Elizabeth Adams's Blog, page 53

This week's drawings: pomegranate, pepper grinder, pecans

Dried pomegranate, two oranges, and a Spanish dish

 

 Bags of hazelnuts, pecans, and walnuts.

(left side).

The spontaneity and lively lines of the pepper grinder and salt shaker are what I always aim for in drawing, and seldom achieve. It's nice when it happens.

(right side)

 

Desktop.

My sketchbook for this year began with a pen-and-wash drawing of this same basic arrangement.

I've got a couple more pages to go, but thought I'd make another drawing of my desktop (hmm, that's a real desktop!) as a bookend. Many of these objects have appeared over and over in my drawings this year. I learn a lot from repetition, but maybe it's boring for viewers - nevertheless, it's extremely useful (both artistically and as a psychological exercise) to continue to explore a subject in different media, different arrangements -- and also when I'm in different moods. I would have added color to this one, but it's drawn in a very runny fountain pen ink, so it was impossible!

Christmas is Over

 

 

We attended a Christmas Day service at St. Paul's Cathedral in London, many years ago, and as soon as it finished, one of the ushers (formally called "sidesmen"), in a red waistcoat,  stood in the center aisle and began -- in a quite rude and perfunctorial way -- to shoo people out. A woman in front of us was still looking around and lingering and he bent from the waist, hands behind his back, looked down his nose, and intoned, "I am sorry, Madame...Christmas Is Over!" and then turned on his heel and strode off. We were both horrified and sort of amused by his manner, and the phrase has become one of those repeated lines in our house.

Individual Montrealers, as well as city neighborhoods responsible for the main thoroughfares and shopping streets, tend to leave their trees and lights up longer than we used to; the lights cheer us all up during the dark days of January. We took our tree down last weekend, and the house is back to normal, but I wish we'd put up outdoor lights that could be left on for a few more weeks. The city comes around and picks up the trees on certain, pre-announced days, and then chips them for mulch that's used on public gardens, and distributed to community gardens like ours. Still, I always find the discarded trees rather forlorn but photogenic, in the alleys and on the curbs.

A new relief print

I've wanted to attempt an "Annunciation" for some time, and have been working on a version for a relief print for quite a while. Several years ago I looked at a number of artists' interpretations as I was thinking about it, and my eventual version is loosely based on the Cortona Annunciation by Fra Angelico, painted in 1433-34.

I thought you might be interested in seeing some of the stages in the process.

Here's my original drawing from the painting, done back in 2012.

I got this far before getting discouraged and unsure how to take it further, and put the drawings away in a drawer.

In December of this year, I found the drawings and started working on them again. The figures had already been considerably simplified and moved. I eliminated Gabriel's halo, gave Mary a big one, and put her on a bench, below him. Mary's submissive acceptance has always been presented as a model of faith and behavior for women. However I very much doubt if a young unmarried girl of the time would have reacted to a message like this, delivered by a male angel appearing without warning, except with fear and great ambivalence: qualities that have rarely been depicted in artistic interpretations. I wanted to try to emphasize that in the gestures, the relationship of the figures, and in their expressions. On the other hand, because of the crudity of the relief-print process, it's difficult to show subtlety in faces, so whatever I did would have to be stylized.

I also worked a lot on adding some detail to the feathers, the angel's gown, and especially to Mary's dress, which is inspired here by traditional Palestinian cross-stitch embroidery.

The image had to be flipped, right-to-left, and I worked on ways to include a graphic background behind the figures that would help unify the composition. Somewhere around here I decided to allow the figures to appear in front of the final frame in two places on the right and left. At this point I also had to decide on a final size: the block is about 8" (22 cm) square.

Finally it was time to transfer the drawing to the linoleum and cut the block. The transfer was difficult because of the details, and the cutting took several days. I worked only an hour or two at a time, because my hand, neck and shoulder get tired, increasing the danger of a mistake, a slip that could ruin the block, or of cutting myself. I had wanted to leave myself plenty of latitude for the more serendipitous aspects of block-carving too: the particular quality of a carved line can't be duplicated in drawing, only anticipated. Also, I'm never sure how many "extra" lines I'm going to leave in the mostly-blank areas, following the forms and adding to the sculptural aspect of the final image. The final appearance of the angel's skirt was created almost entirely during the carving process itself; so were the feathers and the angel's coiffure.

And here's the final print. I'm contemplating a two-color version, but for now, I'm happy to see this one come into being. A lot was learned, and I'm glad I stuck with it even though there were struggles along the way.

(There's an edition of 20, available in my shop.)

