Came home from figure drawing class pondering the quantum mechanics of uncreated artwork. I started by trying to look at the blank page the way a sculptor looks at a block of marble. The finished work is already there inside, waiting to be excavated. But not all drawings are created equally. In the same pose, I could draw one version focused on light and tone, another on anatomy and volumetric structure, yet another on capturing as much pure energy and vibrancy of the pose as possible. That's off the top of my head. I'm sure I could think of a few more treatments to approach the work with, but I'm tired and need to go to bed soon.
Point being, there is not just one drawing waiting to be excavated, but multiple possible drawings and each line I lay down is like a thread chosen from an infinite number of parallel dimensions, narrowing it down closer and closer until it collapses into a singular reality. The part that f**ks with me is how much control I am exerting, or appear to exert over these realities, shaping existence on the paper… or rather, how much control AM I exerting?
I'm making definite choices, shaping the path the drawing will take, and yet I'm still struggling with the same demons most journeyman illustrators grapple with… Volume, proportion, lighting, anatomy, balance, vitality, etc. If I were a master of the craft, it would be 100% decision making, but I am not. I can't gauge how much of the way a finished drawing of mine depends on refined craftsmanship and decision making, but at even this stage in my life, I would bet that it's still probably only around 50% on a good day.
I'm trying to shape reality without a true understanding of the consequences and capabilities I am working with to do so. On a drawing, it's fanciful and a little awe inspiring.
In life, on a larger scale, it's utterly terrifying… fanciful and a little awe inspiring.