Blog 13: Finding a Drawing after 27 Years

It happened when Lise Lindstrøm contacted me and told me I had drawn her little boy in the main teaching hospital in Copenhagen, Rigshospitalet in 1991. I’d given her a copy then, and she wondered whether I still had the original, because she wanted to buy it.

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Luckily I had kept all my baby drawings, right from when I started drawing in hospitals in 1983, archiving them by place and date,  and most had the name and birthday as well. I told her I would look and write back – his name was Christian born 14th January and this was written on the drawing.

DSCN2504The drawings are all in drawers in my studio. I pulled out the folder labeled  Rigshospitalet  01.91 – and found it. Lise came, and photographer Heather Gartside was there to record the moment when she received the drawing. Christoffer is now a grown man of 28.

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I do not have the possibility of contacting the parents – or the now grownup children themselves, but from time to time I hear from someone and it is fun to see whether can find a certain drawing. I wish I had a way of making contact with more – the early copies I gave them were very bad –  but there are few who find their way to me as Lise did.

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Lise Lindstrøm l.lindstroem@hotmail.com has given me permission to publish this story. To use the photographs please contact the photographer  ©Heather Gartside  heathergartside@gmail.com

We hope that the story of a drawing found after 27 years, along with the photographs,  can be published in Denmark and elsewhere to reach a wider audience.

If you are, or know of any families who have had a premature infant sketched by Heather Spears since 1983, and would like to receive the original drawing from the archives, then please contact Heather via the form below 🙂

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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PALESTINE

 

 

This is about drawings made long ago, in Palestine, how they came about, and what happened to them.

 

During the Iran-Iraq war I read about child soldiers. Having drawn mostly babies and children in crisis– in  hospitals, at *trials – I wanted to draw these child soldiers, but the risks seemed unsurmountable. Then came the  Palestinian Intifada (Uprising), the first, nonviolent protest against Israeli occupation. With the advice of various organizations – Israeli human rights groups, refugee friends – and a then perfectly acceptable political party in Denmark called the PLO, I prepared for my first trip in 1987. I had no funding or sponsorship. I was on my own. My plan was to draw the children involved in the Intifada, to make 300 drawings in 6 weeks.

At the time I was ignorant and wished to remain so. “I am not political” I boasted. I booked into a small hotel on the Mount of Olives and started off at Maqassad Charitable Arab Hospital, down across the valley in East Jerusalem. Working just as I did in Denmark, getting permission – after a year studying Arabic at Copenhagen University, I could manage a few phrases like “May I be permitted to draw your child?” and“Please write what happened to you,” and “I will give you a photocopy” – all in classical Arabic which must have sounded like Shakespearean English to them.

The welcome was huge, also from staff, the response almost overwhelming. There were many wounded children to draw, and ask for their names and stories be written on the drawings.

 

At sundown I walked back up the dusty hill – no wall then, no check points – and prepared to go to bed. All I could do was relive the awfulness of what I faced. I was overcome with emotion and could not sleep.

I had a severe talk with myself: you are here to work. I slept then, and the next day and from then on was able to draw.

 

Before I went to Palestine, I had read the mainline press and thought that children were forced into some kind of “line of fire” when they confronted the soldiers. I expected to meet children who were all alike – denied their childhood – small, faceless soldiers. Instead, I met human beings who had made choices and answered circumstances with the energy, conviction and courage that childhood shares with any age.

I learned that there was no front line, that the children were attacked in schools, in hospitals, in their own homes, and staff and parents were unable to protect them. About a third of the injured were involved in clashes (stone throwing). I drew in the West Bank, accompanying nurses on their rounds, and in Gaza, going by taxi or ambulance, which was possible then, and staying in people’s homes. Virtually no journalists or photographers were covering that uprising. And I was under the radar – your little tourist lady drawing in the Holy Land. Nor did I consider myself a “real” journalist: when there were gunshots I ran the other way. The drawings were brought secretly out of Israel in a diplomatic pouch and I fetched them later in Geneva.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I prepared an exhibition and showed it at the UN in New York. They have been exhibited, among other places, at the UN in Geneva, UN Plaza in New York, in Washington, D.C., Oxford, Cambridge and London. I toured the US and Canada for 9 months with 150 of my drawings as slides. These later became the film *Drawn from the Fire.

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In 1990 I returned to Palestine. My plan was to complete a second 6-week project, this time drawing the soldiers and with their own handwriting. Because the young soldiers, all conscripted out of high school, looked heartbreakingly like my children: I married a Jew and have 3 sons. One of my *poems begins “Any one of you /could have been my son.” But the day after I arrived I witnessed the Temple Mount Massacre and my purpose changed.

 

I could see the golden dome of Al Aqsa Mosque from the Mount of Olives, hear across the valley the loudspeaker blaring and  the shots and see the people running about in the compound: they looked like ants from so far away. I was at the hospital when the dead were brought in. I watched the shouting and mourning. I sketched from a window above the courtyard, too scared to find my way down to the morgue and no one with time to protect me. No autopsies were performed. They were buried swiftly. Many had been shot in the back. I feel guilt and remorse to this day.

 

 

 

I found my way down to the basement corridors and drew among the wounded. Sometimes I had to help – hold an  IV – or get out of the way.

Now so many years later, this is happening again in Gaza’s hospitals, even  as I write.

 

 

 

I published B’Tselems immediate verbatim-translations of the loudspeaker voices taken from an amateur video, as they begged the school children and young people in the open compound to hide – but the Israeli press was quicker and spread the news that it was incitement.

I drew the wounded, and returned to Denmark with 300 more drawings, some of which became part of the first exhibition.

 

Now with expert help I am submitting the exhibition to the UNCopenhagen, and possibilities for future shows, and the eventual showing and archiving the work into a museum. The catalogues, which are little picture books with the children’s words in Arabic translated into English and French, will be donated to school libraries – another project.

These faces, these lives, these stories and all the others since, are part of a greater story.

 

*in Human Acts, “For the Soldiers” p 48, Wolsak and Wynn  1991

*Required Reading,a witness in words and drawings to the Reena Virk trials,

Wolsak &Wynn ,2000

Heather Spears’ 55-min. video  DRAWN FROM THE FIRE on youtube with over 100 drawings and the childrens’ stories : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n5MIVv7n-OE

    

 

 

 

 

Blog 11: Special Care Nurseries: the end of drawing


Looking back on my life, I realize how extraordinarily lucky I have been. I came to what was to become the central theme of my artist’s lífe at exactly the right time, and I am leaving it at exactly the right time – when it, and I, are no longer available to one another.

These nurseries for critically ill and premature newborns were well established worldwide by the 1960s, and more and earlier premature babies, even some so young as to overlap late abortions, were being saved.

Prior to the 1980s the very idea of drawing there had not been considered. They were carefully closed to other than staff and  parents – and even then, parents had at first very limited access.

Coney Island incubator show

The history of the incubator is short: it was invented in 1860 and in Victorian times became a fairground attraction – people could pay to file past and see the babies behind windows. It it was a freak show, the way the Dionne Quints (almost exactly my generation) and other unusal human beings were exploited and exposed – and when this period was over, strict privacy set in.

From 1983 and for over 3 decades I have enjoyed an inexhaustible drawing subject, that has absorbed my attention through all my mature working life. I began at exactly the right time – I would not have had access before – and I finished at the right time too, when the subject is no longer available. Which coincides with my vision failing in old age. I could not have been luckier.

I lived on Bornholm in Denmark and made a living teaching drawing and doing small portraits, mostly of German tourist children. People started bringing babies for portraits and wanted to learn how. I applied to the hospital maternity ward for subjects to study but was turned down. Someone suggested a Neonatal Nursery, or NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit), terms I had never heard of, but an enquiry to the one in Copenhagen’s Rigshospital was turned down too. That year I was in Vancouver for a longer stay and contacted  Childrens’ Hospital there – and was persistent. It took about 3 months to get to an interview with the Supervisor, who was very hostile, but after we met, and talked together about her concerns, she agreed – and later became completely supportive, so I returned on several subsequent visits. After my book Drawings from the Newborn was published, it was easier and I could  draw in hospitals worldwide.

changed photo-permission form

I also needed parental permission, and we worked out some changes on their photography permission form, a procedure that has worked till last year in all the hospitals where I have drawn. This was an ongoing  study project and I kept the drawings, making copies for the parents in return for permission to draw, keep, and exhibit the originals.

 

From my initiation to the NICU  I was hooked, and hooked forever. Imagine a drawing project that satisfied my every need as an artist, suddenly handed to me.

special care nursery, drawing at night

First and foremost, a new human subject. Drawing people has always been my specialty but I was bored – doing portraits for money was like being a prostitute and having to satisfy the customer, and I suddenly admitted how I hated it, and quit. I taught and still teach life drawing, but the adult models’ poses however inventive were boring, the forms and movements so familiar they were hard to pay attention to any more.

These babies had never been drawn before because they were not around to be drawn.

I had to start from scratch and I realized very soon how much we draw with our learning and expectations – by our immersion in the culture, by looking at other great drawings. The great artists did not have this subject. Learning to draw these babies took all my attention.

Second, light. There has been uninterrupted, bright light in NICUs till very lately. Staff depended on watching the babies till very lately;  machines and warning noises only gradually took over continuous physical supervision.

Third, I had no choices to make. I had to draw the babies I was allowed to, just as they happened to be. And I had no choice over the time I had. I just arrived and got to it; I need not even think. No energy wasted deciding what to draw or how long I had. Or whether to sit or stand – I had to stand. There were changes, interruptions – some permanent. I was happy within the freedom of these limitations.

Lastly, privacy. For me a great part of the joy I have in drawing is that it has been private, I have gotten into places I never would have experienced otherwise, come close to and witnessed human experience that is secret and fleeting, that takes close observation and sometimes was so difficult that my attention was all that was left;  in the words of Rilke, the work absorbed every feeling, everything personal “so there was no residue.” This is how it was in the 80s in Palestine when no press photographers or journalists were yet there, how it was on the pediatric cancer wards, in the refugee camps, on maternity wards where I drew childbirth, in the courts (where photography is still not allowed), backstage at great theatres, in a hospital morgue or at the death of a child.

And here too, as if on cue, my privacy is mow invaded too, as documentary filming and “reality shows” have moved in and taken over the most private areas of human experience.

My initiation to the NICU was – as it must be for suddenly affected parents – frightening and alien, not understood, crowded with machinery under bright light, busy with invasive procedures and unknown purpose. Like them, my first impression was of a cold, surgically sterile place; then came my surprise, my realization of the humanity, warmth and care of everyone who worked there.

drawing at night. NICU

I drew at night, when the ward was quietest, going in about 11PM and leaving at 3AM. Mostly biking over to Rigshospitalet in Copenhagen, where I drew every night for many years. And in other hospitals in Europe, America, and the Middle East – wherever I could arrange for 2 or 3 weeks’ uninterrupted work. Staff everywhere were interested and supportive. In some hospitals, I slept on the ward when a staff bed was unused. I drew in the basement of the Panum Institute where, in a great vat, lay many tiny corpses.

studies, fetal facial development

I made clay models on the development of the foetal face, and drew them from many angles, because it worked better by far to learn emerging facial details than to “think backwards” from our common knowledge of fullborns and children. I knew, all the while, that what I had to get right was visual – nurses can tell at a glance a baby’s gestational age, almost to the day, and if they could see it, surely I could too – but the history of European art is a long tale of trial and error and learning from those who went before, specially as it has to do with the human face.

baby, Meteora, Greece, ca 13th C

 

 

We read how Cimabue’s paintings were carried through the streets in praise of their exactness, and how they seem to us now stilted and ‘Byzantine’, like this baby at Meteora, and how it took the greater artist Giotto to make that leap, from Cimabue’s shoulders, into the first realism.

For some  reason, babies lost out in this timeline. We have all remarked on the adult-looking babies in the Adoration paintings of the Renaissance. The infant Christ was also God and portrayed as magesterial rather than frail.

 

Here are some examples of babies drawn at night on the NICUs. Link to more.

Before ugly plastic took over, I was able to draw the beautiful cotton diapers, and I still mourn their passing.

premature incubator baby in a cloth diaper

Incubators, changed too  – when I began to draw them, they had beautiful linen windows with drawstring sleeves. Staff could access the babies – and,  rarely then – parents with strict permission could reach in and touch them.

incubator with drawstring sleeve

 

incubator procedure: blood work

incubator procedure: blood work

I drew many hundreds of studies of premature movement, so loose and graceful, different from any human movement that had been around to be observed and drawn before.

studies, premature arm and hand movement

 

studies, premature wrist and hand movement

 

studies, kicking  premature baby

 

at Karolinsk:, incubator studies 71 and 72, an active baby girl

Karolinska

 

premature baby alone and awake in an incubator

 

So I drew as long as I could. There would be changes, some long overdue.

