"There Are No Straight Lines"
Mr. Constant was nearing retirement when I enrolled in his mechanical drawing class. I was a senior at Berkeley High School and the class figured into a college-track sequence that had me aiming for an engineering degree. (Though not entirely by choice. Blame it on UCO/MESA program's goal of getting underrepresented minorities to technical majors in college where the corresponding "minorities in technical majors" program would eagerly await our arrival.) I remember the classroom vividly. It had several drafting tables with working drafting machines, a smaller adjoining blueprint room and an office where Mr. Constant often sat and graded assignments while we worked. He kept a small block of wood with two evenly spaced and numbered rows of holes held lead holders for each student. I don't remember if we could take home the textbooks or if they also lived in the classroom.
Our textbook was thorough and very technical in its explanations of orthographic drawing, how to use line weights, lettering, apply dimensions, and even how to hold the lead holder or pencil and twirl it as we drew a line. We also learned how to sharpen and condition the tip of our lead for construction, lettering and object lines. Mr. Constant came from a pre-CAD era where mechanical and architectural drawings were done by hand with a high level of skill and expertise. He was strict, and shared with us professional standards that could possibly serve us later in our working lives.
I distinctly remember a spark of competitiveness between myself and other serious students. My friends and I often aimed for speed and perfect scores and ranked ourselves according to who was furthest ahead with the highest grades. What I learned in that class stayed with me through later courses in engineering, descriptive geometry, perspective drawing, and then many years after that, through my first perspective for illustrators class at the Academy of Art University. At the time, the class was called "Drawing from the Imagination". Ironically, I concurrently taught a course with the same title at another art school for a considerably different population of undergraduates. It was very helpful for me to revisit perspective drawing in an illustration context. The online course included content from long-time AAU faculty Joko Budiono and Stephen Player. It was a tough class. Weekly assignments required a minimum of 15 hours of drawing time if you wanted to be above average. The bar was set high for us, and the course reinforced in me the need to trust and value an iterative process where thumbnails and roughs preceded detailed finals.
My first formal observational drawing and painting experience was with Ms. Macdonald's Design Orientation 1. It was an easy 'A' in that I just had to show up and do the work. One memorable assignment was to paint a still life using only combinations of complimentary colors. For another, we used white paint and ink on gray paper to draw/paint our non-drawing hand. These were good foundation-building exercises with minimal pressure. The following-up, Design Orientation 2, was taught by Sally Wolfer. Wolfer embodied the Berkeley hippie artsy type in that her assignments were as free and open-ended as the mass of frizzy white hair that covered her gaunt face and frame. In her class, structure and rules were anathema to creativity and expression. This 9th-grade exposure to such polar opposites in art instruction led me to believe that there was a "serious and hard" approach to art study and practice and a "soft and easy" one.
The summer following my sophomore year in high school, I attended the pre-college program at the California College of Arts and Crafts. The two-week course included a week of foundations and a week on a focus of our choosing. I chose architecture. The program was my first exposure to a learning environment dominated by privileged teens and to the relatively high cost of art supplies (Although, I still have and use tools bought for that program, including a glue gun, metal ruler, utility knife and an Art Bin storage box.) It was probably my biggest dose of heuristic learning until enrolling in the school's BFA in graphic design program in 1999. I was eager to learn. There was basic color theory, drawing, painting, learning about figure/ground relationships, explorations of line, space and materials as well as collaboration and invention. My commute kept me more or less outside of the core group of students who lived on campus. I made only a few friends and grew to dislike the school enough to not want to study there after high school. It was a place where I intuitively knew I would never quite "get it". I was allowed in because my parents could afford the tuition, tolerated like a house guest, but never made to feel entirely at home. I think the optimism and progressive spirit of the late 1980s played a role in making my time there less alienating than it would be when I returned a over a decade later as an undergrad, and then as a faculty member. The pre-college faculty at the the time seemed at first surprised to see me and then surprised by my level of engagement. If there was another black male in the program, I have no memory of him.
