structure of the core figure, or torso, before drawing the overlapping foreground arm.

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Getting a Likeness Although this guideline will work on all figures, even stilllife objects, there is no such thing as a generic core figure. I’ve explained previously in Drawing how to get a likeness when drawing or painting a face (fall 2006). Simply put, you divide the distances between features into three segments, estimating which distance is longest and which is shortest. If you can’t find the likeness at this broad level, you never will, no matter how many details you throw into the face. The same is true of the torso. Try measuring the front of the torso in a similar manner, dividing it into three sections and comparing each of their relative lengths as you would do with the features. The first segment begins at the pit of the neck, or suprasternal notch (S) and ends below the nipples at the infrasternal notch (N); The second begins at the infrasternal notch and ends at the navel; the final section starts at the navel and finishes at the pubic bone. Once you establish this basic framework, you can go to town on the details, if you want. But proceed with caution! Some artists get too hung up on the details— especially the breasts and shoulder blades. Most people have a tendency to draw the breast too large or skimp on the rib cage so that the breasts seem to float outside of the torso with no base of support. With equal frequency, artists tend to draw the shoulder blades too small and tight to the torso, not leaving enough room for the rib cage. I usually ignore these details when I first set up a drawing of the core figure. Instead, I concentrate on establishing the underlying curves of the rib cage, drawing through the positions of the breasts and the shoulder blades. Then, with a supporting surface to work with, I add these superficial details on top. On your drawings of the female form, don’t forget to add a little extra bulk for the pects

above the breasts. Above all, trust your eyes! Even though the word bilateral implies an absolute symmetrical relationship between each side of the torso, there is always some variation from the norm, with one breast usually a little smaller than the other and one side or segment of the “six-pack” abs larger or more defined than the other.

In the Distance by Dan Gheno, 2005, colored pencil, 11 x 8.

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The key, as many anatomists warn in their handbooks, is to learn anatomy so well that you can forget it. That way, it doesn’t interfere with your creative impulse, allowing your subconscious to quietly and spontaneously provide the technical information when you need it.

LEFT

Two Studies of an Ascending Male Seen From Behind by Jacopo Robusti, il Tintoretto, ca. 1540, charcoal with white heightening, 153⁄4 x 101⁄2. Collection KrugierPoniatowski. Tintoretto drew the figure obsessively, often rendering a single pose or action several times on the same piece of paper, perhaps in an attempt to rehearse his painted figures before he committed himself on the canvas, or maybe to catalogue and memorize a vocabulary of figure forms in his subconscious mind. OPPOSITE PAGE

Studies for Haman by Michelangelo, ca. 1511, red and black chalk, 10 x 8. Collection the Teylers Museum, Haarlem, the Netherlands. When drawing a seated figure, it’s helpful to compare the length of the upper and lower legs, then compare each individual leg segment to the length of the torso.

The ribs are a particularly enticing—and baffling— detail. Many confused artists look at the ribs and see a mind-boggling webbing of details that seem to break into long and short shapes, sometimes angular, sometimes curvaceous, going in all different directions. You will find it easier to analyze them if you remember that the rib cage is basically barrellike in structure, and that the individual ribs follow this form, starting high in the back at the spine and then curving downward toward the front (see Michelangelo’s Studies for Haman). The pesky complications start when you try to add two very elegant muscles to this simple mass: The serratus anterior (A), which grabs the ribs from above and the external oblique (B), which grabs from below. Luckily, these seemingly complicated muscles have their own logic to guide your eye and pencil. The serratus is literally a serrated muscle, with short fingerlike segments that individually dig into the ribs. The overall muscle follows a dependable arc that runs from underneath the bottom of the shoulder blade and aims for the nipple in front, before finally disappearing under the pectoralis. The external oblique is the form that sits so gracefully above the hips in athletic people and Greek and Roman statues; unfortunately, most of us experience this on our 72

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own bodies as “love handles.” As its name suggests, this muscle rises upward toward the ribs at an oblique angle, and on well-developed individuals, this muscle is also fingerlike at the top. The external oblique muscle intersects the serratus above, as if they were two clasped hands, folding into the same dependable, curving arc that guides the upper muscle.

The Extremities As you may recall from previous installments of this series, you know that I like to begin my drawings of the figure with a “line of action.” Coined by Thomas Eakins, this term refers to a line, either imagined or actually drawn on your paper, that indicates the overall thrust and action of the figure. The primary line of action usually runs through the entire length of the figure, from head to toe, buttressed by more specific, tributary lines of thrust that run through the individual extremities. As I move deeper into the drawing process, I concentrate on the core figure and then later move into the extremities that radiate off of it. I usually shift into the supporting limb or limbs—for instance, the legs in a standing pose or an arm if the model is leaning back in a seated position.


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RIGHT

Indian Beggar by Georges Seurat, ca. 1878, graphite, 19 x 111⁄4. Private collection. Note the shadow patterns on the arms compared to those of the torso. 74

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Arms and Legs Many artists have a difficult time attaching the arms and legs onto the core figure so that the limbs seem to grow naturally out of the torso in a secure, believable manner. There is an easy solution that will sound so elementary you may not want to accept it—give it a try anyway. In your mind’s eye, visualize the core figure as if it were a doll with its arms and legs removed, leaving empty, ovallike crosssections where the limbs should attach. Then imagine the arms and legs attaching into the empty slots. This will help you visualize the relationship of the limbs to the torso’s big planes. In the arm’s case, it is firmly rooted into the torso’s side plane, not hovering outside the chest as some people like to draw the upper limbs. The arm slides deep into the core figure and is embraced by “the shoulder girdle,” with the pectorals in the front; the shoulder plane, collarbones, and deltoids above; and the muscles of the shoulder blade, or scapula, behind. The arm can’t move without taking portions of the torso with it. When the arm swings forward, upward or

backward, it takes the shoulder girdle with it. Notice how the shoulder blades almost touch when both arms swing back, or how the pects and the scapula move upward when the arm does. It’s interesting to note that the scapula is unaffected by an upwardly moving arm until just before the limb begins to move above the line of the shoulder. The arm has a great deal of mobility thanks to this shoulder girdle, but when the arm hangs parallel to the body, the limb participates in the same light patterns that govern the torso, as you can see in Indian Beggar by Georges Seurat. And when the torso’s side plane is totally in shadow, the entire arm often falls into darkness too. It’s vital to remember that arms and legs are basically cylindrical in nature, regardless of their position or the lighting situation. However, the arm and legs are not simple, smooth tubular forms. Like the torso, the arms and legs are composed of many hard, sharply turning muscles and bones that cause the limbs to corner into decisive front, side, and back planes, and split into equally decisive light and dark shapes. You also need to be very careful when connecting the leg to the pelvis. Don’t cement the leg to the top of the hip or pelvic crest like so many artists habitually do. This high placement of the leg doesn’t leave a whole lot of room for movement in the limb. Some transitional muscles connect to the pelvic crest, but the greatest mass of the leg enters the pelvis much lower, near the halfway point of the body (I), where it has more flexibility and can pivot more freely. Like the arm, the leg is constructed on a similar cylindrical basis, subject to all the same planar and lighting effects—with one frequent exception: most often we place the light source above the model, so on a simple, standing leg, the intensity of light usually dissipates radically as it cascades down over the long length of the limb. You will find the light much brighter where the fuller mass of the upper leg turns toward the light than on the lower leg. The foot, on the other hand, often rebounds into a little more light than the lower leg because the horizontally inclined top plane of the instep faces the light more directly than any form on the vertically oriented legs. Even if you place the light low on the ground, you will usually encounter the same effect of dissipating illumination, only reversed.

LEFT, ABOVE

LEFT, BELOW

Shadows tend to follow the exteriors of cylindrical forms, while on spherical forms, shadows cut across at right angles to the direction of the light. Arms and legs are essentially cylindrical, but they are covered by a combination of contrasting rounded and cylindrical subforms that are sometimes mostly spherical in nature, sometimes spherical, or mostly cylindrical with elements of roundness. But when you add up all the various movements of these subforms, the overall thrust of the shadow shapes tend to follow the outside of the cylindrical limbs.

Notice the dissipation of brightness as the leg gradually drops away from the source of light.

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RIGHT

A Hunchback Boy, Half-Length by Annibale Carracci, red chalk with red wash, 103⁄8 x 87⁄8. Collection Duke of Devonshire, Chatsworth, England. BOTTOM

Study of a Man Lying on His Back (verso) by Théodore Géricault, 1749, pen and brown ink, 10 x 12. Collection Musée des Beaux-Arts, Lille, France. BELOW

Studies of an Écorché (verso) by Théodore Géricault, 1749, pen and brown ink, 91⁄2 x 131⁄2. Private collection. OPPOSITE PAGE

Nude Studies for Saint Andrew and Another Apostle in The Transfiguration by Raphael, red chalk over stylus on cream paper, 13 x 91⁄8. Collection Duke of Devonshire, Chatsworth, England.

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Bones There is nothing rigid or straight about these cylindrical arms and legs. Even so, it’s sometimes hard to see the subtle, curving line of action that runs through the limbs even when they are bent upon themselves. Look closely: The underlying bones of the extremities curve subtly, taking the muscles on a ride with them. It can take a long time for some artists to give up their preconceptions and see these slight bends that run through the limbs. In fact, when told to look for the bowing, many artists inexplicably curve the limbs in the opposite direction. Then, when they finally grasp the concept, they frequently over do it. For instance when drawing the lower arm suspended in midair, they will look at the muscle mass that droops below the ulna and often exaggerate its appearance, drawing the overall forearm like a piece of overcooked pasta. If this is you, and you want to avoid this effect, try visualizing the bony structure underneath the skin and muscle casing. Remember that in architectural terms, these bones of the limbs are essentially weight-bearing posts or columns. Built out of delicately refined twists and turns, the bones coil just enough to deflect the stressful effects of the body’s weight and actions outwardly away from the core of their long forms. They can’t curve too much beyond their basic columnar structure, or they will snap like a twig. Another important architectural point: Avoid the equally annoying problem of drawing the lower arms and legs too thin, leaving barely enough room for one bone, let alone the two bones that support each of the forelimbs. If you’re having a hard time seeing any of this, put some tracing paper over one of your drawings and draw the bones underneath. See if your drawing makes sense and see if the subtly curving bones will fit your drawing without “breaking the bones” to make them fit a faulty

shell. Many artists loathe this exercise—until they look at the anatomical sketches by Michelangelo, Leonardo, and the studies for The Raft of the Medusa by Théodore Géricault. They were Old Masters, not rank amateurs. That’s why they understood the need to return to the bones when necessary. They knew that you sometimes have to build from the inside structure and work your way outward to find a better understanding of the surface forms and rhythms.

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Action and Movement

ABOVE

Standing Nude Woman With Upraised Arms By Adriaen van de Velde, ca. 1665–1670, red chalk, 113⁄4 x 7. Collection Los Angeles County Museum of Art, Los Angeles, California. Note the springlike structure of the leg in this running figure. RIGHT

Man Pulling on a Rope, His Left Leg Rehearsed a Second Time by Lodovico Carracci, black chalk, 133⁄4 x 101⁄4. Collection Duke of Devonshire, Chatsworth, England.

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There are a lot of muscular and skeletal parallels between the arms and legs. But the legs present a much more dynamic and rhythmic silhouette, especially when viewed from a side view. The leg bones don’t curve any more than the arm bones. In fact, one of the lower leg bones, the fibula, is straighter and doesn’t swivel like its counterpart in the arm, the radius. But due to the massive, overlying muscles, the legs display a more dramatic back-and-forth visual relationship. On the upper leg, the larger muscles sit on the front, while in the lower leg, the more massive muscles sit on the backside, creating alternating swellings that gracefully shift from the front to the back. Even the bones participate in this setback of forms. When looking at the leg from the front, notice how the upper leg bone, the femur, angles inward, while the lower leg bones, the tibia and fibula, shoot downward in a more vertical manner. With the muscles fuller at the outside of the lower leg, this gives the impression that the lower aspect of the leg is set back, slightly to one side of the upper leg. The result is a springlike structure that acts as a shock absorber when we walk. Visually, this canted effect between the upper and lower leg becomes highly accentuated in an action pose when the figure is off balance or running. There are a lot of helpful analogies between the human form and our four-legged friends to guide our understanding. Since animals depend more on the speed of their legs for flight or fight, the zigzag shock absorber aspect of their limbs is much more extreme and extends all the way through their toes. It is not as dramatic as in an animal, but the springlike action of the human leg likewise continues down into our feet, through the arch of the foot and the toes, which swing upward and then downward as if they are grabbing the ground for dear life. In your pursuit of anatomical and structural knowledge, don’t ignore the dynamic effects of movement on the human form. This means that if you decide to change the position or gesture of the hand or foot, you must alter the entire arm or leg as well. Stand in front of a mirror and try to move your foot inward without at least slightly bowing your leg outward. You will even feel the twist pulling all the way up on your hip.