With the NICUs, more and more premature babies lived, and it was accepted that some would be handicapped, and that some survived to be blind. Continuous exposure to bright light was a connection slow to be made – but it finally was: lights were dimmed on the wards and blankets laid across the incubators. If the baby was being held by its mother, she’d shade its eyes carefully with her hand, and eventually, the time came when to ask for ‘more light to draw by’ was met with reluctance and at best a slight turning up of a distant lamp. Meanwhile as if on cue, a bout of shingles 2 years ago had damaged my one eye, and my vision will never be whole again: all in all, it was time, it was necessary, to stop.

The incubator will be phased out, replaced more and more by warm, sterile rooms where the parents are happy to live in, touch, hold and care for their babies. Years ago they were lucky to be allowed visiting hours, and even, for a moment, to touch their baby through a carefully opened incubator door. Later they were thankful to be allowed to come in when they liked, and to sit with the baby, lines dangling, for longer periods skin to skin.

But the incubator is also called an “isolette”- and isolation is finally acknowledged to be far more dangerous than any risk of infection.

 

I still draw if I am called in by the midwives – if a baby is stillborn and they judge the parents could bear to make a decision and let me draw a picture for them. And in the chilly side room off Maternity, there is still light.

muffled door

 

 

 

 

Drawings from the Newborn, Poems and drawings of infants in crisis, 20 poems and 52 full-sized drawings, order from Heather Spears.

Blog 10 – a censored show

 

Last spring I applied for a drawing project and exhibition in the UK – to draw again at Oxford’s famous John Radcliffe Hospital, and this time to show in their gallery as well. There was much positive correspondence,  and I got a grant from Tegnernes Fornening (the graphic artist’s association in Denmark) to frame and ship my drawings, and to cover a 5 weeks’ working stay.

I decided to exhibit childbirth and baby drawings,  my usual subjects.  Among those I framed were my best childbirth drawings.

Here are some of the drawings I framed: a series of 10 with a father supporting a mother through labour and birth, a drawing of a child waiting to “catch” her baby brother, and 3 from a series of a woman in labour – her face drawn during contractions and rest.

 

I  had however overlooked a note in the hospital gallery information slip: “the Gallery does not accept images containing nudity.”

After some letters to and fro, I realized they meant it – no nudes was the policy and that included birthing mothers and even newborns. The show was ready, and this meant changing and reframing the childbirth half almost entirely. Only clothed or discreetly sheet-covered mothers and diapered babied would be allowed.  Of the iffy copies I sent by email for approval, nearly all my most beautiful drawings were refused –  all these above. I was told definitively that “No women with their legs open giving birth, nowhere most of a female nude body is shown.” In fact: anything even nearing the vagina would not be acceptable.

 

Nudity? Childbirth?

Look back at the drawings. Is your perception of them changed? Unfortunately it has, for me. The drawings are repetitive, of movement, made at full speed. Each is contained and complete, all its lines are important and integral to the whole.  I have an intimate series of a mother’s face during labour, as she went through through strong contractions and intermittent rest. Looking at them again, I realized that several must be left out because of swift lines that some prying, nasty eyes with their own agenda had deliberately searched for and interpreted as prurient, salacious!

From this series, showing a mother’s face in labour, during contractions and rest: Of this series,  Only the first and second were accepted.

 

 

 

 

 

And the little Danish girl waiting excitedly to “catch” her baby brother – censored because of some abstract lines – the innocent subject of her attention. In  the top corner, the midwife’s words in Danish: “you’re ready to receive him, right?”

 

 

 

I came to Oxford and exhibited what I was allowed to. I had some idea of indignantly picketing the gallery, or publishing the “censored” drawings in the local press.  Almost I am sorry I didn´t. But there are other galleries – and maybe the chance to tell the story in a small, nicely produced illustrated catalog. Watch this page.

 

The next blog tells of my Oxford drawing experience, and why drawing on the neonatal wards is, for the very best of reasons, over forever.

Blog 9: reading the smile, in photos and in drawings

I mean here by reading: recognizing an expression – a universal ability.

