Defining Creativity On A Sunday Morning
Kept changing, as the charcoal moved—
The paper, getting darker in some places,
More defined, showing where the light would fall
On the form slowly appearing on the page
As I drew on.
The model stretched and moved, and took up another pose
And more lines came out of my stick of charcoal
And the shadows achieved their
Definition, at least for this instant.
All of us drew, in the midst of growing artist tension --
We each worked into the rhythm of the morning and the model
And the light-- oh that light, its all about the light--
Seen from our respective perspectives.
Oh, theory is fine, until you have only the
And the challenges of the light and the model
In this morning light.
Then, theory be damned, for I have to find the light
In the stub of the burnt grapevine in my hand.
My lines, starting to come together, started
To make something of it all,
As I closed in on
We could talk theory, this morning, but it all comes down
To charcoal, and paper, and light
And the shape of the model
On this Sunday morning.
Later, on the way home, I compared it all to sex,
To achieving orgasm, not with aroused genitalia,
But with burnt wood, and ground up trees, dried out flat,
And the light coming across the naked shoulder.
Is it still sex if you only end up with lines on the paper?
Its still orgasmic to me, another way of expressing myself
In the tender line traced across the rough paper