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A Flying Angel and Other Studies by Michelangelo, ca. 1534, black chalk, 16 x 103⁄4. Collection the British Museum, London, England. THE BEST OF DRAWING

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RIGHT

Harry Seated, Hands Clasped

Standing Nude

by Dan Gheno, 2006, colored pencil and white chalk on toned paper, 24 x 18.

by Pierre-Paul Prudhon, charcoal heightened with white chalk on blue paper, 24 x 133⁄4. Collection Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Boston, Massachusetts.

As you can see from the example of Michelangelo’s Studies for Haman, it’s helpful to compare one body part to another to gauge the proportions of the figure. But don’t become an unthinking abuser of proportional guidelines, particularly when observing the figure from a foreshortened point of view. Trust your eyes—measure each body part against the head. Then measure each limb section freshly against each other as they appear at the moment to your eye, not according to a preconceived canon.

A faint flexion line occurs on the back of the knee where the femur and tibia meet, usually at the midpoint of the overall length of the leg.

Putting It All Together As the previous examples demonstrate, you cannot study the parts of the figure without looking at its totality. How do we arrange everything into an organized, proportionate, fluid whole? First, I begin my sketch in an improvisational manner, trusting my gut and eyes as I rough it in. Then, like many artists, I usually employ the head as my unit of measurement, judging it against the entire body and each major body part. After I’ve established that the parts work with the head, I countermeasure on a larger level by evaluating the major body parts against one another. To keep the confusion to a minimum, I look for body parts that are, on average, nearly equal in their measurements. I usually follow a checklist, first comparing the upper arm against the lower arm, then the upper leg against the lower leg and eventually each separate leg section against the torso. Don’t be surprised if you have a hard time isolating the limbs into easily measurable, equal, upper and lower segments. For the arm, try to visualize it beginning at the shoulder and ending at the knuckles of the hand. On the back of the arm, you will generally find the midpoint at the elbow. On the front of the arm, you will usually find the midpoint at that large protrusion on the inner side of the arm, called the epicondyle of the humerus (the culprit that causes the funny tingling feeling after you’ve hit it). For the leg, think of it as beginning at the hipbone and ending at the base of the heel. You will usually find the halfway point of the leg just below the kneecap or patella (P) on a front view; and on the back, located behind at the faint flexion line (see Prud’hon’s Standing Nude) on the back of the knee. Both of these leg segments are very similar in length to the

vertical distance that spans between the iliac crest and the collarbone—a particularly useful set of measurements when drawing a seated pose (see Prud’hon’s Female Nude Study). All of these body parts are well balanced with one another, as you’ve probably already noticed if you practice yoga. Many of its parts are capable of folding neatly into one another, with the arms and legs able to evenly tuck into themselves and the torso into the limbs (see Michelangelo’s Studies for Haman). As always—and I can’t emphasize it enough—this canon of measurements is only a jumpingoff point, giving you a place to start and something specific to base your judgments against. While looking at the model, ask yourself where the figure and its parts deviate from the so-called norm. THE BEST OF DRAWING

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Carry a small anatomy book with you when you go to a sketch class or when you work in your own studio from the model. Refer to the book as soon as you discover a lump on the body that you don’t recognize and can’t identify from your previous studies.

BELOW

Recumbent Youth Posed Nude, Except for His Hose Pulled Down to His Ankles by Annibale Carracci, red chalk, 9 x 15. Collection Duke of Devonshire, Chatsworth, England. OPPOSITE PAGE

Nude Man by John Singer Sargent, graphite, 97⁄8 x 73⁄4. Collection Wadsworth Atheneum, Hartford, Connecticut.

Trust Your Eyes I can only offer the briefest of overviews in this article and perhaps provide you with the incentive to continue your studies on your own. But even with all the many great anatomy books that you can turn to, it’s not enough to just work mindlessly from charts and texts—do your own research from life and make the anatomical charts real to your eyes and mind. Carry a small anatomy book with you when you go to a sketch class or when you work in your own studio from the model. Refer to the book as soon as you discover a lump on the body that you don’t recognize and can’t identify from your previous studies. However, remember the most important lesson you can learn from this series as you draw: Trust your eyes! Don’t 82

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fall into the trap that tripped up many lecturers who mindlessly recited Roman-era texts on anatomy as they dissected human cadavers for their students in the pre- and earlyRenaissance era. Researched by the great anatomist Galen of Pergamum when it was illegal to dissect humans, these texts were based on the dissection of animals, mostly pigs and sometimes chimps. Everyone in the lecture hall, including the lecturer, could see that the words didn’t always match what their eyes saw. Unfortunately, for too many years, they trusted the text instead. How many people died in these early times because doctors didn’t trust their eyes? Don’t let one of your drawings perish because you trusted a book, instead of your own sight. ❖


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DRAW SIP 09 Allicotti:AA feature

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Representing a Studio Model in an Outdoor Setting by Sharon Allicotti

The reference photograph of the model in my studio shows the extensive changes I made in the final work to repeat rhythmic lines and draw the composition together.

This shrub, which I incorporated into the upper-left corner of my work, is from the desert east of my home in Los Angeles.

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O N C E R E A S O N A B LY CO N F I D E N T with your figuredrawing skills, you may wish to pose a further creative challenge for yourself by developing drawings that place studio models in settings outside your work space. Models are apt to feel uncomfortable out-of-doors, and it is frankly impractical to undertake a complex, detailed drawing outside, considering the vagaries of weather, lighting, and the possible remoteness of a location. A more realistic approach involves staging the scene with the figure posed in the studio and the landscape composed from a variety of plein air sketches, photographic sources, and imaginative invention. In the charcoal piece Study for Cradled, my solution to the disconnect between the observed landscape and the model posed indoors was to create a strong formal relationship between the disparate parts. The diagram retraces the principal repeating patterns and lines found in the figure, drapery, and landscape features. Traced in red, the drawing’s dominant pattern is visible in the curving rhythms of the reclining pose and covering cloak, which corresponds with the spiraling lines of the gnarled shrub behind and left of the model. The spiraling motion keeps the eye moving around, yet always remaining in the image. Observe that the repeating spiral is elliptical, with its diagonal axis (shown in green) consistently angled at about 45 degrees. The effect is to lead the viewer’s eye from the lower left up to the right, terminating at the model’s head. This strong directional vector is countered by the opposing angle of the vinelike branches (highlighted in blue) reaching down behind the figure. These secondary, flowing, organic lines are reflected at three major points in the composition: along the model’s right thigh, in the drapery folds at her waist, and with the major fold of the sleeping bag beneath (and following the angle of) her left upper arm. Minor repetitions of the spiral motif appear in the folds of a small portion of the model’s cover lying far left, just off the figure, and in the oval-shaped stones in the lower right. The shape and position of the small branch in the lower right foreground echoes the major folds of the sleeping bag as well as the posing of the model’s limbs. The addition of this grouping of twigs and stones reprises the landscape theme in a potentially troublesome, isolated corner of the composition. Comparing the drawing with the photograph of the model, you can see the extensive changes I made in the cloak and sleeping bag in order to repeat rhythmic lines throughout the


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entire composition. In addition to physically rearranging the drapery on the model in my studio setup, I made many adjustments on the page in the course of working on the drawing as the overall compositional needs became more apparent. Moreover, in a departure from the original pose, the entwining of the model’s feet mimics that of branches and vines, further tying together nature and the human subject. Extra-soft vine and willow charcoal and soft-pressed watercolor paper allow me to easily lay down broad passages and experiment with the scale and position of forms. Versatile and easily altered, charcoal can be effortlessly wiped off with a soft cloth or chamois, or even blown off the page using a bulb syringe. As the drawing progresses and I become satisfied with my decisions, I develop details using charcoal pencils and use compressed charcoal to create areas needing more intense darks. Tones are lightened and highlights lifted out with an eraser. You can create cohesive, compelling compositions featuring both figure and setting by designing a plan for your pictorial structure, as well as by understanding that an intuitive conversation between artist and page must occur on an ongoing basis. Begin to experiment with studies using soft vine charcoal on sturdy drawing or watercolor paper. With much practice, you will become increasingly responsive to the unique, poetic voice of a complex work in process. ❖

ABOVE

This diagram shows the repeated rhythms I used to reconcile the outdoor setting with the model’s pose indoors. The red marks show the curving rhythms. The green marks show the repeating, elliptical spiral and its diagonal axis. The blue lines highlight the opposing angle of the vinelike branches reaching down behind the figure. BELOW

Study for Cradled 2002, charcoal, 22 x 30. Collection the artist.

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The Creative Possibilities of Draping a Model by Sharon Allicotti

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WO R K I N G W I T H D R A P E RY is considered by many artists to be a challenge, if not a nuisance. But I have found it to be an exciting and highly useful element in my figurative pieces—and well worth the added effort. Drapery can extend the possibilities of a pose, add psychological and narrative suggestion, and help tie together parts of a complex composition. Over many years of both drawing and teaching how to draw drapery, I have devised some useful methods for returning garments as close as possible to their original position after the model has taken a break. Models may break as often as every 20 minutes, and it is simply not realistic to expect that one will get the fabric back in precisely the same place. But, because I always want to make at least some modification to the drawn study for aesthetic improvement and to suit the overall pictorial design, I am not unduly concerned that the drapery does not remain exactly the same throughout the session. The inevitable changes in the drape caused by model breaks actually offers the artist subtle variations often superior to the initial arrangement. In Study for Wellspring, the drapery forms enabled me to develop curved, swirling rhythms to play off those in the landscape and to serve as a transitional element between figure and nature. I arranged the fabric to form a large “figure eight” that began at the model’s upper torso and raised right arm, flowed down and across the left bent knee, around and beneath the right foot, and ran up the left covered arm to complete the shape. I was also mindful of the exposed pant leg, taking pains to arrange and redraw the folds to coincide, as much as was practicable, with the overall drapery scheme. The model demonstration illustrates how safety pins can assist in holding folds and gathers at key points. I make sure to run a pin through all of the fabric layers that make up the fold. I use an inexpensive eyeliner pencil on the model’s skin to mark the position of the pinned drape. The position of the edges is also marked on the drape, using a small safety pin or chalk mark to match the cross drawn on the model’s skin. If the model is wearing a leotard, I use chalk instead of eyeliner so it can be easily laundered out later. I first sketch the undraped model, either nude or wearing dancewear, in order to understand the model’s gestures and the anatomical structure beneath the drapery. In the graphite study Wendy, Draped, I intentionally allowed the underdrawing of the knees to show through the fabric. Although the cloth is not actually transparent, the drawing is a preliminary study for a painting, so retaining such critical figure landmarks will be useful in developing the final Study for Wellspring piece. I used a twin-size bed2002, charcoal, 30 x 22. All artwork this article collection the artist. sheet for the drape.


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LEFT

Wendy, Draped in progress, graphite, 30 x 22. BELOW

Wendy, Draped 2003, graphite, 30 x 22. LEFT

Note how I marked the model’s chest with a cross and matched it to a pin on the drapery so I could approximately recreate the folds after the model took a break.

Following the figure study, the drapery phase of the drawing starts with a general overall sketch of the disposition of the principal drapery masses and major constituent folds. As with any subject, I work broadly at first and gradually focus on the details. Figure draping is most effective when it reveals as much as it conceals. By this I mean that the body is the emphasis, and even if extensively covered, it should not completely disappear under a drape. This objective is met by allowing the fabric to settle on and hug key landmarks (for example, shoulders, hips, and knees), depending on the pose. In addition, I always allow strategic portions of the figure— either nude or in form-fitting clothing—to be exposed, as seen in both of the studies featured here. I suggest to my students that they see draped fabric as a marvelous array of curved and faceted planes—a visual as solid as ceramic still-life props or a hilly landscape. I tell them to contemplate the draped figures of Renaissance stone sculptures—Michelangelo’s Pietá, in the Vatican, is a superb example. This structural approach to analyzing and drawing drapery will transform a perhaps confusing, seemingly amorphous mass of cloth into a clearly observed, understandable subject that can enhance the expressive dimension of one’s figure drawings. ❖ THE BEST OF DRAWING

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11 Reasons

to Attend Figure-Drawing Sessions

Figure-drawing sessions aren’t just for students. Continuing with this practice throughout your career will result in better art. Here are 11 reasons why. by Sharon Allicotti 88

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Fey, Seated 2005, colored pencil on blue-green paper, 25 x 19. All artwork this article collection the artist.

We all took figuredrawing classes in art school. And when the semester was over, many of us didn’t look back. But there are several good reasons to continue figure drawing. I can think of 11 compelling ones right off the bat.