These are blog speculations about the illusion of the smile, the fixed smile, the difference between how we look at photos and at drawings. Up to now I had not thought about it so much; usually, if parents wanted me to draw after a widely grinning photo of their child, I would just say, “you realize the eyes are squinted” – and then they’d go for a more serious one.

In a smile, particularly, what is seen is fleeting and in motion – the “held” smile waiting for a photograph looks forced and wrong, the caught “flash” of a smile in a photograph works only because we have unconsciously trained ourselves to see it in glimpses.  Adults who have never seen photographs cannot read them, it takes training. During the last generations, we’ve learned to look at the camera’s “caught” expression in quick spurts. I am convinced that looking longer at such a photograph if it is to continue to work – I mean, to affect us – must still be interruptive. It could be measured (number of saccades, returns etc.). I haven’t read about it yet, but I can hope.

This was confirmed for me recently. I was asked to draw a beloved father for an obituary. I was sent several photos and told them I would sketch the one where he was lively and smiling. As we corresponded, one adult daughter wrote: “To me, this (photo) doesn’t look like him! He looks happy, but tired.”

I wrote back: “This is normal, don’t worry! If you stare steadily at a smiling photo, it will stop working and start to look ‘fixed‘ (or as you say, tired).  A smile is passing, and we see it in a glance. Somehow or other, after the invention of the camera, we have learned to look at smiling photos in short glances – and I suppose one can also see a smiling drawing this way, but it gets more muddled now – how we see is so fascinating. I guess a smiling drawing is one we might have on the wall but we would not gaze at it.”

In a persuasive experiment, subjects were photographed as they exchanged a neutral look for each of the 6 universal expressions – joy, sadness, surprise, anger, fear and disgust. Next, the features were blanked out. A third series was made from studying these: just blank ovals, with arrows showing only the direction of movement between features. Everyone is still able to recognize the expressions – try it.  It is the movement and direction of the expressive muscles that we read so impeccably.

Some photographs cannot be read at all, because the difference between the expression of pain and of joy must be seen in motion, or it is unreadable.

pain (injured man), joy (released hostage)

Drawings of big smiles made after photographs, with all the teeth minutely traced in, cannot work.  Everyone recognizes such a drawing – it looks obviously wrong, amateurish and uncomfortable. In reality, we see the flash only – never the details;  it passes too quickly for even the fastest artist to record, unless it is repeated.*( see note)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*note: But in fast drawing, repetition is the key: I can draw smiles and other changing expressions if I see them repeatedly, as here, with writers listening or conversing animatedly at festivals.

Drawing the smile – Blog 8

A mother ordered several drawings from photos taken in hospital of her stillborn son. The baby alone, with his four-year-old sister, her with the baby or with both children. She had chosen eight.

One she wanted was a “selfie” – the three of them lying close together in bed, with the baby in the centre. When I saw the photo, I was surprised:  it was too intimate and intense to hang on the wall, because of her expression. Here was the ultimate face of grief, of someone who has cried till no more tears are left. All the expressive muscles were neutral, as if erased. It is very seldom one sees this look, which is both beautiful and very private.

But she wanted it, and I made the drawing*.

with changes

THE FACE OF GRIEF

When I emailed her a copy for approval, her response was that she liked it very much, but – could I just draw her with a smile?

The mouth is the most difficult feature to draw; everyone can read the smallest of changes very closely and accurately. I was pretty much convinced that the change she wanted was beyond me – that any change of the mouth – widening it, altering the corners – would ruin the drawing. I wrote and told her I wasn’t sure I could do it, but that I would try it out on a copy, and send her that for approval or advice.

I printed a copy to work on. I knew already I would not touch the mouth. AlI I did was rub in 2 small shadows (indicating 2 faint depressions) one on each cheek, there were dimples appear on children’s faces when they smile or, on any face, a visible, passing shadow shifting upwards, caused by the contraction of the elevator muscles – the zygomaticus major  muscles where they insert into the skin. I also took a bit of chalk and covered a slight smudge under the left-hand corner of the lower lip.

face copy smile 2

CHANGED DRAWING

I dared not change the original drawing.

But she wanted a smile.

When you do a commission you have to please the client. And it was, after all, only a drawing from a photo.

When I sent her the altered copy, she agreed that this was exactly what she wanted -“Now I am smiling.”

