I was working with a high school student on a self-portrait project and did this little drawing of her in her sketchbook, demonstrating certain landmarks of human physiology and how they can sit in perspective. It almost looked like her, which was a plus. I don't usually do demos that require this kind of accuracy, as failing miserably at them can really muddy whatever point was to be made.
I made a photocopy of it and brought it home where I produced the following small oil painting from it.
It still almost looks like her.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Friday, February 1, 2008
oil on paper, 8"x10"
It wasn't the 1950 Vincent she rode
that Burt found enticing.
It wasn't the leather chaps
or the jacket
or the way she kept her silver curls
twisted up under her violet half helmet.
It wasn't even the women's penitentiary
Prussian blue bleeding into her crow's feet.
It was the lace and needlepoint
flowered seat cushion
puffy and downy white
perched on top
of her chrome and black chariot.
Had she made that?
Did the prison tat
and all that ebonized cowhide
conceal a softer,
even grandmotherly soul
with gentle hands
and a homey, suburban
He revved his Viking
and pulled out of the rest stop.
The sky was a gleaming white
a circle of turkey buzzards
clung gallantly to gusts of wind.
As for the seat cushion,
just pilfered it
from a newly deceased