1.

Maintaining the practice (and discipline) of the artist. Just as a musician, dancer, or athlete must practice and train to maintain a level of excellence, drawing the figure from life on a regular basis keeps an artist’s visual and spatial abilities in good form—calisthenics for the artist’s craft, if you will. Moreover, attending sessions regularly affords an excellent means to develop a better work ethic. And just as one is more apt to continue an exercise program with companions, drawing in the company of a group provides a real incentive to stick with it. There is no overstating the value of a regimen that simply keeps one in the activity of drawing, circumventing any number of distractions at home or simply overcoming a case of artist’s block. Once you find a drawing group or workshop that meets regularly, there are no excuses not to draw. (Information on how to find figure-drawing workshops and artist groups is included at the end of the article.)

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Samantha, Seated 2004, charcoal and crayon on fawn-colored paper, 41 x 291⁄2.

2.

4

Improve overall drawing skills. “If you can draw the figure, you can draw anything,” is an oft-repeated (and very true) adage. Draftsmanship is traditionally regarded as the foundation of painting, cartooning, and sculpture; with the figure recognized for centuries as the benchmark challenge of the working artist. The great range of movement possible, together with the anatomical and structural complexity of the body, including the effects of perspective (foreshortening), require special demands of an artist’s abilities. The group experience of drawing the live model accelerates the process of training the eye, especially in terms of gauging proportion. In my figure classes, I encourage students to compare all of their drawings to see which bear the strongest resemblance to our model. Without exception, the most proportionally accurate drawings of the model evoke a portrait-worthy likeness. Although some of the students’ drawings may appear as plausible figures, they do not look like our particular model, a distinction that even the novice can detect. When drawing in 90

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the company of others, such objective comparisons can be made without an instructor’s assistance. An improved ability to assess figure proportion extends to drawing other subjects where proportional discrepancies may not be so obvious. Moreover, in addition to strong anatomical

parallels with many animals, the body can be conceived as analogous with the manifold living and nonliving forms of the natural landscape: It’s no coincidence that we speak of the trunks and limbs of trees, and find in hilly terrain the undulating forms of a reclining nude.


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3. 4.

An authentic experience in a digital era. Drawing from the life model, you will see and understand your fellow human beings with greater sensitivity and acuity. In an electronic age of increasing disassociation from authentic sensation, the direct experience of drawing from the live, human subject yields important insights unattainable by other means. This time-honored practice promotes greater empathy for the human subject in both its physical and psychological dimensions, offering insights into how these two aspects combine to portray emotion and convey meaning in figurative art.

Draw better from photographs (and memory).

Better than photographs.

No photograph—no matter how good— offers the advantages of an actual spatial encounter with a living subject. Photos are static, momentary documents that lock in a pose from a single, monocular position; the photo does not offer the subtle variations in vantage point possible when working from life that enable an artist to grasp the three-dimensional form of the body. Even the best photographs provide mostly an abundance of surface detail, but not the essence of a pose: its weight shift and gesture. I require my students to walk around the model before beginning a drawing, observing from many different angles in order to better understand the pose. I remind them the life model is a subject in-the-round and that the students are not confined to the stationary position of their easel to gather vital information about the subject. Finally, in terms of light perception, the camera cannot approach the optical latitude of the human eye, which can adjust instantaneously to a wide range of lighting conditions over the entirety of the subject; an ability that is essential to effective tonal description in drawing and painting.

Conversely, having had the repeated experience of drawing from life, one learns how to use photographs when it is necessary, or for convenience. Frequent practice with drawing the life model imparts knowledge; successful observational drawing is not simply about seeing, but understanding what is seen. I explain to my students that the accomplished artist considers it more difficult to get a good drawing from photographs than from life—usually the exact opposite for the novice. The experienced figure draftsman realizes well what information is missing from photos; he or she has the skills, and also the ability, to employ memory to compensate for this. In my own highly developed, time-consuming portraits, I often use photos in conjunction with actual observation. I almost always begin my drawings from life, devoting one or more six-hour sessions to settling on a pose and redrawing and subtly adjusting proportions to suit pictorial and expressive requirements. I then make dozens of photographs, moving around my model and varying the camera exposure. This process of extensive photodocumentation more closely simulates actual observation than a single photograph, but it is still best when used to supplement life drawing. I refer to the photos for rendering fine detail and perhaps color in a highly developed drawing or painting between sittings. Please remember that professional figure models usually have different rate schedules for photography versus life modeling, charging a substantial premium for photographs. Never photograph a model without their express permission.

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6. 7. Learn from others.

At the beginning of the term, I explain to my figure-drawing students that they can expect to learn as much (if not more) from their classmates than they will from me. This is not an instance of false modesty, nor am I known to be a lax teacher (as my students will certainly attest). In truth, I have learned a great deal from my students over the years, which I have applied to my own work as well as to my teaching. Drawing with a group offers a variety of approaches to a single subject. Rarely does one have the opportunity to view an individual artist’s process, let alone that of several others. Most attendees, some of whom are accomplished professionals, will be happy to share information about their working methods and if requested, to comment or give advice on another’s drawing.

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Network with other artists.

Few things are more crucial to an artist’s viability than an affiliation with a creative community, yet negotiating the social dimension of the art world can seem baffling. If your aspirations include becoming more “visible,” associating with other artists significantly increases the likelihood that invitations to exhibit, make presentations, and the like will be extended. Attending artists’ drawing groups and workshops is an excellent way to access one’s local art scene and make important contacts. Participation in drawing workshops enables one to tap into the collective energy and expertise of a motivated group of individuals. It is not unusual for lifelong friendships to form in drawing groups. Working with others in the field builds confidence and creates a sense of belonging in a forum where news and information about events— even scuttlebutt—can be exchanged.

Substantial savings in model fees. Figure-drawing-workshop fees average about $15 per threehour session—versus $15 to $20 per hour for private sittings. Eventually, if you have the space in your home studio, you may wish to organize your own sessions. Splitting model fees with even one other artist results in significant savings.


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Sean Leaning on His Arm 2004, charcoal, 30 x 22.

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Wendy Reclining, Taos (detail)

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How to Find Figure-Drawing Sessions

2003, graphite, 30 x 22.

Look for “uninstructed figure-drawing” or “life-drawing” workshops at local colleges, community recreation centers, galleries, museums, artist clubs, and associations. Also, figure artists—found through galleries, local art schools, and colleges—sometimes run figuredrawing sessions in their own studios or belong to drawing groups that meet regularly to draw from models. This arrangement confers the added benefit of working with talented professionals; attend one workshop and, in turn, find out about venues from both participants and the models themselves.

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9.

Inspiration for personal work. Through many life-drawing sessions over the years, I have met a number of models I have gone on to hire privately. Workshops are an ideal setting to discover prospective subjects for your own personal creative work. Skillful models may take poses that are especially inspiring, generating ideas for further exploration. The majority of models are happy to arrange private sittings, be it for figure or portrait. In the context of a workshop, you and the model will become familiar while working together in a comfortable group situation.

Produce a series of drawings quickly. Workshop time-limits, coupled with various factors beyond one’s control, means that drawings produced there will largely be learning experiences, which they truly are in the best sense of the phrase. Most drawings done in workshops are likely not exceptional, but some will invariably be of interest to family and friends and perhaps even saleable. Certainly, regular attendance at workshops enables one to quickly build a portfolio ranging from rapid sketches to a series of “resolved” drawings from longer poses. Begin by first attending sessions featuring shorter poses from threeminute gesture poses to a maximum of 25-minute poses. These shorter-duration poses are the fastest way to hone your basic figure-drawing skills.

10. Experimentation/exploration.

11.

Working from the life model affords an ideal opportunity to experiment with new techniques or unfamiliar media and, quite possibly, to expand your artistic range. The inherent “no-pressure” nature of the workshop, combined with an accessible and exciting subject on view in front of you, promotes risk-taking and exploration. ❖

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DRAW SIP 09 Constable:AA feature

Washbrook 1803, black chalk and stump, 13 x 91⁄2. Each stroke and mark in this drawing has a unique quality, lending a freshness and sense of life.

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Constable’s Sketchbooks John Constable responded to the landscape in pocket-size sketchbooks he carried nearly everywhere he went. Although primarily used as notes and studies for large-scale, highly finished oil paintings, the drawings show an immense authority in a small format. by Lynne Bahr View of the Stour 1814, graphite, 3 x 41⁄4. Collection Victoria and Albert Museum, London, England.

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ABOVE

Stonehenge 1820, graphite, 41⁄2 x 71⁄3. Collection Victoria and Albert Museum, London, England. Arranging all the stones in such a small format required Constable to view the scene from a very close range. It seems the artist was able to do this and still incorporate the objects on the periphery in an effective composition. LEFT

Binfield: A Watersplash 1816, graphite, 31⁄3 x 41⁄3. In nearly all his drawings Constable commented on the sky. Here he also attends to the footbridge, explaining how it was built with heavy and light strokes of his pencil. OPPOSITE PAGE

Cornfield at East Bergholt 1813, graphite, 31⁄2 x 43⁄4. Collection Victoria and Albert Museum, London, England. In this drawing the artist concentrated on developing differences in tone rather than relying on line to define the forms.

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he British landscape artist John Constable (1776–1837) believed that “we see nothing, ‘til we truly understand it.” Suggesting that one sees through the mind, not through the eyes, this concept is central to understanding Constable’s creative process. Largely known as a painter of specific places—the Stour Valley, Salisbury, and Brighton, for instance—he relied on sketchbooks to develop his skills of visual perception in addition to collecting source material for his oil paintings. Most important, however, the sketchbooks became a vehicle through which the artist could respond spontaneously and freely to the subject he knew and loved best: the English landscape. Among the papers that were found after Constable’s death was a quotation from a book on painting by the 14thcentury Italian artist Cennino Cennini, stating, “Day after day never fail to draw something, which, however little it may be, will yet in the end be much, and do thy best.” Constable took this advice by filling sketchbooks with small drawings of wherever he was at the moment, especially during periods when he was not painting, such as during a tour of the Lake District in 1806 or the summers of 1813 and 1814. “The drawings vary from individual people or things to pieces of foliage,” describes Mark Evans, the senior curator at the Victoria and Albert Museum, in London, which owns the largest collection of Constable drawings in the world, including the 1813 and 1814 sketchbooks. “They include a man sitting on a bank, a woman and child, and entire landscapes,” says Evans. “We see things that are major or minor elements in a com-

position—and whole compositions.” The drawings are exquisite in terms of their execution, showing the artist’s skill and sensitivity. “They are a means to an end,” adds Evans, “but they have huge authority.” Between 1809 and 1812, Constable painted directly from nature in oil, making quick sketches that significantly advanced his artistic development, “establishing, with bold tonal and colour juxtapositions, landscape images of utter originality,” writes Ian Fleming-Williams in Constable and His Drawings (Philip Wilson Publishers, London, England). His ability to experiment with light effects was more limited when he worked in graphite, and according to Evans, Constable used the sketchbooks primarily to study a subject in detail. “One infers they were done rapidly,” he says, “because they are small, but they are highly finished and meticulous.” The development of the footbridge in Binfield:

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ABOVE LEFT

ABOVE RIGHT

A Group of Cottages and a View Towards Denham

Two Compositional Studies

1813, graphite, 43⁄4 x 31⁄2. Collection Victoria and Albert Museum, London, England. RIGHT

Farmhouse at East Bergholt 1814, graphite, 3 x 41⁄3. Constable drew at random in his sketch books. This work appears on the reverse of two compositional studies.

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1814, graphite, 31⁄4 x 21⁄2.

Farmhouse at East Bergholt appears on the back on these studies. OPPOSITE PAGE

Dedham Lock and Mill 1816, graphite, 31⁄3 x 41⁄2. One of several studies for a large oil painting, in this drawing the artist distilled a complex scene into an organized composition.

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Constable used the sketchbooks primarily to study a subject in detail. “One infers they were done rapidly because they are small,” explains curator Mark Evans, “but they are highly finished and meticulous.”

