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The Art of Drawing

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The room is wrapped in darkness except for my paper
where a spotlight softly hits it
revealing the shadows of the objects before me,

and the only movement in the room is the slight
twist of my pencil, the air of my breath lifting my paper,
and the swish of my hair as I rotate my hand.

Is there a more gentle touch into the light,
than to follow the lead
and the outline of each objects shadow onto the page,

into the first stroke of pressure for contrast,
as the still life begins to develop before me,
and I concentrate on the rigorous detail?

All artists know the effort of such a drawing,
the tedious lines one must repeat
and the question of knowing which value goes where,

as if captured by the lens of a camera
where amateurs critique the piece in some way or another,
on the meaning that comes from it or the detail put into it.

Is there any other way to complete such art,
than to sit patiently with a pencil in hand,
the sole component creating the image,

to reveal an array of words to be told?
I can hear the pitter patter of the rain on the windows,
where the world is packed with art, and I can feel myself

sinking, dreaming of the accomplishment,
allowing the work to speak for others where they will see it
in the gallery when it is released, sketched and stroked with
ebony.





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