One day, an attractive female student who I think was a senior in high school came up behind me while I was standing at a one of the vending machines, pulled me down toward her by my shoulder and gently bit me on the back of the neck. After a few seconds of shock and confusion, all I could think to say was "Oh no. I'm one of you now," recalling a scene from an 80s teen vampire movie. She just walked away grinning with her tall, lanky rocker-dude boyfriend. After that, I took an unexpected liking to short, curvy, bohemian brunettes with pale skin and curly hair... because art school.
Funky Fundamentals
Much
has been written on the impact of teaching language arts and mathematics without a rigid structure that values right and wrong answers. Writing without concern for grammar and spelling is one example where self-expression and the potentially therapeutic impact of writing either supersedes or undermines English proficiency. Years ago, on various talk shows, I started hearing about how something called "New Math" had also done harm to students in the U.S.. But it seems that New Math was in fact created in response to the U.S. losing ground against the Soviet Union in math and science.
It is possible that I had
some New Math curriculum before entering middle school. Even when I struggled to grasp the concepts, I found the topics fascinating. Project SEED for example, introduced
me one evening to Boolean algebra which I believe was at the core of
electronic logic circuits. What I learned about bases other than 10,
matrices, vectors in pre-calculus and so on still finds its way into my
current reasoning skills. Math concepts shape how I make connections and solve problems through my own creative process. (Teaching Adobe Illustrator for over a decade also keeps me excited about the hard math behind vector-based art.) I therefore harbor no ill feelings
toward my own encounters with New Math-related curricula throughout
the 1980s. (The handheld calculator was a bigger problem for me in how it undermined my ability to do basic arithmetic in my head.)
Somehow, in spite of years of getting 'C's in English, I managed to test out of a year of freshman English in the CSU system. Not bad for a slacker. It's fair to say that in spite of the countless experiments in pedagogy and educational tools I saw throughout my K-12 experience, my high school diploma was a good measure of potential and competency in multiple subjects. With enough revisions, effort and concentration, I can turn my thoughts into coherent, grammatically correct prose (including blog posts like this one). So what accounts for the cognitive fog I later developed through my undergraduate life drawing
experiences.
Those "I Can't Draw!" Moments
Here's the scenario: I would arrive at the open life drawing session in Kroeber Hall at U.C. Berkeley with a large drawing pad and board and whatever medium interested me at the moment. The model would disrobe, climb onto the model stand, and start a series of short poses. My hand would move erratically over the page, making marks, constantly restating them and questioning every move. Proportions were always the first to go. With my mind racing in so many different directions, it was easy to (literally) lose sight of what I was trying to draw.
The problem was that I was never taught a stable and sustainable methodology for drawing the figure. My first life drawing instructor used Nicolaides'
The Natural Way to Draw for her curriculum. It was a mix of vague exercises, constantly changing mediums and experimentation. We were on our own, and yet the hours of pushing various media around did allow for some learning through doing. Looking back over years of drawing alone in my room or in front of the television during my favorite shows, it's fair to say that I was already in a mode of constant independent study and experimentation. My favorite subjects were superhero comics, sci-fi and fantasy art and I had no fear of drawing, painting or trying new mediums.
So, I easily took to the Nicolaides approach. It was easy turn off any judgement and just follow my instructor's cryptic prompts like "draw the weight". My scribbles surprised me at times in how well they described volume and the gesture of the pose. They were almost loose wireframes that recorded a journey around and through the figure. But there was a major problem: I could not
control those spinning whirlwinds of marks. Hands and feet would disappear, as would the shape of the head. And yet, heads, feet and hands were important parts of what I wanted to record with my marks, even during the fast poses. Was that even possible? Why was my drawing akin to writing papers with bad spelling and grammar? (More on this in a bit.)