A Watersplash, a drawing in the 1816 book, is one such example. Heavy and light strokes of graphite build up the structure of the bridge, attesting to the artist’s attention to detail in visually describing the structure. Constable excelled as a draftsman in other ways as well. Notably, in the sketches of whole compositions, the artist had an unusually well-developed aptitude in organizing individual elements. As Fleming-Williams describes, some of the drawings present a point of view that incorporates objects that normally are out of the visual range, revealing how Constable convincingly depicted a broad sweep of the landscape. In Stonehenge, for instance, one would have to stand much farther away to include all the stones within the pictorial space. Undoubtedly the artist moved his head and relied on more than one line of vision in composing the drawing, but he was nevertheless able to take in the long view and convey it effectively in a small format. Equally remarkable is the way in which Constable endowed each stroke or mark with a unique and spontaneous quality and avoided repetitive gestures, as in Washbrook. Drawing in sketchbooks advanced Constable’s skills such that eventually it did not matter whether he drew or painted, according to Fleming-Williams. All that mattered was the use of lights and darks. In Cornfield at East Bergholt, for instance, Constable enhanced the shadows on the foreground to offset the sunlit fields beyond, defining the scene in terms of light and shadow. In A Group of Cottages and a View Towards Denham, he represented the scene tonally, playing up the subtle effects of light. Compared with earlier drawings, in these examples the artist relied less on outlining the forms. “The whole is seen as a tonal field in which

objects and their component parts are represented in terms of lights and darks of varying strengths with a closely related, quite spontaneous system of textures,” he writes. Furthermore, at this point the artist was experimenting with revealing and concealing certain parts of forms, which was to become a critical aspect of his art. By 1815, Constable had apparently begun recognizing his powers as a draftsman, as evident in the three drawings he submitted to the Royal Academy exhibition of that year. His sketchbook of 1816 shows his new confidence as an artist, achieved by the ambitious oil paintings he had recently completed, as in Dedham Mill [not shown]. One of a few drawings of the same scene that Constable had in mind for an oil painting, Dedham Lock and Mill shows how the artist worked out the composition. “With a relatively bluntpointed pencil and an unerring eye, Constable reduces a scene of some complexity down to a miniature alive with information,” writes Fleming-Williams. The Horizontal Mill, Battersea, another fully realized sketch, depicts an

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BELOW

OPPOSITE PAGE, TOP

Redcliff Point

Osmington Church and Vicarage

1816, graphite, 31⁄2 x 41⁄2.

1816, graphite, 31⁄2 x 41⁄3.

BOTTOM

OPPOSITE PAGE, BOTTOM

The Horizontal Mill, Battersea

Salisbury Cathedral and the Bishop’s Palace

1816, graphite, 31⁄3 x 41⁄2.

1816, graphite, 31⁄3 x 41⁄2.

This bold sketch shows Constable’s immense authority as a draftsman.

Notice the sensitive touch in this drawing in contrast to the boldness of The Horizontal Mill, Battersea.

unusual structure that was undoubtedly of interest to the artist. It is, in fact, one of the boldest in the sketchbook. Although the artist approached some of the sketches with vigor, others reflect a softer mood. Salisbury Cathedral and the Bishop’s Palace, for instance, conveys a slower pace and a more sensitive touch, perhaps because the artist had recently married after a tumultuous seven-year engagement. Some of the other sketches from this period share the lighter tone, as in Osmington Church and Vicarage and Redcliff Point. In nearly all his drawings Constable commented on the sky. Even a cloudless day, such as in Binfield: A Watersplash, is indicated with a few strokes of graphite. “The character of the day, or of a particular time of day, is for him an integral part of the scene, and sometimes it is quite remarkable how, with the simplest of media, he is able to capture the quality of light prevailing at the time,” writes Fleming-Williams. Being truthful to nature in this way was, in fact, central to Constable’s work, and sketching was the only means to that end prior to the invention of the camera. “Constable died around the year the first photograph was made, and I think there is something symbolic about that,” says Evans, of the Victoria and Albert Museum. “Constable represents a vision that in a way ended with the invention of photography. He never saw a 102

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According to Evans, Constable’s greatest contribution is not in the way he handled pencil and paper but in the kind of landscape he pursued. As the son of a prominent merchant, Constable knew the houses, mills, farms, and waterways of the countryside well.

photograph, but some of his pictures have a photographic quality— a palpable reality. But photos never have that kind of assurance. It comes out of the classical tradition of Claude and Rubens.” According to Evans, Constable’s greatest contribution is not in the way he handled pencil and paper but in the kind of landscape he pursued. As the son of a prominent merchant, Constable knew the houses, mills, farms, and waterways of the countryside well. “For Constable landscape was also land where people lived and worked, and for an understanding of which as such he possessed special knowledge and a trained eye,” writes author Fleming-Williams. “This meant that he understood more and consequently ‘saw’ more deeply into landscape than most other artists of his time.” Indeed the landscapes he created became “the warp and weft of the idealized rural scene,” Evans notes. However, viewed in the context of Rubens and Claude, as the paintings were when they were on view at the Royal Academy, they represented the cutting edge, with their depictions of grain barges and windmills. “They were no more quaint than a factory would be today,” comments Evans. Ultimately, the sketchbooks helped Constable to achieve an extraordinary clarity of vision. By working intuitively and striving to see the landscape, like Claude before him, with an innocent eye, he would create some of the most admired landscapes in Western art. ❖ THE BEST OF DRAWING

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Master

Landscape Drawings: Evidence & Interpretation

Many great landscape drawings were created as preparatory studies, educational exercises, or informational journals and not as finished works of art. We can now study those freely made graphic images for evidence of the artists’ ideas and procedures. by M. Stephen Doherty

T

he history of art is often pieced together from scraps of evidence and pure speculation, and drawings are often the most valuable resources in conducting that kind of investigation. When someone discovers dozens of individual studies for a large fresco, for example, they understand all the various compositional ideas the artist considered before executing the finished decoration. And when a carefully detailed graphite study is linked to a painting of two warring gods, scholars can see how the artist turned studio drawings of hired models into an emotionally charged painting of supreme conflict. Some Old Master landscape drawings were polished up by the artists so they could be used as part of a proposal to a prospective painting client, duplicated to satisfy several collectors who each wanted the same drawing, or presented as a gift to a patron who supported the artist’s career. But even these refined drawings failed to impress their owners as great works of art, as evidenced by the fact that the collectors

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seldom listed them in the inventories of their holdings. Even when auction houses offered the landscape drawings for sale, they tended to group them together to be sold as a lot rather than as individual treasures. To those of us who are trying to improve our abilities as artists, there is much to learn both from the cast-off studies and the polished drawings. And landscape drawings are often among the most interesting scraps of evidence about the thoughts and methods of the Old Masters we admire. They are like the first draft of a novel, the unedited version of a public speech, or the unaltered score of a symphony. They provide valuable insight that helps us expand our own abilities to create art. Drawing magazine selected a group of master drawings to review, with each offering an opportunity to explore some important aspect of the artist’s powers. All are reproduced in books that are still in print, and several are currently on view at the National Gallery of Art, in Washington, DC.


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ABOVE

Pastoral Scene With Classical Figures by Claude Gellée (called Claude Lorrain), ca. 1640–1645, pen and brown ink and brush with brown and gray wash over graphite on cream laid paper, 79⁄16 x 101⁄8. Collection The Cleveland Museum of Art, Cleveland, Ohio. LEFT

View of the Acqua Acetosa by Claude Gellée (called Claude Lorrain), ca. 1645, pen and brown ink and brush with brown and gray wash over graphite on cream laid paper, 103⁄16 x 1515⁄16. Collection The Cleveland Museum of Art, Cleveland, Ohio.

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Trees ca. 1590, brown ink, 77⁄16 x 511⁄16. Private collection.

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Agostino Carracci (1557–1602): L E A R N I N G F R O M N AT U R E Agostino Carracci, along with an older brother and a cousin, had a strong influence on the development of the Baroque style of late 16th- and early 17th-century art in Italy because of the pictures they executed and, perhaps more crucially, because of the many students they trained. Among the most important lessons that Carracci offered young artists was the value of drawing directly from nature, as demonstrated by this rapidly executed, expressive study of interlocking trees. One can almost feel the wind billowing

Among the most important lessons that Carracci offered young artists was the value of drawing directly from nature. through the leaves that are drawn with a series of curled lines stretched in a horizontal pattern. And the tree branches are given dimension with lines that follow the natural curve of their form, thus accentuating the play of light and shadow. Like many artists who excelled at drawing with a quill pen, Carracci spent a number of years developing his skills as a printmaker. The strength and control required for manipulating an etching needle or an engraving burin

served artists well when they held a carved feather in their hands and applied varying amounts of pressure to either increase or decrease the width of an inked line. One imagines that as Carracci sat under a tree and drew without any preliminary graphite or charcoal lines, he guided his pen effortlessly around the shape of the leaves and branches, increasing the pressure as the shadows deepened and reducing it as the sunlight touched the left side of a trunk or leaf. Most of the drawings made in this period emphasized line over tone, so ink was a very appropriate medium with which to make drawings. The images would have more strength and permanence in ink than if they were done in charcoal or colored chalk, especially if the drawings were made in sketchbooks whose pages would rub against each other as the artist carried them from place to place. Because artists often kept their sketchbooks with them at all times, frequently stopping to make notations about a landscape, figure, or building that caught their attention, the bindings that held the books together often broke apart and had to be repaired with new strips of paper or leather. Sometimes the artists would bind together different sets of drawings rather than simply repair a sketchbook with its original pages. They might want to have all their landscape drawings together in one folio for easier reference; or they might want to eliminate pages that were soiled or unused when they glued the sheets together in a new book. THE BEST OF DRAWING

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Thomas Gainsborough (1727–1788): L I B E R AT I N G D R AW I N G F R O M PA I N T I N G With the work of most great masters, there is a direct correspondence between the subject and style of their drawings and paintings. Portrait painters such as John Singer Sargent made hundreds of charcoal portrait drawings; masters of large figurative compositions, such as Tiepolo, created dozens of ink drawings of invented people twisting in space; and painters of pastoral landscape scenes, such as Claude Lorrain, drew landscapes with the same compositional arrangements as in his serene, late-afternoon painted vistas. It is remarkable, therefore, that an artist like Thomas Gainsborough, who

predominate among the artist’s drawings, and he produced hundreds of sketches throughout his career. Working on paper allowed him the freedom to experiment with unconventional combinations of media and to study and record nature for his own personal pleasure, unrelated to formal commissions.” Tonkovich goes on to compare this Gainsborough drawing with “the ideal tradition of Claude Lorrain. He eschews the conventional devices of framing the scene with trees and establishing a central focus; he also shows no trace of human or animal presence save for what

“Working on paper allowed [Gainsborough] the freedom to experiment with unconventional combinations of media and to study and record nature for his own personal pleasure, unrelated to formal commissions.” —Jennifer Tonkovich, associate curator

was admired for his portraits of English lords and ladies, would consider the act of drawing to be an opportunity to explore new materials, concepts, and styles of expression. This example of his experimental chalk drawings was on view at the National Gallery of Art in a 2007 show titled “Private Treasures: Four Centuries of European Master Drawings.” In the catalogue description of the work, Jennifer Tonkovich, the associate curator of drawing and prints at The Morgan Library & Museum, where the show originated in New York City, comments that “although [Gainsborough] occasionally made studies related to portraits, landscapes 108

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may be a lone sheep—drawn with utmost brevity—atop the hill at left. Gainsborough executed the sheet with a layer of rhythmic, diagonal chalk strokes that emphasize the thrust of the landscape. The softened, rounded features of the rocks and trees, and the feathery surface pattern, evoke a lush, dramatic setting, presaging the landscapes of the British romantic school.” One can easily understand how an artist who devoted most of his artistic skills to serving English society would take pleasure in creating experimental drawings. In all likelihood, he would have lost his sanity if he hadn’t found some relief from flattering dukes and dowagers.


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Wooded Landscape With a Stream ca. mid-1780s, black and white chalk on gray-blue paper. Private collection.

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Notch in the White Mountains, From Above With the Notch House 1839, graphite, 111⁄8 x 167⁄8. Collection Princeton University Art Museum, Princeton, New Jersey. Gift of Frank Jewett Mather Jr. Collection. RIGHT

A View of the Mountain Pass Called the Notch in the White Mountains 1839, oil, 403⁄16 x 615⁄16. Collection National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC.

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Thomas Cole (1801–1848): A D D I N G E M O T I O N T O O B S E RVAT I O N S Although Thomas Cole is well respected as one of the founders of the Hudson River School—the first native school of art in America—his paintings often seem excessively sentimental, moralistic, and overstated. For example, one cycle of paintings, The Voyage of Life, illustrates the life of a man from infancy to old age as he travels on a river that changes from being a calm stream to a calamitous waterfall and, finally, a dark ocean guarded by angels. Cole uses a series of obvious devices—a floating cradle, a fork in the river, a dark storm—to preach about the consequences of age, bad judgment, and lack of virtue. In contrast to his paintings, Cole’s landscape drawings seem like chaste studies of nature. The linear graphite examinations show little evidence of invention or exaggeration, suggesting that one could probably still determine exactly where he was standing when he drew the landscape near his studio along the western shore of the Hudson River, in Catskill, New York. It’s only when one compares a drawing to the oil painting on which it is based that one can understand how Cole imposed his beliefs—or the belief system of a young nation trying to distinguish itself. The subject of this drawing, Crawford’s Notch in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, was the site of a tragic avalanche that took the lives of Samuel Willey, his wife, their five children, and two hired men. Willey had constructed a shelter away from the base of the mountain where he thought he and his family would be safe if such an event occurred, but on August 28, 1826, the deflected boulders crushed the shelter and spared the house. Cole visited the site two years after the event and returned in 1839 to make a drawing of the exact appearance of the mountain, valley, and home. When Cole returned to his studio to create a painting based on the drawing, he began shifting the composition, adding figures, and inventing weather conditions. A man now rides past a symbolic dead tree on a horse that senses danger, a father and his children come out from the house to greet the rider, and rain clouds burst on the top of the mountain and instigate the tragic events.

