Faces

The Gardener

The last month has been rushed; with Graham not up to par, me becoming ill with a particularly vicious little bug who did not want to let go, there has been little time to write. 

Once, not so long ago, I would have taken any opportunity to write. I would surmise circumstances do take a toll, as one ages and gains a little wisdom from the results of pushing oneself too early into responsibilities, after a flu bug strikes.

There is one thing, however, which has given me peace and has kept me balanced...

Over the last while, for perhaps a couple of months, I have felt the increasing urge to draw faces. Of whom, I have no idea. But the urge is strong and I find myself drawing a face each and every time a pen and a piece of paper present themselves.

This is something very new to me. I am a painter of landscapes...drawing something is not a thing I have explored, letting alone drawing faces of people only I can see.

The Teacher

I am a doodler; a sketcher of wishes and dreams. The faces displayed here have been scanned. It seems blue ink does not scan as well as black and so much of the detail is lost. But there is much more character...lines and shading...to the faces than you see here.


And that is not something I would have thought I could do...fine detailing such as I have been doing would have been anathema to me, even just a few months ago. I did not have the patience.


But since the portals opened on October 28 and November 11, the urge to draw these fantastical faces, some of them, has grown stronger, if that could be possible. I find myself lost in time as yet another character appears beneath my pen.

The Librarian

And as well...I must tell you about the dream...one that has been recurring over and over for awhile. In the dream, I am in a classroom. The mood is joyous; it seems the entire class has passed a test, one that was particularly difficult. I do not feel as if I am singled out...I see my classmates and the figure whom I take to be the teacher, although he is vague. The dream becomes one so familiar, I  find myself sliding into it easily two or three times a week.

In the last dream, as I sat in my desk, putting papers away...it was one of those old wooden desks we had in our elementary school, with the slanted top, pencil grooves and paste container hole, with scrolled metal sides...someone leaned over my shoulder. I remember being startled. No one had spoken to me before this.


I did not see him but I did feel his energy. He told me...Make sure you keep the drawings...


I did not think to ask why or what he was referring to. And in any case, I almost immediately woke up.

Keeper of the Hearth

After a cup of coffee, consultation with Graham and a very cold walk outside with Lucky, I concluded the fellow in my dream meant the faces I'd been drawing. There were no other drawings the dream man could have meant.


I had not been keeping any of the faces in order. They were everywhere...it took some time to gather them all up, learning to treat them with some respect, and scanning them. As I did this, I was astonished at how many there were.


It was as if I had drawn all these unknown faces in a dream, or at least without conscious effort. I had certainly not been giving them any respect...


I believe this is a lesson I had to re-learn. Once upon a time, years ago, I painted...mostly landscapes, as I've mentioned...and I took college Art classes for two years. It took almost six months in the class before I could take compliments on my work. Criticism was not difficult to take, but those who praised my work received short shrift.

The Poet

I knew I was not any good, you see, at painting. I took the classes only because I loved Art. I thought the people who actually paid money for my work were deluded.


This state of mind has its roots in a former high school Art teacher, who once told me I did chocolate box paintings...no creativity there whatsoever. What I forgot, after a talk with the professor of my college Art classes, is that the high school teacher and I were at each other's throats, for much of the time I spent in his classes. And on a day where the World seemed too much for him, perhaps...on that day, he decided to lash out at his recalcitrant student.


I made an effort, after the talk with my professor, to look at my work with different eyes. I succeeded to a degree...but again, there was now someone in my life, my ex this time, who did not like my paintings or the time it took to do them, time taken from him...and once again, I let someone else decide the worth of my paintings. It was a very easy thing to do...I had not entirely shrugged off the

The Forester

idea that my paintings were worthless, even then. Having somebody corroborate that idea...well...you can see how easily I slid backwards.


After the dream, I remembered my conversation with the professor; I decided to let the feelings of worthlessness...because really, that is what it is...fall away. It was time to let garbage like this go. For good and all.


It really doesn't matter if the faces I draw are any good or not. I love drawing them.

The Baker

I don't know who these people are. They are figments of my imagination. It doesn't really matter...perhaps one day, I will actually meet someone who strikes a chord, someone who looks a little like these drawings.


The Universe works in strange, truly creative ways.

Without the dream, I know I would have continued to draw, but I would not have kept them or had any attachment to them. They would have been relegated to a pile somewhere, anywhere. I would not have recognized the passion I have only just re-discovered.

The Photographer

Perhaps I will have another dream...one which will tell me who these faces belong to.


These days, I wouldn't count that idea out...