In the original, I also erased 2 tiny lines between the eyebrows, so light they do not show on the copy – these lines of anxiety (minute contractions of the corrugators) are invariably read by everyone – giveaways in any face that smiles and does not quite mean it.

I am more and more convinced that there is no such thing as “intuition” involved when we see and respond  to another person’s face – what we sense about the person is visual (and to lesser extents audible/olfactory).  If we are uncomfortable there is some masking, some disharmony in the facial muscles – and, even when we are not conscious of it, we are all experts at picking it up. Our brains are programmed and trained in this incredibly complex task. A large portion of the visual cortex – the fusiform gyrus – is devoted to recognition and to reading expression.

This work  taught me that it is not the features themselves we are reading, when we look into another human face. Giacometti said the eye has no expression: “The eye is always cold and remote. It is the surroundings that determine the expression of the eye.” And the mouth on its own is not the source of the smile .

(*With her permission I have included the images:  the drawing of the face before I changed it, and then the drawing with the smile.)

Blog 7 -Drawing Bell Ringers

Blog 7 – Drawing bell-ringers

Thanks to Tegnerne’ (Graphic Artists’) Copyright Fund  I was able to take an exhibition to Oxford and spend 5 weeks there in August and September 2016. My birth- and neonatal drawings were hung in the gallery at the John Radcliffe Hospital. I also planned to draw there, but administrative haggling about permissions took time, so instead I started drawing bell ringers – something I had long wanted to do.

Thus I got to experience Oxford in a very special way. By climbing up into the beautiful bell towers I was entering a centuries-old tradition which still thrives in England. As a subject for drawing it was perfect for me – human figures in concentrated motion, fast, beautiful and very difficult to draw.

The bells are reached by narrow, almost vertical stairs or ladders, or  spiral stone steps with a rope to cling to. Up there is the belfry with its great, heavy bells, and the space is limited indeed. I stood in a corner or sat on a stone sill, careful to avoid the bell ropes which hung through holes in a half-loft to insulate the sound. Each bell has its own name and tone  – there can be 6 or even 11 – the sullen, latent ropes hung bound over in loose knots, and the ringers ecognized each one. Ready, they loosened the ropes and stood in a circle, each grasping a taut rope over their heads. The Master of the Peals under his certain bell called, ”Treble’s going – she’s gone!” and at the last word he pulled downward  with all his strength, everyone followed in order, and the loft was filled with an enormous and earsplitting – yet known and defined – clamor.  The ancient well-known melodies each have a name and difficulty.

I learned something of the special jargon or vocabulary of bell ringers, and gradually came to feel a powerful sense of the long, unbroken tradition these dedicated musicians share.

Afterwards we went to the pub, where I enjoyed their stories and their pride in being accomplished ringers.

To draw there? For me it was that first reach and grasp, the physical effort of pulling the great bell down to strike, that captured me – I wanted to learn this, to see it and draw it, while all was in movement around me.  The old bells are very heavy and it takes strength and concentration – and that was visible.

Through the nearly 100 drawings I managed to make, you can see how I had to look with all my attention – the first drawings show many repeated lines – in the last, made just before I had to go back to Denmark – have become more simple. I was just beginning to catch it.

At the start one can ask oneself, “How can you draw motion, effort, so it doesn’t just look like someone standing there holding a rope?”  I could go on about how the artist’s line, our divine tool, is the pefect intsrument to convey motion. But that is another story.

Dégas wrote: “Art is not invention, art is repetition.” And it’s true.

For this reason it is pretty hopeless to go out into the world to draw (favorite places are a park, a gallery, a train station or a café) where people move around in a boring way and you just have to hope that someone will sit or stand still. Only through repetition can one draw the human motion we love to capture  – this is how Dégas and the other great artists drew. To show students one out of hundreds of a master’s drawings and say “This is how you should draw” is cheating, and “gesture drawing” is a waste of time.

Rodin as an old man saw the first Cambodian dancers to visit Paris, and fell in love. He drew furiously, and was heartbroken when they went away. “I followed them to Marseilles. I would follow them to Africa – I  would follow them to the ends of the earth.”

This is what it was like for me to leave Oxford, the city with the golden towers. Drawing in the midst of all that movement and tumult, in full concentration, I realized I was completely happy. And that is rare.

I feel as if I have just begun.