It has been postulated that Cole’s additions and alternations were suggested, in part, by Nathaniel Hawthorne’s fictionalized account of the Willey disaster. Hawthorne’s short story, The Ambitious Guest, turns the natural disaster into a day of reckoning for Willey and his daughters, who hoped their visitor could help them achieve their selfish ambitions. In her book The Anatomy of Nature: Geology & American Landscape Painting, 1825–1875 (Princeton University Press, Princeton, New Jersey), Rebecca Bedell writes that “since Cole avidly sought out literary associations with the sites he painted, it seems likely that he would have known Hawthorne’s tale.” Bedell goes on to reference another cycle of paintings by Cole, The Course of

It’s only when one compares a drawing to the oil painting on which it is based that one can understand how Cole imposed his beliefs—or the belief system of a young nation trying to distinguish itself. Empire, which illustrates that “it is pride and ambition (among other sins) that bring about the fall of the empire. Hawthorne’s story points to the same lesson, the idea that pride and ambition precede a fall.” Making a comparison between Cole’s preliminary drawing and the resulting painting is like studying the development of a magazine cover illustration by J.C. Leyendecker or Norman Rockwell. The raw material inherent in a drawing of live models is changed to tell a story that can be understood quickly. Gestures, facial expressions, and body positions are adjusted to emphasize the most revealing episode in the story and to heighten the emotional impact of the underlying message. In Cole’s case, human gestures, natural forms, and weather conditions are the elements used to increase that sense of drama. THE BEST OF DRAWING

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William Stanley Haseltine (1835–1900): FOCUSING ON SIGNIFICANT & SALEAB LE VI EWS Although all artists prefer to draw and paint subjects that interest them, those who aim to sell landscape pictures must deal with several common expectations among prospective buyers. One is that collectors prefer landscapes with historic, geological, environmental, or personal significance; and the other is that wealthy individuals tend to gravitate to the same exclusive locations. That was true in the 19th century when Thomas Moran and James Abbott McNeill Whistler sold hundreds of prints, drawings, and paintings of everyone’s favorite city, Venice, Italy; and it is true today when artists sell pictures of wealthy communities such as Palm Beach, Santa Fe, and Carmel by the Sea. The back streets of Podunk may fascinate painters, but it is unlikely that collectors will share their enthusiasm for the gritty appearance of an insignificant town. It was no accident that Haseltine created dozens of detailed drawings of rock formations along the shoreline at 112

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Nahant, Massachusetts, the fashionable summer watering hole for wealthy Bostonians that had geological significance. In all likelihood, Haseltine discovered the shoreline while attending Harvard University, where he was a member of the Harvard Natural History Society. Louis Agassiz was a lecturer at the college who frequently took his naturalhistory students to Nahant to show them ice-sheared, polished rocks of volcanic origin that were thought to be among the oldest on earth. That particular coastline proved to be a perfect subject for Haseltine’s precise drawings and oil paintings because he believed “everything in nature is worth painting, provided one has discovered the meaning of it. The picture will then tell its own story.” So many wealthy art collectors were interested in the story told in Haseltine’s pictures of Nahant that he could barely keep up with the demand for them.


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Rocks at Nahant ca. 1864, graphite and watercolor, 141⁄4 x 207⁄8. Collection Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Boston, Massachusetts.

So many wealthy art collectors were interested in the story told in Haseltine’s pictures of Nahant that he could barely keep up with the demand for them. Haseltine used drawing materials and techniques commonly employed by artists for hundreds of years. He worked on blue- or gray-toned paper with dark graphite or charcoal, and then he added highlights with white chalk. He could effectively develop three separate values with only two drawing materials. Although Haseltine’s drawings are generally well preserved, many other such drawings on colored paper have deteriorated. Quite often these papers were dyed with fugitive colors that faded or changed over time,

or the ink used for the drawing proved to be unstable and the images lost contrast. The best preserved of these drawings tend to be ones in which the artist first toned the surface with a professional grade of watercolor, casein, or gouache, then applied the dark and light marks over those midtone colors. The most popular colors were blue, tan, gray, and green. Today there are a number of archival, toned papers available for artists to use for landscape drawing, some bound together in sketchbooks that offer sheets of three or four different color options. For example, Fabriano makes both the Fabriano Quadrato Artist’s Journal and the Artist’s Journal pads with as many as 12 different colored laid papers that are ideal for tonal landscape drawing; and Legion makes its versatile Stonehenge paper in several subtle shades that are perfect for tonal drawing in graphite, charcoal, or chalk. THE BEST OF DRAWING

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Daniel Garber (1880–1958): I NTE RPRETI NG PHOTO G R APH S Indiana-born artist Daniel Garber completed his education at the Cincinnati Art Academy and the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, in Philadelphia, at a pivotal time in the history of American art. Painters were being strongly influenced by the French Impressionists they met while studying in Europe or whose pictures were acquired by American collectors; and they were fascinated with the possibilities that photography offered them.

Garber may have been looking at a photograph to understand the spatial relationships in the scene, but he interpreted those relationships as he developed his drawing. Garber responded to both of these forces, and he developed an interesting method of using his photographs as the source of highly textured tonal drawings that conformed to the Impressionist aesthetic. First, he tended to work on laid paper that was relatively thin, heavily sized, and had a distinctive linear weave. A laid paper such as Fabriano Roma is much less likely to mimic the continuous tones in a photograph than would a soft, mould-made paper such as Legion Stonehenge or Rives BFK. A sheet of laid paper—which is more often associated with writing stationery—is best suited 114

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to drawings with subtle tones rather than those that require deep, heavily worked dark passages. The artist also handled his drawing tool in such a way that it left patches of tones rather than solid, hard-edged shapes. Garber may have been looking at a photograph to understand the spatial relationships in the scene, but he interpreted those relationships as he developed his drawing. The same might be said of the methods Monet used to capture the appearance of a garden or a haystack. The Frenchman applied separate pieces of paint that coalesced when seen from a distance. This particular drawing of a quarry was the source for one of Garber’s oil paintings, and the subject appears again in several of his etchings. The quarry provided him with an opportunity to study the effects of light on a deep crevasse, a heaving mountain, and a body of reflective water. Interestingly, other artists have been attracted to quarries as subjects of their paintings, presumably because the locations offered a variety of landscape forms in one small area, and because they afforded a degree of privacy one could not find along an ocean beach or public lake. Garber demonstrated an effective way of bringing imagination, style, and personal content to an otherwise mechanical record of a landscape; and he showed how drawings can become an integral part of that interpretive process of realizing paintings and prints. ❖


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The Quarry ca. 1917, charcoal, 16 x 20. Collection the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Gift of the artist. LEFT

Quarry 1917, oil, 50 x 60. Collection the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Joseph E. Temple Fund.

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Study for Diogenes in the School of Athens by Raphael, silverpoint on pink prepared paper, 93⁄4 x 11. Collection Städel Institut, Frankfurt, Germany.

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From Drawing to Canvas A wide range of traditional and modern techniques is available for transferring preliminary drawings onto the painting surface. by Joseph C. Skrapits

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or most artists, drawing is both a pleasurable activity in itself and a stage in the complex process of creation. The final goal is often a painting, usually on canvas, paper, or a similarly portable support, or more rarely today, on a wall. Between the initial expression of a graphic idea in charcoal or graphite, and its ultimate realization in oil, watercolor, or acrylic, lies the technical challenge of transferring the preliminary design to the painting support. Artists in late medieval times developed or refined the basic transfer techniques that are still widely used today; in addition, modern technology offers the contemporary artist an array of options that promise to save time and labor while improving the accuracy of the transferred image.

TRADITIONAL TRANSFER TECHNIQUES GRAPHITE RUBBING: Possibly the simplest way to transfer a drawing onto canvas or another support, when there is no change in scale, is to cover the back of the drawing with a thin layer of graphite using the broad side of a solid graphite pencil. Next, the drawing is taped, faceup, to the canvas; a tool with a dull point—such as a

stylus or the end of a paintbrush—is then used to trace over the lines of the drawing with enough pressure applied to leave graphite marks on the painting support. The result will be a faint graphite reproduction of the original drawing on the canvas, with the accuracy and detail determined by the artist’s care in tracing the original. As with everything else in the crafts of drawing and painting, practice makes perfect. Experiment with different tracing tools, the density of the graphite layer, and variations in pressure to achieve a satisfactory transfer. Chalk or pastel can be rubbed on the back of the drawing instead of graphite. And since graphite rubbing is really a primitive form of carbon paper, a sheet of carbon paper can be placed between the drawing and the canvas as a substitute for the layer of graphite or chalk on the back of the drawing. Graphite rubbing is best suited for the transfer of small-scale designs and simple outline drawings without too much detail. POUNCING (SPOLVERO): The revival of fresco painting in Italy near the end of the 13th century gave rise to two important transfer techniques: spolvero and graticolare. The art of fresco required meticulous planning THE BEST OF DRAWING

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Study for the Left Foreground Group in the School of Athens

Cartoon for the School of Athens

Cartoon for Annunciation

by Raphael, charcoal and black chalk, with white heightening, on many sheets of paper, pricked for transfer, 9’ x 27’. Collection Ambrosiana Gallery, Milan, Italy.

by Raphael, ca. 1502, pen-and-ink and wash on paper, pricked for transfer, 11’ x 161⁄2’. Collection The Louvre, Paris, France.

by Raphael, silverpoint with white heightening on gray prepared paper, 111⁄2 x 16. Collection Albertina Museum, Vienna, Austria.

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and preliminary work, including the preparation of a full-scale drawing, called a cartoon, comprising numerous sheets of paper glued together at the edges to cover the exact dimensions of the wall to be painted. The surviving cartoon for Raphael’s School of Athens, for example, measures 9' x 27'. Spolvero, or pouncing, was used to transfer the cartoon onto the wall. The lines of the drawing were first perforated with thousands of tiny holes. The perforations were made in two ways: a pouncing wheel, resembling a riding spur, could be used to trace along straight and gently curving lines—as the wheel turned, it made holes at evenly spaced intervals. More intricate lines, such as the details in faces, were perforated by hand using a sharply pointed tool such as an awl or a sewing needle fixed to a piece of wood. Once perforated, the cartoon was usually cut into sections, which were then laid directly on the wet plaster, or intonaco, of the wall in the correspon-

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Since pouncing results in permanent damage to the cartoon—not to mention the damage caused by contact with wet plaster—the drawings were considered expendable and often discarded after use. ding section of the fresco. Next, a cloth bag filled with charcoal powder was rubbed over the cartoon using circular, daubing motions—the “pouncing.” The charcoal dust passed through the perforations in the paper and marked the wall with a series of dots, which provided guides for redrawing the design on the wall after the cartoon was removed. The pouncing bag was made from a piece of coarse, heavy linen, folded to double thickness. Charcoal powder was placed on the linen, and then the corners were gathered together and tied to form the bag. A shortcut transfer technique, called incision, was sometimes used instead of spolvero to save time. Instead of perforating the cartoon, the artist would

trace the lines of the drawing with a stylus when it was in contact with the intonaco, leaving physical impressions of the lines in the plaster—a transfer technique very similar to graphite rubbing, but of course useful only in fresco. In his entertaining and wellresearched book, Michelangelo & the Pope’s Ceiling (Walker & Company, New York, New York), Ross King closely examines Michelangelo’s varying use of spolvero and incision to transfer his cartoons to the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. The project lasted four years, from 1508 to 1512, during which time Michelangelo’s confidence grew with experience. In the early stages he used spolvero exclusively because it produced more accurate and detailed

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The Music Lesson by Jan Vermeer, ca. 1662–1665, oil, 291⁄2 x 25. The Royal Collection, St. James’ Palace, London, England.