Music in the Castle of Heaven

This book, about Bach and his music by English conductor and Baroque specialist John Eliot Gardiner, was a welcome and unexpected Christmas present. I'm looking forward to working my way through it this winter, listening to the music as it's discussed. The book was lying on the table the other day and I just had an urge to draw Bach's chubby face...

Art-wise, the whole Urban Sketcher thing notwithstanding, I'm really not convinced that watercolor washes improve these drawings of mine, but I'm always curious what others think. The technique of loosely colored sketches works beautifully for some people, but I'd prefer to either make a good drawing that stands on its own, or do an actual painting. Here, the holly and its vase are too dark and dominant, in my opinion, and some of the delicacy of the original drawing has been lost. On the other hand, the color makes it a lot easier to see what's going on, and it's just...cheerful. Any opinion?

A January Morning

Rue de Lanaudière, 7:30 am. The picture doesn't show the wind that was howling around the buildings at the time. Today is warmer than it's been: about -10 C when we left the house. A heat wave! Yesterday it was -25. Even so, people are riding their bikes, and going around without hats on. Complètement fou.

This is a "brigadiere scolaire": a crossing guard. Her sign says "ARRÈT," and she holds it aloft when helping school children cross the street. The reflective vest is important: it's still pretty dark and low-contrast in early morning, and when the kids come home from school in mid-afternoon.

Blvd Mont-Royal

Underneath that snow is a solid coating of ice. The snow has made it a little easier to walk, but it's also deceptive. Driving is hazardous. I can only imagine how difficult it is right now for the elderly and people with disabilities. Just before I took this picture, a tractor came up the sidewalk pulling a trailer spreading road salt. The salt helps some, but it can also create water that simply freezes again.

In case you're curious, that vertical structure above is the machine where you pay for parking. They all have solar panels on the top: not too effective when covered with snow!

Twelfth Day

Holly and a Skull, fountain pen on paper, about 18" x 6"

Epiphany, the Twelfth Day of Christmas, has come and gone, so Christmastide is officially over. For those of us who still live within a liturgical calendar, the end of Christmas means a look forward toward the rest of that child's life and eventual death, and toward our own as well. The other parts of that story are hinted at or even mentioned explicitly in a lot of the old Christmas carols and Advent motets, reminding me that in prior ages, human beings were not in the present state of denial about what happens to all of us. Christmas was joyful, but carried with it the same poignancy as every human birth, and in many of the songs about Mary, in particular, later events are darkly foreshadowed. The steady increase in life expectancy for adults in developed countries, the decrease in infant mortality, and the decreased likelihood of sudden death have all contributed to less preoccupation with being prepared to leave this mortal coil at any moment. That's nice for some of us, but a luxury that's still not available to millions of people on our planet. I ponder this as I survey the charitable donations I still haven't made for 2014.

Lent, the penitential season, comes early this year, and Easter could be - in Montreal at least - still a wintry holiday. Even though we're in the depths of winter right now, with new snow on top of ice just last night, and treacherous walking and driving everywhere, by the end of January the days will be visibly longer, and by the end of February, there will be palpable hints of the spring to come. I was surprised and happy, when drawing these little branches of holly, to notice little bunches of white flower buds at the tops of the stems, developing in the unexpected heat of the house. In the studio, my bougainvilla is putting out beautiful pink flower-bracts, while snow falls mercilessly a few inches away, outside the window. The life force is very great, even when we pluck and transplant ourselves and other species into unfamiliar environments; somehow, most of us survive to reproduce, create, and live this mysterious and miraculous existence, at least for a time.

Low Contrast Days

Blvd René-Lévesque, Montreal

There was an ice storm a few days ago, setting the trees glittering and clattering, and making it nearly impossible to walk. Fortunately the ice came off quickly and the wind wasn't violent, or there would be many more trees down than there were, but the result has been a concrete-like snow, covered by frozen rain, that cemented parked cars in place, and is so rock-like that it challenges even the heaviest snow-removal equipment. Yesterday was bitter cold. Today is warmer, but it's as if we're living in a black-and-white film. I find it quite beautiful, but my patience will begin to wear thin after another couple of weeks. Meanwhile, I have stretch crampons on my boots, and pick my way across the ice fields.

Self-portrait with snowy roof

Clutter and Meaning

My friend Martha remarked, on FB, that she was always impressed that when I drew my desk, it was neat. The thing is, I usually draw objects that I've put on the dining room table, not my desk, so it looks all nicely arranged. My actual desk looks like this today, and, typically, bears the evidence of many scattered projects in various states of completion: fleece from the quilt project; drawings and the lino block for a new relief print; calligraphy and drawing and painting tools; notes on a new photobook I'm designing, along with a sketch and some fountain pen tryouts; a can of fixative, Sumi ink and white gouche and a little bottle of drawing gum used as a resist in watercolor painting; a Square credit card reader for Phoenicia; my breakfast of Scottish oatmeal and coffee...and of course the computer.