Self-study: The Early Years
The solution, I later learned, was to slow down and look in order to "see". This academic approach meant pulling my effort and energies away from making a mess of marks that may or may not resolve themselves into what I want to draw. Anthony Ryder's book on figure drawing had just what I was looking for: a method for seeing proportions and recording them consistently. His approach gave me the means to see, remember and record with considerably fewer marks, and surprisingly, more time to evaluate the overall design as I worked under a time limit. A common criticism of academic drawings is their rigidity or "stiffness". Well, if the figure is in a rigid pose, then infusing your marks with something organic or expressive is definitely a viable creative option. But sometimes I like the challenge of recording the truth of that inherent rigidity without distorting the image. I had the convenient habit of defaulting to expressive mark-making because I never learned how to do anything else. I simply never mastered the hard academic fundamentals of drawing the figure accurately. This was akin to never learning how to spell, but being asked to write an essay or even poetry. Sure, vernacular English has its place in art, culture and scholarship. And it's important to get something down on the page even if your grammar and spelling need work. But I went from Sesame Street to Seuss to Shakespeare incrementally over the course of many years of study. My childhood pursuit of English literacy ranged from easy and fun to tedious and discouraging. What if my time spent learning how to draw had been similarly involved? No one let me avoid math, science, history, English, or any other hard academic subject due to a lack of "talent" in that subject. I therefore assert that drawing and painting have the potential for being similarly academic subjects in terms of rigor and content. Sadly, the modern mystique of "Art", or its detachment from intellectual pursuits, and its earned suspicions, keep it sequestered to the marginal realms of learning.
I was lucky to have access to "how to draw" books geared toward my age group and interests. Authors like Lee Ames and Ed Emberley made drawing from their examples a fun activity presented with clear steps and goals. Another example was Tony Tallarico's
I Can Draw Monsters. And yet, even then, I wanted to go beyond the lessons and draw from my imagination. I also tended drew scenes that were alive with action. Preston Blair's book
Animation is still in my library, but as a kid, the stuff was so hard to draw that just gave up on those Disney- and MGM-esque characters. And why was it hard? My guess is that it was hard due to a lack of certain design drawing fundamentals:
process - light, sharp pencil for construction lines; darker, pencil for object lines; tracing paper or a light box to finalize the art. As a kid, I just went for it. Sometime around middle school, I took my time more, but still had a habit of rushing forward to something that felt finished.
proportion - (or
fidelity, verisimilitude) I could see how "off" my copies from step-by-step examples were. But with no one looking over my shoulder or correcting my drawing with a red marker, my temperament at the time allowed for a lot of "close enough is good enough" stuff. I should probably add "discipline" to the list.
structure - Those wireframe spheres and oblong organic forms that made up heads, limbs and torsos definitely made sense to me. They described how the subject fit together and held itself up. But I tended to draw them with a heavy line that undermined the whole process of going from construction to object lines. (Again, process!)
line control - this gets back to how to hold a pencil, how to sharpen it and move that tip around in ways the give me the most control. I learned and clung to an awkward left-handed "writer's grip" early in life. It would take another 15 years or so for me to be introduced to a proper artist's overhand grip.
Truth and Obfuscation
I like accuracy in figurative art as well as expression and good
design. In recent years, my tastes have shifted away from embracing the
challenges to conventions in figurative art that characterized European
Modernism (Daumier, Schiele, Cassatt, Manet).
Could there be a deliberate and systemic
effort to disassociate drawing from its potential as a deeply analytical
course of study? And if so, what forces have driven the practice away from the
rational toward an intuitive/heuristic approach? Who exactly sold us on
the idea that "academic" drawing had less value in the first place?
The majority of my students don't draw well, though most arrive with potential. They also tend to be savvy connoisseurs of art-driven genres including animation, comics, illustration and video games. Their desire to create and their love of visual media far outweighs any drive to master drawing for the creation of work that is on par with their favorite animated shows, comic books, fine art and illustrated stories. Some learned to draw independently from their imaginations or through copying or emulating a style. Others had private tutoring.
Why do so many students, even after taking basic drawing classes, continue to draw awkwardly, with a mix of fear and uncertainty, or with an over-inflated confidence that makes them considerably less receptive to constructive criticism?
The Fourth "R"
If reading,
writing and arithmetic represent the three Rs, then let the fourth R denote rigorous
realist drawing. I
remember how words and pronunciations informed spelling and grammar. Arithmetic
informed algebra, algebra informed geometry, geometry and algebra
informed trigonometry and so on. Where might a young person find a similarly structured curriculum for drawing? Maybe I was just born in the wrong part of the country. Somehow, the San Francisco Bay Area became a magnet for push for Modernism that disrupted and displaced any continuity of realist traditions in art education that may have existed in the early 20th century.
My guess is that many in art education resist
the fourth "R" for multiple reasons. One of my pet theories asserts that discouragement from an adult during childhood is a common trigger. The
story usually involves a child making an honest attempt at drawing something
representational and having an adult crush their enthusiasm by pointing
out their lack of verisimilitude. Today, children are encouraged to make
marks as an activity from an early age. Current pedagogical theory might
characterize these activities as beneficial to hand-eye coordination or even one's self-esteem. What's more is that students often
receive accolades for participating in these activities which tend to be
completed with relative ease by those without significant problems with
vision, motor skills and other forms of human cognition. It is
therefore understandable for students to develop a confidence
in making marks without skill, and dismiss drawing as a
worthwhile academic endeavor. There are no "right answers" to be had,
and everyone's work is validated as successful based on participation
and completing the activity according to one's own intuition and creativity.
Lastly, the honorable thrust of current training for art educators thrives to make learning accessible to everyone. Equal opportunity means that we have to (try to) teach students who cannot draw. Until recently, I believed that anyone could learn how draw. While many can through hard work and quality instruction, achieve a noteworthy level of competency with drawing, I have observed those who cannot. It was hard to let go of the hope of "saving" some students with individual attention and creative adjustments to my course materials.
OWFs and the Old Girls Club
Let me start by openly acknowledging the Old White Females (OWFs) who encouraged, supported and mentored me throughout my formal education. The earliest ones fed my curiosity with classroom activities, field trips, concerts, performances, guests and more. I learned from them that the world is really big and full of songs and music and art that makes people who they are. They exposed me to rigor, high expectations and uncompromisingly high (but fair) standards. Some helped me to be come a better writer, reader and thinker. Others guided (or dragged) me through subjects that made me better informed. It was an OWF who first encouraged me to study abroad. Yet another pushed me to study at RISD when some in my own family preferred that I stay close to home and assist with elder care. These women saw my potential and encouraged me to pursue something great at critical times in my life.
Maybe what they offered as drawing instruction was exactly what I needed at those particular moments in my development, but I noticed a pattern. None of my instructors found inspiration in the superhero comics, science fiction and fantasy book covers that I loved. They did not read manga or watch anime. They had no significant connection to what drove myself and others to take the leap and enroll in art classes. Some even seemed either worn down or jaded by their lives as artist-educators. So, without a common reference point in terms of inspiration, I did my best to adapt, absorb and assimilate their notions of art and whatever life experiences, tastes and values they saw fit to share.
Was anything inherently wrong with what and how these women taught me? Is it possible that the problem for me was merely a failure to research and pursue educators who would be a stronger fit for my goals. I had no one to guide me to artist-educators on par with a Scott Robertson or Donato Giancola because my teachers were mostly established fine artists with strong modernist sensibilities. This left me to do my own sleuthing about schools and programs while grappling with the fears and doubts that came with making such a journey alone. It seems that an all too common institutional inertia has kept the aforementioned structures firmly in place with little to no consideration of their impacts on the student success. Art departments like any other departments, undergo periodic evaluations from peers that are in turn reviewed by dedicated peers and administrators. And yet, every semester, I encounter the same pattern of students arriving unprepared for my intermediate-level courses and lacking the drawing and painting skill and vocabulary needed to succeed.
Choose Your Own Solution
I conclude with a simple suggestion: Students must be aware of the current state of undergraduate art education in the schools they either attend or hope to attend. They must gauge the quality of the student work and determine how much of it is a result of attending the institution vs. prior knowledge. They should also learn to distinguish expertise from the "cult of personality" syndrome where an instructor's reputation for being cool or edgy trumps their actual skill as an educator. And while it is important to be challenged, vague instruction only serves students who arrive with previously acquired skills.
This
month Quick Draw SF is a week later than usual. Join us on Thursday,
February 23. The theme is "Love Beyond Valentine's Day," a look at what
you hold most near and dear to you. 