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transfers. Near the end he relied almost entirely on incision to transfer the outlines of his figures, then painted faces and the interior modeling of musculature freehand. Since pouncing results in permanent damage to the cartoon—not to mention the damage caused by contact with wet plaster—the drawings

were considered expendable and often discarded after use. None from the Sistine Chapel ceiling are extant. Raphael’s cartoon for the School of Athens survived because, though it was perforated, he did not make the transfer directly to the intonaco but onto an auxiliary cartoon. King theorizes that because the fresco was painted for the


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ABOVE

Study for Miss Lala at the Cirque Fernando, Paris by Edgar Degas, 1879, black chalk and pastel, 181⁄2 x 13. Collection The Barber Institute of Fine Arts, Birmingham, England. RIGHT

Miss Lala at the Cirque Fernando, Paris by Edgar Degas, 1879, oil, 46 x 30. Collection The National Gallery, London, England.

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pope’s private apartments where few people would see it, Raphael wanted to preserve the original cartoon, which he could then exhibit publicly as evidence of his genius. It’s not surprising that, as oil painting on portable canvases replaced fresco as the dominant mode of artistic expression, artists largely abandoned the labor-intensive process of spolvero. However, there may be situations—in the production of large murals, for instance—where pouncing may still prove helpful. Pouncing wheels can still be found; they’re used mainly by sign painters today, and can be purchased from large art suppliers, such as Dick Blick, that carry sign-painting materials. The best-quality pouncing wheels have needle-sharp, hardened teeth and swivel handles, which ease the tracing of curving lines. SQUARING (GRATICOLARE): Graphite rubbing and pouncing produce transferred images that are identical in size to the original drawing. But many transfers involve a change in scale as well: typically, preliminary drawings and sketches are enlarged or “scaled-up” for canvas or wall painting. Renaissance fresco artists used the technique called graticolare (squaring) to perform this task. The basic principle of squaring is familiar to anyone who’s read a map or created a floor plan on a sheet of grid paper. Horizontal and vertical lines, forming a grid of squares, are drawn on the preliminary sketch or cartoon. This grid is visible, faintly, on Raphael’s cartoon for the School of Athens. In this case the graticolare was used to transfer drawings of the individual figures from smaller studies onto the large group composition. But the same process could be used to transfer the studies onto the final painting support, whether wall or canvas. Another grid of squares, sized to the 122

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The Artograph MC 250 Professional Projector

desired dimensions, is drawn on the support. For example, doubling the distance between the lines of the grid will double the height and width of the image when it is transferred onto the canvas. The transfer is made by copying the drawing by hand onto the painting support, using as references the points where the main lines of the drawing cross the grid lines. A tighter grid, with more closely spaced horizontal and vertical lines, will enable the artist to make a more accurate copy than a grid with lines spaced widely apart. Like pouncing, squaring results in a permanent alteration of the drawing—that is, if the grid is drawn directly on the paper. As an alternative, the grid can be drawn on tracing paper or clear acetate and then positioned over the drawing to avoid marking the paper. Unlike pouncing, squaring survived the transition from fresco to easel painting. Edgar Degas’ black-

chalk study for Miss Lala at the Cirque Fernando, Paris clearly shows the squaring lines the artist used to transfer the image to his canvas. Although squaring is normally used to enlarge transfers, there’s no reason why it can’t be used to scale down drawings or to transfer drawings without changing their size. Indeed, squaring is probably the most versatile and widely used of all techniques for transferring drawings onto canvas. It requires only a pencil and a ruler, which are inexpensive, portable, and easily stored. Its disadvantage is that it is labor intensive and time-consuming, but given the fact that the artist has already spent hours making the drawing and is planning to devote many hours more to the painting, the additional time—usually no more than an hour or two—spent on squaring and copying is negligible. Squaring a drawing may in some


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If past masters had available to them the range of tools available today, no doubt many of them would unhesitatingly have adopted the latest methods.

cases save time in the long run: Placing a grid over the drawing can make distortions in figural proportions more apparent, allowing the artist to correct mistakes early and easily, in the copying stage, rather than in the difficult later stages of painting.

MODERN TRANSFER TOOLS PROJECTORS: Latter-day replacements for traditional transfer techniques come in a variety of shapes and sizes, but they share a common technological principle: the projection of an optical image of the source (drawing, photograph, or in some cases a threedimensional subject) onto a plane surface. Optical projection requires, at a minimum, a strong light source and a lens to focus the image, and in fact most projection systems today feature a lot more bells and whistles. The basic principle of optical projection has been known for centuries, however, and was used as early as the Renaissance in such devices as the camera lucida and camera obscura. The artist David Hockney believes that these early predecessors of the modern film camera were used extensively by masters such as the Van Eyck brothers and Vermeer to achieve stunningly realistic effects. The camera lucida and camera obscura could, theoretically, be employed to transfer the image of a drawing onto panel or canvas; but that would defeat their purpose, which was to bypass the stage of preliminary drawing altogether by enabling the artist to fix an image of the “real world” directly onto the painting support. Today, an ordinary 35-mm slide projector can become a basic transfer device for the artist. Its use presupposes, of course, that one owns or has access to a 35-mm film camera and can take good-quality transparencies

of one’s drawings. There is also the issue of possible distortion of the image caused by the camera lens, the projector’s lens, and the angle at which the image is projected onto the painting support. Only practice in photography and in the use of the projector can adequately address these potential problems. An alternative tool would be an opaque projector, which displays source material—commonly photographic prints but also drawings—directly, eliminating the need to create an intermediate transparency. Opaque projectors are of two types: stand-mounted, which project images downward onto a horizontal surface; and tabletop models, which project onto vertical surfaces such as walls or easel-mounted canvases. (Some models can project both horizontally and vertically.) Opaque projectors are very popular among artists who work from photographs, and most models have copying areas of 6" x 6" that easily accommodate standard-size prints. Some more expensive projectors have copy areas as large as 81⁄2" x 11". Therein lies a problem for the artist who wants to transfer a drawing larger than that. One solution would be to shoot photographic prints of the drawing. Another would be to make a reduced-size copy of the drawing, using either a commercial photocopier (found at most office-supply stores) or a flatbed scanner attached to a home computer and printer. COMPUTERS, SCANNERS, AND DIGITAL CAMERAS: For the purposes of this article, I borrowed an Artograph MC 250 Professional Projector from my local Dick Blick artsupply store. This is a top-of-the-line tabletop model featuring a precisionground color-corrected lens system and 300-watt halogen lamp that proj-

ects startlingly sharp enlargements up to 15 times the original size. The MC 250 has a 6"-x- 6" copying area, so I made reduced-size scans of my drawings on my computer. Alternatively, I could have downloaded images of the drawings from a digital camera for printing from the computer. Using the projector, I was able to easily transfer several basic outline drawings to canvases in a matter of minutes. The projected images were very clear and detailed—more than adequate for my needs. In fact, were I to consider buying a projector, I would probably choose a less expensive model, such as the general-purpose Artograph Prism Projector, which is suitable for transferring highcontrast line art, patterns, and designs. Projectors, coupled with computers, scanners, and digital cameras, can certainly bring speed and convenience to the process of transferring drawings to a painting surface. They make it possible to preserve original designs intact, without marring by graphite smudges, pouncing holes, or squaring lines. But these modern conveniences also add substantial financial costs and a lot of cumbersome, complicated equipment that eventually must be serviced or replaced. Ultimately, one’s choice of transfer techniques and tools may reflect his or her overall approach to art making. How important is speed to you, and is it worth the investment to make the “chore” of image-transfer go more quickly and easily? If past masters had available to them the range of tools available today, no doubt many of them would unhesitatingly have adopted the latest methods. Others, like the curmudgeonly Degas, would have stuck with the old ways. “Speed,” he once quipped. “What nonsense! Nothing was ever accomplished without the patient collaboration of time.” ❖ THE BEST OF DRAWING

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The Tradition of Drawing from Memory The systematic methods of a brilliant 19th-century teacher can help artists of all ages discover and develop their inner eye. by Joseph C. Skrapits

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rtists who wish to improve their drawing skills would do well to consider the crucial role that memory plays in even the most straightforward drawing from life. As Kimon Nicolaïdes wrote in his classic book The Natural Way to Draw, “With the exception of the [blind] contour study, there is no drawing that is not a memory drawing because, no matter how slight the interval is from the time you look at the model until you look at your drawing or painting, you are memorizing what you have just seen.” Various exercises for cultivating the visual memory have been practiced at least since the time of the Renaissance, and, no doubt some form of memory training was used by artists long before that. For example, Leonardo da Vinci recommended that artists, before going to sleep at night, review in their imagination the outlines of forms they had studied during the day. Similarly, in the 18th century, Sir Joshua Reynolds told his students to redraw from memory figures that they

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had previously drawn in the life class. Continual practice in this exercise, he said, would soon enable the student to draw “tolerably correct” human figures “with as little effort of the mind as is required to trace with a pen the letters of the alphabet.” Probably the most comprehensive approach to memory training for artists was devised in the 1840s by a wonderfully gifted teacher with the unwieldy name of Horace Lecoq de Boisbaudran. While a professor at the School of Decorative Arts, in Paris, Lecoq conducted some experiments involving a group of enthusiastic 12- to 15-year-old students in his drawing class. He wanted to find out whether his pupils’ varying natural abilities to recall visual forms could be improved through a series of logically graduated tasks of increasing complexity. Lecoq began by asking his students to memorize straight lines of different lengths, then angles of different degrees, followed by curves varying in difficulty. He moved on quickly from

these abstract shapes to “one of the simplest details of the human face, a nose drawn in profile,” as he wrote in The Training of the Memory in Art, published in 1847. He pointed out some salient characteristics of the form and lectured on the nose’s anatomical construction, then allowed the pupils to study the image for a few days before asking them to draw it from memory. Lecoq took care not to require his students to use a particular method in committing the image to memory. He wanted them “to have free scope for their own natural and individual ways of working.” Some simply looked at the nose very attentively, others drew repeated copies until they could remember the nose’s modeling, proportions, outline, and details exactly. Lecoq was surprised at how rapidly the young artists progressed. After three months, they could draw an entire head accurately from memory, even down to details of the hair. The later stages of the experiment involved the memorization of engravings of classi-


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Dancers at the Barre by Edgar Degas, ca. 1900, oil, 511⁄4 x 381⁄4. The Phillips Collection, Washington, DC. Although Degas used models throughout his career, his eyesight was sufficiently weak at the time of this painting to make it, most likely, a work from memory. The somewhat awkward placement of the figures in relation to each other also implies the work was done from memory.


Dancer Putting on Her Shoe by Edgar Degas, ca. 1892–1895, etching, 93⁄4 x 65⁄8. Collection The Art Institute of Chicago, Chicago, Illinois. Degas relied on his memory when composing his work.

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cal sculpture, Old Master paintings and drawings, and finally, the copying of three-dimensional casts and original sculptures and paintings in the Louvre. Lecoq insisted on accuracy; only when the memory drawings at each stage were flawless could the students move on to the next level. One pupil recalled having to make a copy of an engraving from memory five times before the teacher was satisfied. The exercises led eventually to the making of memory drawings from a live nude model, which Lecoq considered a neces-

sary, but dangerous, phase. In many ways a traditionalist in his teaching practice, he believed that too-accurate copying of the imperfections of the human body would fill his students’ memories with ugly forms and spoil their taste for the ideal. He therefore asked them to make idealized, rather than exact, memory drawings of the figure, after having first drawn it accurately from life. All this preliminary training prepared Lecoq’s students for what he called the “true artistic application of memory,” the accurate recall and reproduction of figures in motion and transient natural effects. He took his students to a secluded outdoor location—“a beautiful spot, a sort of natural park”—where hired models, both clothed and unclothed, walked, ran, sat, or stood about in full sunlight or deep shadow. Lecoq allowed his students “entire liberty to choose the impression that had most vividly struck them,” then had them reproduce the remembered images as exactly as possible. The exercise, he said, “made them really understand the purpose of this unusual training, for without it all their fine impressions would have faded away rapidly like dreams.” Lecoq never intended that his memory-drawing exercises should replace traditional methods of instruction. They were a supplement, not a substitute, and Lecoq recommended that students not undertake his memory training until they could draw reasonably well from casts and engravings. The purpose of memory drawing was to force artists to use their own eyes and develop their powers of observation. Lecoq was reluctant to prescribe any hints or tips to facilitate memorization, because he suspected that such tricks would be applied mechanically by teachers who did not take into consideration their students’ individual aptitudes and intellects. Nevertheless, in an appendix to the second edition of his book, published in 1862, Lecoq offered some general ideas to guide artists in their memory work. In observing any subject, he noted, there are five principal points to keep in mind: dimensions, position, form, modeling, and color.


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To determine dimensions, choose some part of the subject (in a figure, the head, for example) as a unit of measure, and use it to compare the proportions of different parts to the whole.

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To fix position, establish “landmarks”—prominent points of the subject—and imagine horizontal and vertical lines passing through them. The points and the intersections of the lines form a simplified grid that can be easily remembered and referred to when drawing the subject from memory.

