2004-05-17 @ 9:36 p.m.
trapezoids, schmapezoids

I had two choices on buses and decided to take the one that would let me off, just this side of the hippie shopping area. Figured I could stop and get something to eat on the way, since I had just woken up at 10:55.

Decided to go healthy. That's right. Big chunk of ooooooozing cheese pizza, with some extra cheese on the side, and about 23 pounds of cheese in the middle and a side order of nitroglycerin tablets for the anticipated heart attack. Mmmm. Good choice, witty! Also got some caffeine, since I was feeling really tired.

I was actually pretty early. It was only noon. The eleven o'clock departure from MY house was only necessary because there are fewer buses in my direction on the weekend. The downtown buses are more regular, but who wants to hang out with the puking crackheads downtown on Sunday morning?

So I just kind of loitered. Walked around some of the neighborhoods. Took a picture of a tile mural. Saw a sign for a "Buried Treasure". Walked quite a distance, but never found it. Damn, I could really use one of those about now.

Finally decided to hit the community center around 12:45. Johnson was just pulling up in his beat up Toyota when I got there. Joined him upstairs. He set up the room. We exchanged pleasantries. He seemed worried about whether anyone was going to show up. And his concerns were well founded.

The class needs five people to function. Only one other guy named Ed showed. Then the model came. She's a regular in the Wednesday class.

Johnson seemed very fluttery. Lots of pacing. It took quite a while for the class to get started. There had been some kind of African American church revival thing downstairs when we first arrived. Lots of "I hear ya sistah's" and "Hallalujahs" drifting up. But now there was a young Black man, about 15 or 16, putting musical instruments away in a closet in the room. He kept entering and exiting. I knew Johnson as kind of waiting to spring the Nude Model on the room, since this Church Boy was tromping through with drums and cymbals and keyboards in his arms.

Also, almost instantly the fate of the remaining 4 weeks of the class seemed in jeopardy. I had paid for the whole class of course (well, not me, but my case mgt. place). He seemed nervous taking the check. He told us, that he couldn't continue if the class didn't get bigger, or that it could, but we might have to come either to his basement studio to save the rent on the community center (since he has to pay the model too) or we might go to another artist's studio somewhere in the area.

He finally gave us some handouts and some drawing exercises and some diagrams of something called Trapezoids.

Trapezoids. The new bane of my existence.

A quadrilateral having only two sides parallel.

Huh? Yeah, me too.

But I guess, its what drawing humans in the correct perspective is all about. A series of trapezoids, all angled over the top of each other at different angles, making everything look just about right. He did have some Xeroxed samples of them, and then sketched some out in person, showing how quadrilaterals suddenly looked like Laura, our nude model. Amazing.

Well, mine didn't.

I had a really hard time with the whole concept. It seemed too mathematical and left brained for me. My bipolar, wacky side, of course, just wanted to color it purple and call it Suzy. And then Johnson also had to throw in something called Negative Space.

What? Is my mother here?

Oh, negative space as pertaining to art.

I tried a few drawings. This is one I had to scan in two scannings, since my scanner is only large enough to scan flea antennas.

Unfortunately, this was about as good as it got (arghhh). And then it got a whole lot worse. I started getting really, really frustrated, and Johnson knew it. He kept say, "Yeah, you're getting it..."

NO, ACTUALLY I'M NOT. I'm actually tumbling down into a pit of hopeless despair knowing that I will never be able to draw a human figure in perfect perspective, and will only be able to draw comical, Picasso-on-crack drawings, and I'm very depressed and I'm glad we're only on the second floor since I think I might have to jump soon.

(I have PMS by the way, so I might have possibly been slightly influenced by the largely misunderstood female body chemicals that have to do with PMS, but I guess we'll never know for sure, will we????).

Part way through the class, I even managed to embarrass myself by muttering THIS SUCKS a bit too loudly, and putting large X's through one drawing. And then by the last drawing, Johnson had to come over and put dots on the page where the head, elbow and foot should be, because I was so totally lost.

Afterwards I headed back down through the hippie shopping area towards the bus stop. I was grumbling to myself. I felt that I had embarrassed myself in front of the super friendly Johnson. I had been childish and silly. On Wednesday night I had always worked in anonymity, and now I was in a class getting attention and having people look at my work and I had totally fucked up.

Suddenly I heard the very familiar groan and gear shifting noise of the bus. THE BUS!!!!! It was about a block and a half ahead...whizzing by my bus stop...that I wasn't at. double fuck. Missed the bus. And not having a bus schedule and knowing its Sunday and knowing that there's not as many buses, I knew it would probably be at least another hour until the next one.

Time for another Wittykitty Excellent Idea! Walk 4.5 MILES home.

Ok, it the Annals of Good Ideas, this was probably down around the bottom .00001%. 4.5 miles isn't really that bad. I'm in good shape. But add in the fact, that I've been standing at an easel for three hours, I'm tired and frustrated, my fibro is hurting big time, and oh, what's the fourth thing? Ah yes, I'm carrying a big, huge bookbag with a huge 100 page sketchbook with all my art supplies and there's an incredibly steep hill on the way home.

Here's just tape "IDIOT" on my back. It's ok. Go ahead.

Also ever notice how when you're carrying something that probably only weighs 4 pounds at the beginning of a 4.5 mile walk, by time you hit the 3rd mile it suddenly feels like it weighs about 24 pounds?

This was certainly the case today. I kept switching the bag back and forth and my shoulders were killing me. My legs were hurting. What's this thing about suffering for art?

Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty