.life drawing for rusty beginners.

I remember how my fingers flowed with willow charcoal sticks. My hands took me through journeys on paper. Ten weeks straight of pure life drawing. I sat in my “life drawing for rusty beginners for ten whole weeks, ten weeks immersed in studying this bodies.  I remember sitting impatiently for the work day to end so I could rush to my evening classes. I remember feeling so free.
I am still on a desperate search of life drawing classes. I wish I knew more about the art scene here and I wish it was as easy as it was in London. Sometimes I feel like my need to be part of an “art community” is superficial. Why do I need this to be the artist I want to be?  And why am I trying to justify the fact that in order to be an artist I must be “in the scene”?  You see, I live for inspiration. Inspiration allows me to create and other artists who surround me allow me to grasp and soak in the inspiration. But perhaps I must first learn that inspiration can come from within, and I myself can be my own inspiration.

.love poem.

my mind is a big chunk of irrevocable nothing which touch and taste and smell
and hearing and sight keep hitting and chipping with sharp fatal tools
in an agony of sensual chisels i perform squirms of chrome
and execute strides of cobalt
nevertheless i feel that i cleverly am being altered that i slightly am becoming
something a little different, in fact myself
Hereupon helpless i utter lilac shrieks and scarlet bellowings.

— my mind is… (XXV) by E. E. Cummings

.blackbird.

.... Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life you've always waited for this moment to arrive

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life, you've always waited for this moment to be free

Blackbird fly
Blackbird fly
Into the light of a new dark night

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life you've always waited for this moment to arrive

Blackbird fly
Blackbird fly
Into the light of a new dark night

.letting go.

Her words are so true. Susannah Conway  says a lot of words that mean more to me than a lot of people would understand. She has taught me a lot of things, I never imagined one woman’s encouragement could be as powerful as they are. Somehow she has come into my life and I could not be more grateful that I already am.


"It’s letting go of expectation.
 Letting go of fear.
 Letting go of doubt.
 Letting go of the hurts.
 Letting go of the disappointments.
 Letting go of the needs.
 Letting go of the stories.
 Letting go of the untruths.
 Letting go of that time you did that thing you shouldn’t have done.
 Letting go of feeling foolish, knowing you were just young. Unformed. Learning. Trying.
 Letting go of the need to be perfect. Correct. Proper.
 Letting go of what’s expected of you, even if they’re your own expectations. Especially then.
 Letting go of the voice in your head that tells you you are shit.
 Letting go of the hatred of your skin. It’s just flesh. Just bones. Just your transportation on earth.
 Letting go of the need to control what happens.
 Letting go of feeling bad because you’re not letting go enough.

 I’m starting to get it now. I really am."

.sketchbook diaries (moleskin edition).

Stephanie Brown on Flickr. Love her weird sketches, red faces, typography, and her delicate black and red pen lines.
This is pure Moleskin envy.
Makes me want to head straight out to the bookstore and purchase this extremely expensive sketchbook. But I won’t…. yet.

.because i love paris.

I thought I would do another ‘because’ place post before I get started on work. I’ve been thinking a lot about Paris recently, how I never went there enough. Twice was too little, and there was still so much to see.

My first time was a work trip so seeing sites were limited. In fact, I saw Paris only at night. And the Eiffel Tower was the only tourist spot we saw and as we climbed, the lights were sparkling through towers structure and from the middle tier, the scene below was breathtaking. We roamed the streets for the Fête de la Musique, drank in the middle of the street party, then spent the last night club hopping from one bar to another. The next time wasn’t quite as rowdy, as it was spent with my folks and brothers. Six months pregnant, with swollen feet, wasn’t exactly the ideal way to see the city.  However, with a flat in Parmentier over looking the busy street, just a walk away from Republique, who would’ve asked for more. I remember as the first night was slowly ending, Dad played Edith Piaf and I truly felt Paris. We did the typical tourist places as you do and it was wonderful. But I’d like to go back.

I’d like to go back with my husband and walk the streets like new lovers. I’d like him to swoop me up into his arms and kiss me beneath the Eiffel’s sparkling lights. I’d like to walk hand in hand down unsuspecting streets and stumble upon the art galleries. I’d like to sit at a cafe in the middle of the Latin Quarters sipping some wine watching the Parisians as they pass by. I’d like unveil Paris’ secrets together. And then after Paris, we can drive through the wine country in a car with a sun roof, through to Champagne then down to Nice.

Oh, it’s nice to dream sometimes.

❤ ❤