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In observing forms, imagine them enclosed within simple geometric shapes—circles, squares, and triangles—and then decide how far the observed form deviates from the imaginary shape superimposed upon it.

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Modeling, or three-dimensionality, is best remembered by noting the pattern of light and shade on the subject. Pick one part of the subject, either the darkest or the lightest, to use as the unit of comparison to measure the relative values of all the other parts.

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Color observation requires judgment of both value and intensity of tones. In an advanced course of training, after they had mastered memory drawing in black and white, Lecoq’s students memorized a series of pure color tints, which they then could use as fixed points of comparison to judge the intensity of colors observed in the subject.

These general methods are especially important in the early stages of memory training, but with practice, such conscious guidelines become gradually less necessary, according to Lecoq. “For then the proportions, points, shapes, modeling, and color are calculated by what I may call the inner eye of the memory, without recourse to previous calculations and reasoning, much as they are judged by the eye in ordinary vision.” Finally, Lecoq recommended one overwhelmingly successful method of committing any object to memory: the

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“formula,” he called it, despite his own distrust of formulas. With the object in view, he said, trace its outline or major forms in the air with the tip of your finger or a pencil. Then look away from the object, close your eyes, and draw it again in the air. Repeat the process rapidly, as often as it takes to fix the object clearly in your mind.

Nocturne: Blue and Gold— Old Battersea Bridge by James McNeill Whistler, 1872–1877, oil, 267⁄8 x 201⁄8. Collection Tate Britain, London, England. During the period when Whistler painted his Nocturnes, the artist, who studied under Lecoq, prided himself on the ability to turn his back on a scene and describe it accurately from memory. Because of problems with lighting and logistics, Whistler painted many of this series from memory.

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Modern Applications of Lecoq’s Methods I know of only one recent instance of Lecoq’s methods being handed down from a teacher to his students. In the 1960s, Siegfried Hahn emigrated from France to Albuquerque, New Mexico, where he opened a school with Howard Wexler. Hahn was one of the early advocates of painting with Jacques Maroger’s medium; he also brought a copy of Lecoq’s book, which he used to develop a method of drawing instruction founded on the principle of logical progression from simple to complex forms. “Siegfried always told us to train our memories when we were young, because it’s easier then,” says one of his students, Carol Allison. Allison has incorporated Hahn’s methods in the teaching of her own students, who are mostly children, but include some adults. Like Lecoq, she finds it fascinating to watch her pupils catch on to the power of memory training. “Many times, students come to a point where they think a drawing is finished, but when you push them a little, it’s amazing how much more they can remember about an object or a complex subject like a still life.” In her own work, Allison often paints landscapes from memory in her studio, after making studies first, with color notes outdoors. Allison and Joan Irey, her teaching partner at the New Mexico Art League, located the long-out-of-print English translation of Lecoq’s The Training of the Memory in Art, which Allison calls her “bible.”

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Carol Allison and Joan Irey use Lecoq’s methods when teaching their art classes. Students start by memorizing straight lines and boxes. This may seem to exaggerate the point, but Allison says to draw them with utmost accuracy is extremely challenging. The students then advance to curves, then basic forms, and on to simple still lifes.


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Irey, far left, and Allison, bottom right, let students take a drawing as far as they can, then they ask them to execute the drawing again from memory. Students often render the second drawing with more detail and accuracy than the first.

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The Tuileries Gardens by Édouard Manet, ca. 1862, graphite and ink wash, 71⁄4 x 81⁄2. Private collection. Manet made numerous sketches of his friends and Paris celebrities, along with sketches of people in the park, to use as studies for his 1862 painting Music in the Tuileries Gardens. The complexity of the subject matter ensures that Manet worked from memory.

and light. “The abler ones may begin with the big lines of the mass, that is, the simplified impression of the whole effect, before attending to details. The weaker ones, being unable to grasp the whole subject at once, will have to make imaginary drawings of one part only over and over again, and stroke by stroke, in order that the impression may be, so to speak, incrusted on their mind.” Repetition and rehearsal, either by actually copying the image on paper or by making imaginary drawings in the air, were evidently key components of Lecoq’s method, which was geared to turning the visual memory into a preci130

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sion instrument. Surviving works by his students show that they learned to record and retain vivid impressions of complex objects and scenes with nearphotographic detail. Such training paid off handsomely for some of Lecoq’s pupils, who included the sculptor Auguste Rodin and the painter James McNeill Whistler. Their art forms were based on their ability to understand and remember transient effects: the human body in motion, in Rodin’s sculpture; subtle atmospheric moods, often nocturnal, in Whistler’s paintings. In his later years, Rodin often had models moving around him in his studio while he drew them, a practice

reminiscent of Lecoq’s exercises with moving models in the open air. Rodin’s drawings and watercolors of dancers are made with confident, sweeping contours that are accurate, not because they were painstakingly rendered from life, but because they are so well observed and remembered that Rodin could draw them with his eyes closed—which he sometimes did. Whistler developed an interesting idiosyncratic variation on Lecoq’s memory techniques; he depended on verbal, rather than visual, cues to help him visualize a scene. Happening upon a subject he wished to remember, he observed it intently for a few minutes, then turned his back and described its essential points out loud, as if reciting a poem. Lecoq would have heartily approved of Whistler’s adaptation. His greatest desire was to


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empower his students to discover their own inventiveness, to unlock the powers of their own imagination. As another of Lecoq’s pupils, Henri Fantin-Latour, said in honoring his teacher, “Cultivating the memory, as he especially recommends, means nothing less than cultivating more intensely the personality of each one of us.” LECOQ’S I N FLU E NC E, direct and indirect, was greatest among the generation of artists who came of age in the middle to last part of the 19th century. The Impressionists’ interest in painting figures in the open air may have been stimulated by Lecoq’s exercises using models posed outdoors in the early 1860s. Édouard Manet’s famous Déjeuner sur l’herbe, a studio painting of an outdoor subject that combines elements of direct observation and references to the grand tradition, is very much in the spirit of Lecoq’s teaching, though Lecoq probably would have objected to the inclusion of so much observed “ugliness.”

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tence that students in his class initially produce exact copies of memorized models was but one step in a long process, the ultimate goal of which was—paradoxically—to free the artist’s imagination from the grip of literalness. “In the execution of such drawings and paintings in our heads,” he wrote, referring to the formula of tracing in the air with a finger, with eyes closed, “our ideas and feelings are unhampered by material difficulties and have free play to follow their natural inclination. They need not be slavishly bound by the exact appearance of things, which they may modify at pleasure by selection, by abstraction, by adding to them or taking away from them, by emphasis or embellishment, in short, by grafting, as it were, the ideal upon the real. “Is not that truly an act of assimilation, whereby an artist, once he has made nature his own, is able, so to speak, to infuse her with his own personal sentiment? “Thus the procedure that I advocate must be admitted to exercise and

the trouble of committing a complex subject to memory when you can simply take a picture of it? Lecoq’s elegant system fell into disuse in the schools, and today, is all but unknown except among scholars of 19th-century art and a handful of perceptive teachers. That’s unfortunate, because there are real advantages to cultivating the visual memory, and serious disadvantages to an overreliance on photographic material. As he demonstrated, Lecoq’s methods, when practiced conscientiously over a long period of time, can be a way of growing those “higher faculties” of art: not only memory, but imagination, intelligence, and feeling. Relying on photographs may be a shortcut, but ultimately, it’s a shortcut to nowhere. Not only are the “higher faculties” not stimulated, they might actually atrophy in the long run. I N CONTE M PORARY society, awash with generic mechanical memories— photographic and electronic imagery— there is less occasion than ever to

As another of Lecoq’s pupils, Henri Fantin-Latour, said in honoring his teacher, “Cultivating the memory, as he especially recommends, means nothing less than cultivating more intensely the personality of each one of us.” Manet would have known of Lecoq’s methods through his friendship with Fantin-Latour, as would another member of their circle, Edgar Degas, who shared Lecoq’s belief in the importance of cultivating the memory. Alone among the Impressionists, Degas scoffed at the idea of painting directly from nature. Though he did make life studies of his beloved dancers, laundresses, and horseracing scenes, Degas relied on his memory when composing his finished oils and pastels, drawing and redrawing the lines of his figures until they satisfied the demands of his inner eye. The connection between memory and the creative imagination, so abundantly demonstrated in Degas’ achievements, is a theme that Lecoq emphasizes again and again in his book. Lecoq’s vision was holistic. His insis-

cultivate simultaneously artistic memory, artistic intelligence, and artistic feeling. It is equally well adapted for advanced as for elementary study. Besides tending to develop the memory and the higher faculties, it will lead to the early formation of the excellent habit, only too rare, of devoting a few moments of head work to considering the model, before the hand work is allowed to begin.” LECOQ’S BOOK was translated into English in 1911, and his methods had some impact on art education in Great Britain and the United States during the early 20th century. But artists’ increasingly widespread use of mechanical memory—that is, photographic reference material—made the arduous training of the visual memory seem like a waste of time. Why go to

exercise and develop our natural powers of visual recall. As we witness a growing epidemic of memory loss among the aging in our general population, is there a connection? Studies have shown that memory training can benefit patients in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. It couldn’t hurt those of us who don’t have an organic brain disease, but want to improve our drawing skills—or maybe just remember where we put the car keys. As with physical fitness, the lesson for memory fitness is simple: Use it or lose it. There is, potentially, a lot to lose. Horace Lecoq de Boisbaudran understood that the ability to remember is not merely a mechanical aptitude, a parlor trick; it is the key feature of our individuality, as artists and human beings. Without our memories, we literally don’t know who we are. ❖ THE BEST OF DRAWING

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Madonna Breastfeeding the Christ by Michelangelo, ca. 1525, red and black chalk, 211⁄3 x 153⁄5, Collection Casa Buonarroti, Florence, Italy. Photo courtesy © Alinari/Art Resource, New York, New York.

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A comparison of drawings by Michelangelo, Rodin, and Henry Moore shows that while the means may have changed, the aim of sculptors in making drawings has remained remarkably consistent over five centuries. by Joseph C. Skrapits

Capturing the Muse

Drawings by Sculptors “MY DRAWINGS ARE ONLY MY WAY OF TESTING MYSELF,” wrote French sculptor Auguste Rodin. “My object [in drawing] is to test to what extent my hands already feel what my eyes see.” Rodin’s linking of visual perception to tactile, emotional expression establishes the vital, but often overlooked, role of drawing in the art of sculpture. Rodin is one among many master sculptors—from Michelangelo in the 16th century to Henry Moore in the 20th— who have also been superb, prolific draftsmen. They drew to understand and explore anatomy, mass, and movement, and to try out possible compositional solutions before translating their ideas, irreversibly, into marble or bronze. For many sculptors, drawing is thus both a preliminary and a necessary accompaniment to the realization of their three-dimensional conceptions.

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modeling. His restatement of contour lines and his treatment of the body as a fluid “machine” of interlinked spheres, cylinders, and cones give these drawings a shimmering, abstract dynamism not seen again in European art until the late 19th century, in the drawings of Paul Cézanne. Michelangelo produced drawings for every stage in the creation of his sculptures, using a range of styles that varied with the functional requirements of the process. He began with quick summary sketches that helped him visualize his thoughts about possible treatments of the subject. Once he’d more or less settled on a pose, he concerned himself with how his sculpture would look from different vantage points. Relying on his imagination, Michelangelo could picture the front, back, and sides of his figures without having to look at a model. Only when he was almost ready to carve would he make life studies, and these were, most often, not drawings of the entire body but of details, such as the views of an arm, hand, and upper body in Study for the Figure of Adam. Priceless treasures today, these painstaking renderings of the architecture of human beauty were treated roughly by their creator. They were working drawings, and since paper was expensive and Michelangelo exceedingly frugal, he had no qualms about drawing over them for other projects, or tearing a large sheet with a gorgeous drawing on it

Michelangelo The rarity of Michelangelo’s talents as sculptor, painter, and architect tends to obscure the fact that he was, in some respects, a typical product of the Renaissance studio system, which valued skillful drawing as indispensable to serious accomplishment in any of the visual arts. The 15th-century sculptor Donatello demonstrated this attitude when he told his students, “The art of sculpture could be summed up in one word: Draw.” Michelangelo learned to draw as an apprentice to the painter Domenico Ghirlandaio, who used an elaborate technique of crosshatching in pen-and-ink over preliminary drawings in graphite or chalk to build up a rich range of values and a convincing illusion of volumes in space. Among Michelangelo’s earliest surviving drawings are copies of robed figures from the frescoes of Giotto and Masaccio, also know as Three Figures From a Group of Spectators, in which the young sculptor-to-be transformed the flat patterns of wall paintings into startling convex forms that appear to bulge outward from the paper. He produced this effect by carefully emphasizing the play of light on the folds of heavy drapery, moving the viewer’s eye from highlight to midtone to deep shadow in regular intervals, as would happen when viewing a sharply lit figure in the round. In black-chalk studies of a fragment of ancient sculpture made later in his career, Michelangelo continued to refine the crosshatching technique, employing subtler internal 134

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Study for the Figure of Adam by Michelangelo, 1511, red chalk, 471⁄5 x 10. Collection Teylers Museum, Haarlem, The Netherlands. OPPOSITE PAGE, LEFT

Study of an Antique Venus by Michelangelo, black chalk, 10 x 71⁄10. Collection the British Museum, London, England. OPPOSITE PAGE, RIGHT

Three Figures From a Group of Spectators by Michelangelo, pen-and-ink, 111⁄2 x 47⁄8.

