26 February, 2023.

It’s not a really old barn, not like many that can be seen from nearly every rural road, country lane, and backwater highway in the state: tall, imposing, and often leaning hazardously in one direction or another. This one is solid, a useful farm building. There’s little doubt it protects a tractor or bales of hay or various farm implements – or perhaps all of those things, and more.

Growing up on a farm, a barn is often a hub of activity, a place where workdays both begin and end, a building where kids of various ages are gathered. There’s work to be done, but a barn is also a place to play, the building behind which teenage boys sneak a first smoke or stuff a lower lip with snuff, where younger children climb onto unused tractors and pretend to drive or climb rickety wooden ladders and mess around in a thick covering of ancient and itchy straw. Sometimes there are animals, especially if the place raises hogs or it’s a milking operation. Boys, in particular, may dare each other to jump from the loft, and the painful lesson they learn is that legs and arms can be broken. They are not, despite their proclivity otherwise, invincible.

Barns often find their way into plein air paintings. Sentimentality and nostalgia run deep, and even those people who’ve never stepped foot on a farm sometimes feel a kinship to these structures, these geometric and huge boxes of wood, and red paint, and galvanized steel, and hex signs.

25 February, 2023.

Sometimes light seems perfect. It strikes a person or a place or a thing just so, and one can do little other than stop and marvel. Stuff most mundane can be instantaneously transformed into that which will stop one in their tracks. A simple white house glowing against a background of dark; cast shadows contrasting against brightly lit planes. Light and the absence of light combine in the finest moments – indeed, in the rarest of moments – in the most abstract ways. Patterns emerge, sometimes complex textures even, but it’s the simplicity itself that is most striking. Such moments are often fleeting; they should be cherished in our memory, to be recalled on the remaining gray days of February.

20 February, 2023.

The blacktop is curvy with lots of ups and downs, and contrasts sharply with the interstate highway, many miles behind. At first the homes are expensive examples of McMansions with well manicured lawns and pricey looking pickup trucks displayed upon equally expensive looking drives. But once one travels the curvy road for a mile or two – once the road becomes less convenient for highway access and commuting into the nearest large city – well, the homes begin to be spaced further apart. They are quickly replaced by older farm houses and barns and even the occasional one room school house. Sheds and large round bales of hay; cows, hogs, chickens, and even once a barnyard filled with alpacas; a three-wheeled bicycle with a for sale sign, dogs lounging in the front yard or trotting across a pasture. Small towns suddenly appear and then are gone every eight to ten miles. The thoroughfare is little traveled by any but the locals, and the towns themselves are largely forgotten beyond those locals. Houses and buildings, once impressive in many instances, are crumbling into ruin. They engage one’s imagination: what would it take to restore one of them to their original splendor? The answer is depressing: a lot. And beyond those particular structures, one encounters many others of more humble design, also in a state of decay. The towns sometimes boast a single remaining industry – a feed manufacturer, for instance, or an auction barn. It’s difficult to imagine them employing more than a half dozen locals, so one is left to wonder what it is that sustains those who remain. Signs mark the point at which each town limits begin. The signs bear nineteenth century birthdates and boast populations of 192, 217, 89, and so on. One major intersection in each, with a single stop sign. There’s a smell of grain, of cattle, of decay, and of tractor fumes in the air, but the places are still. There are no sounds, not of people or cars – only the random shriek of a hawk in the distant sky.

15 February, 2023.

I’ve been queried a couple times recently about my sketching tools. I’m not going to rehash pens or pen nibs because I’ve posted extensively about those tools in the past.

Sketching tools don’t get a whole lot simpler than pencils. As an artist, I’ve always felt most comfortable with pens and pencils. Back in high school, I became familiar with the different grades of drawing pencil in Drafting class. As we became more proficient with those tools, most of us graduated to lead holders, and eventually to Pentel mechanical pencils. Graded leads are available for both, and the Pentel was the tool of choice for drafting. I held on to that lead holder though: it’s always been a terrific sketching companion, and since about 1976 I’ve carried it on my person, along with a kneaded eraser. It’s loaded with 6B graphite, and lasts a lot longer than most drawing pencils seem to do in my art classes!

Once, I misplaced that damn lead holder and I was absolutely devastated about the loss. It eventually turned up – thankfully! – but I ordered three replacements off of Amazon. They’re nice, a bit lighter, and maybe a bit less quality construction. They do the job, and I keep other grades of lead installed, but sentimentally I usually reach for my original holder. It’s got patina and knicks and shows usage… what is known in the bicycle world as “beausage,” a combination of “useage” and “beauty.”

A relatively recent sketching tool I have relied on for the past five or six years is the Blackwing Palomino pencil. It’s difficult to express why this pencil seems superior to others, but the lead goes down super smoothly. It’s dark and soft and I like the eraser. My only complaint is how often they need to be sharpened. (They are also pricey. But I’m willing to pay the extra in this case.)

I like how sharp the point be on the lead holder. It’s great for making quick outline and contour sketches.

6B graphite has the potential to yield a wide range of values, but I also like what happens when a drawing is scanned and the whites of the paper are digitally “cleaned up.” There’s an attractive graphic quality that results:

11 February 2023.

I love old turn-of-the-century farmhouses, and that is a problem.

I plan to retire from teaching in two years. Our house is paid off, and bigger than we need. A small bungalow would make better sense as a retirement home.

But darn it! Those old rambling structures really appeal to me, and I don’t know if I can be content simply sketching the damn things. Could be I’d need to live there, too.

4 February, 2023

Someone said “Hey Mark, a couple of your students are here.” What on earth, I wondered, are 8th graders doing here at a distillery? Happily, it wasn’t any of my thirteen year olds that had made an appearance at this month’s sketch out, but a couple of my former college students from the Art Institute.

I sketch nearly every day. In fact, it’s fairly unusual for me not to have done some sort of drawing on any given day of the week. And as much as I look forward to sketching on location with the group, it’s the opportunity to chat with like minded folks that really appeals to me. If I miss half of our time engulfed in conversation it’s not a real loss because I’ve already sketched that morning, and the day before, and the day before that too.

As I’ve mentioned before, this small Moleskin sketchbook is easy to carry, and takes graphite well. You can’t sketch if you don’t have at least some basic tools available at the time, and with this book in a hip or coat or shirt pocket it can quite easily be available in an instant.

Two pages, about thirty-five minutes of sketching. Over an hour of chatting. No sugar for a couple more weeks, so sadly there was no sampling of spirits today. 🙂