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Portrait of Andrew Quaratesi by Michelangelo, ca. 1532, black chalk, 161⁄5 x 111⁄2. Collection British Museum, London, England.

into pieces in order to give one of his students something on which to practice. Fearing that rivals might steal his ideas, Michelangelo himself destroyed many of his own drawings. The artist’s rare and exquisite, highly finished drawings in red or black chalk, such as his famous Portrait of Andrea Quaratesi, required weeks if not months of labor and were usually made as presents to friends and patrons.

auguste rodin Rodin’s encounter with Michelangelo’s work in Italy in the spring of 1875 has rightly been called one of the seminal events in modern art. But among the more than 7,000 drawings that Rodin produced, only a very few show that he made direct copies of Michelangelo’s sculptures. Rather, he would visit churches and museums during the day and make multiple sketches in his room at night. Rodin explained to his wife that his sketches were “not of his 136

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[Michelangelo’s] works but of figures ... imagined and elaborated in order to understand his technique.” Later Rodin would hire a model and pose him in the remembered gestures of Michelangelo’s statues, which he would then use to make rapid outline drawings. Rodin’s habit of drawing from memory, at a remove from his object of study, was formed during his early years as a pupil of the artist Horace Lecoq de Boisbaudran, who had developed a course of studies for educating the visual memory. The aim was the preservation of direct observations, proceeding from simple shapes to complex three-dimensional objects and whole scenes. Late in his life, Rodin claimed to be still using Lecoq’s methods, which he found particularly effective in capturing the transitory gestures of figures in motion. As Michelangelo obsessively studied the rippling musculature of bodies straining in heroic effort, so Rodin intensely observed movement. “The human body can be compared to a striding temple, and like a temple, it has a center of gravity around which the volumes are distributed and ordered,” he wrote. “Once you have realized this, you know everything. It is simple, but you have to see it.” Although Rodin could model small clay figures with amazing facility and speed, drawing offered him an even quicker means to comprehend movement. He made almost no preparatory drawings for specific pieces of sculpture, though he often drew his figures after they had been cast. Instead, drawing served him in this more general way: To test the coordination between his eye and his hand, and to improve his chances of seizing and retaining not just the physical appearance but also the emotional essence of a gesture. In the 1880s, the artist developed a style of pure contour drawing that dispensed entirely with internal modeling and the illusion of depth. In making these later contour drawings, Rodin had his models move around him in the studio as he worked. He drew without taking his eyes off the model, because he believed that the success of the drawing depended on a continuous flow of feeling from his eye to his hand. “The moment I drop my eyes, that flow stops,” he said. The blend of precision and expressiveness in such contour drawings as Reclining Female Nude, One Foot Propped on


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ABOVE

Study After Night by Michelangelo by Auguste Rodin, ca. 1877, charcoal, 191⁄8 x 245⁄8. Collection Musée Rodin, Paris, France. BELOW

Study After Day by Michelangelo by Auguste Rodin, ca. 1877, charcoal, 191⁄8 x 245⁄8. Collection Musée Rodin, Paris, France.

ABOVE

Tomb of Giuliano Dé Medici by Michelangelo, 1526–1531, marble, 248 x 1652⁄5. Collection New Sacristy, San Lorenzo, Florence, Italy. On this tomb sit the figures Night (left) and Day (right).

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Her Thigh depended as well on Rodin’s practice of keeping his arm still while allowing his wrist to move freely. The stability of the arm delimited the scale and proportion of the figure—confining it to an area within the borders of the paper—while the freedom of the wrist allowed him to search for the truth of what he called the “great line,” which could describe both volume and movement in a rapid, varying, but unbroken mark of his pencil. Rodin sometimes later added a wash of watercolor to the graphite outlines of his drawings, which strengthened the sense of massiveness of the forms and also enabled him to make minor corrections of the contours, as he did with Cambodian Dancer en Face. Formal perfection in drawing was not Rodin’s aim. “It is a false idea that drawing itself can be beautiful,” stated the sculptor. “It is only beautiful through the truths and the feelings that it translates.”

Henry Moore Henry Moore belonged to a generation of modernist sculptors who seemed to reject the Renaissance tradition and the vigorous naturalism of Rodin. Moore eventually looked to the art forms of non-Western cultures and the dream imagery of the collective unconscious for inspiration. Yet his many early drawings from life prove that he began his career with a sound grasp of traditional methods and a very personal, fun138

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damentally sculptural way of thinking about the figure. In these early drawings Moore discovered the theme that would preoccupy him for much of his career as a sculptor: a vision of the body as a heavy object; an expression, not of internal dynamism, but of the force of gravity acting upon it. Life studies such as Standing Figure have a palpable weight that grows from the artist’s use of pen-and-ink to develop thick outlines and a dense network of shadows. Pen over chalk or graphite was the combination of materials used by Michelangelo to make his early studies of fresco paintings. Moore has used a hatching technique with the pen that is reminiscent of Michelangelo’s crosshatching, though Moore’s seems sketchy and random rather than orderly and deliberate. Moore’s figure exudes the feeling of having been desperately scratched or carved into existence out of some hard, resistant material. Around 1930, Moore began to experiment with the Surrealist practice of “automatic” drawing, through which he generated hundreds of ideas for sculptures by initially letting go of conscious control. He explained, “I sometimes begin a drawing with no preconceived problem to solve, with only the desire to use pencil and paper, and make lines, tones, and shapes with no conscious aim. But as my mind takes in what is so produced, a point arrives where some idea becomes conscious and crystallized, and then a control


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OPPOSITE PAGE, LEFT

Reclining Female Nude, One Foot Propped on Her Thigh by Auguste Rodin, ca. 1900, graphite, 121⁄8 x 77⁄8. Collection Musée Rodin, Paris, France. OPPOSITE PAGE, RIGHT

Cambodian Dancer en Face by Auguste Rodin, ca. 1906, graphite and watercolor, 125⁄8 x 93⁄4. Collection Musée Rodin, Paris, France. RIGHT

Standing Figure by Henry Moore, 1923, pen-and-ink, and ink wash, 16 x 81⁄4. Private collection.

and ordering begin to take place.” Once an idea had crystallized, Moore used complex combinations of media—chalk, ink, gouache, and wax crayons—to give a sense of bodily substance to the creatures of his imagination. Drawings such as Ideas for Sculpture in Metal and Wire are, in effect, highly realistic renderings of abstract forms that might potentially be carved or cast. Moore translated only a small fraction of these ideas into wood, stone, or metal; his method of drawing produced far more ideas than he could ever carry out. Moore’s well of inspiration was virtually inexhaustible. During World War II, Moore’s drawing gained him his first wide recognition outside the small circle of enthusiasts for avant-garde sculpture. Commissioned as a war artist, he documented the condition of Londoners who took refuge from German bombing in the “tubes” of THE BEST OF DRAWING

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the Underground. Today, Moore’s Shelter Drawings are considered among his greatest achievements. Although stylistically related to his drawings for abstract sculpture, they have a timeless humanity that reconnects Moore’s art to Renaissance traditions. Pink and Green Sleepers has a powerful simplicity and monumentality worthy of Giotto. Shortly after he completed the Shelter Drawings, Moore received a commission to carve a Madonna and Child for a church in Northampton, England. Michelangelo had received a similar commission for a church in Bruges, Belgium, in 1504. Comparing Moore’s study drawing for his commission with one by Michelangelo shows the extent to which drawings by sculptors have changed over five centuries— and the degree to which they have remained, in essential ways, unchanged. In Michelangelo’s chalk drawing, the mother and child are depicted with an astonishing economy of line. In Moore’s Seated Studies of Mother and Child, he has shown a movement of the child toward the mother for nourishment and protection, but his drawings are much more heavily worked. Using a combination of chalk, graphite, watercolor, and pen-and-ink, Moore works each drawing, searching for the right composition for his piece. Michelangelo’s drawing encapsulates the lucidity and confidence of the Renaissance, Moore’s the woe and foreboding of a world at war. Yet the germ of the sculptural idea in both drawings is identical: A large shape encloses and shelters a small one. Whether the idea is carried out in marble or wood, cast bronze or welded steel, whether it is modeled or carved, made rough or smooth, grand or sweet, realistic or abstract, these issues, which bring trouble and joy and ultimately success or failure to the sculptor, are determined by individual talent, historical conditions, and the dictates of fashion. But the process of germination transcends individuals and historical trends; and it begins, very often, with a drawing. ❖

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ABOVE

Seated Studies of Mother and Child by Henry Moore, 1940, graphite, wax crayon, penand-ink, gouache, and watercolor, 104⁄5 x 15. Collection Henry Moore Foundation, Hertfordshire, United Kingdom. LEFT

Madonna and Child by Henry Moore, 1943, bronze, height 71⁄6". Collection Henry Moore Foundation, Hertfordshire, United Kingdom. OPPOSITE PAGE, ABOVE

Ideas for Sculpture in Metal and Wire by Henry Moore, 1939, graphite, chalk, watercolor wash, and pen-and-ink, 11 x 15. Private collection. OPPOSITE PAGE, BELOW

Pink and Green Sleepers by Henry Moore, 1941, graphite, crayon, watercolor wash, and pen-and-ink, 15 x 22. Collection Tate Gallery, London, England.

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Study for The Awakening 2001, graphite, 36 x 24.

Study for The Awakening 2001, graphite, 36 x 24. All artwork this article collection the artist.

These two drawings emphasize proportional relationships and contain measurements that were used to create a large wood sculpture.

The Awakening 2001, wood, 76" high.

Drawing Logic:

Drawing for Sculpture by John Taye

IT HELPS TO DRAW BEFORE YOU START A SCULPTURE. I find that if I draw first, I become more familiar with the model’s proportions and body type. It also makes me more awake visually, and warms me up to that particular model. I recommend doing sketches of the model from four views: front, back, left side, and right side. These are contour drawings that simply show the proportional relationships, rhythms, and masses of the model. Quick gesture studies help me find a pose that is interesting. I often have students do gesture drawings of the same pose from different places in the room to better analyze the form and be able to visualize it in three dimensions. Another helpful approach is to draw cross-contour lines that explore the form at right angles to the direction of the form. These lines help record the surface topography of the model and are especially useful on complex areas. A lot of 142

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people ask about using photos, but there are distortions in photos, and unless the lighting is good they will not be that useful. They don’t record a lot of the information one can see and thus depict in a careful drawing. Drawings record in a more personal way the information needed to create a sculpture. I also use written notes, such as, “sharp edge” or “shallow indentation.” I may record actual dimensions if I plan on doing a life-size piece. If there’s time, fully shaded drawings with strong sidelighting will give a good sense of the form. It’s crucial to carefully render the light and shade seen on the model, then recreate the same light conditions on the sculpture as you work. This can be a problem in a classroom because the light is usually uneven in different parts of the room. If the shadows on your sculpture appear the same as the shadows on your drawings, then the form should also be fairly accurate.

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LEFT

High Step 1996, bronze, 12" high. BELOW

BOTTOM

Standing Woman 1997, graphite, 15 x 7. Cross-contour lines are used here to show planes and surface topography of the model.

Proportion and Movement Studies for High Step 1995, graphite, 12 x 16.

Another helpful step in using drawings to plan a sculpture is marking where the armature will be. If you mark where the support will be on a full-size drawing with red crayon, and also indicate the elbow and knee joints, it helps when you’re bending the wire in place. In a nutshell, be more sensitive to what you’re seeing, and plan the sculpture as much as you can before you get into it. The better you draw, the better you are going to be able to sculpt. I’ve never seen a good figurative sculptor who wasn’t a good draftsman. Many students have told me that sculpture helped them draw better. The two certainly reinforce each other, as careful observation is important for both. I like what the Italian sculptor Lorenzo Ghiberti said: “Supremacy in sculpture is only attainable by a superior draftsman.” ❖ THE BEST OF DRAWING

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