About four months ago I made a decision to try to work at least half the day standing up. So there's a resolution made early that's already worked out pretty well. I think I work considerably more than half the time here at the tall adjustable drawing table I've had for thirty years, standing on an anti-fatigue mat. My blood sugar readings have been a little bit on the high-normal side for the past few years, and I'm hoping that less sitting, plus extra exercise and careful (non-holiday!) eating will keep that potential problem in check. It's hard to get enough exercise in a climate like this in the winter if you don't go to a gym, and it's also hard not to eat and drink too much in a deliciously food-centric city like Montreal. So, for the past three weeks, I've been walk/jogging/stair-climbing through the long hallways and basement of this big old industrial building three times a week, as well as my usual routine of stretches and calisthenics. I've only lost two of the six pounds I'd like to lose, but I feel better, except for the inevitable muscle aches and pains... What an annoyance it is to get older and have to think about this stuff! But we have to! I'm certainly grateful for the good health I've had most of my life, and want to do whatever I can to keep it, knowing we don't have control over a lot of what happens.

I always resolve not to make a list of resolutions, but do point myself in general directions like this, and the New Year represents is always a good time to take stock. A couple of blog-related tasks come to mind: to do a better back-up of Cassandra, and to improve my photo-management system, either cleaning up the mess of Picasa folders I've got now, or switching to a professional program. I'm really happy about the artwork progress in 2015, and want to continue that: drawing more people and animals, continuing to fill sketchbooks, as well as doing some larger easel paintings again. Reading is a given, and so is music, but it would be nice to touch the piano keys a little more often.

Still, all of these ideas merely skirt around the central questions of life and happiness: how to live with eyes and heart open within a world that is so tormented without getting depressed; how to get older gracefully and vibrantly; how to cultivate gratitude every day; how to be a kinder, gentler, ever-more-generous person while also taking care of one's own spirit and need for solitude, creativity, renewal; how to juggle our priorities and time and the needs of others clsoe to us; how to grow in love and awareness of the connectedness of everything.  I don't think we can possibly make progress in these aspects of life without thinking about them and having a practice of reflection, anymore than we can keep our bodies in any sort of shape without conscious effort. Happiness is, I think, quite a relative thing, and not even a particularly useful term. I can't be "happy" when other people are suffering, but I'm also keenly aware of how beautiful life is, even when lived within significant limitations. What kind of person do I want to be when and if I reach 75, or 85, or even 90? What kind of person do I want to be if and when I have to deal with great grief, or the personal challenge of chronic or terminal illness? What makes someone the sort of person others want to be around, and what isolates others?

I don't have all the answers; I never will, but I know that a great deal of my emotional equilibrium depends on them. Isn't this why we read, and why we do creative work, and spiritual reflection, and why we enter into relationships, and why we get outside and look at nature and feel the wonder of our bodies moving and functioning in such intricate ways? Isn't every day, then, a new beginning, and a chance to find meaning in the apparent clutter of our complicated lives?

Behind the Scenes with the Choir

From what I've gathered from talking to non-choir-singers, there's quite a lot of curiosity about what goes on with us behind the scenes. This Christmas, I took my camera along on two occasions and snapped some candid shots to show you a little of what it looks like. I wish I could share the "sounds like" too, but I'm afraid I can't! It was a beautiful musical Christmas, though, and from the looks on strangers' faces, I think some of the peace and mystery and joy that Christmas, at its best, is supposed to represent did come across through our music.

Here we are in the choir room in the cathedral undercroft, before the Lesson & Carols service on the afternoon of December 21st, the 4th Sunday in Advent. The undercroft basically reminds me of a grade school, except that it's completely underground: all the walls are painted in those lovely institutional colors, and the lighting is fluorescent. We spend a lot of time in this room, though, so I have a certain affection for it. There are risers on one long side, and filing cabinets and tables overflowing with sheet music. On another wall is a set of built-in cubbies, one slot assigned to each of the singers, where we keep our folders and current music. Each singer is assigned a number - I'm #35, for instance - and as Patrick Wedd, our director, decides on the repertoire, we'll find our copy of each particular piece in our cubby when we show up for Thursday rehearsals. The service bulletins, descant sheets, psalms for the day, and so forth, are laid out on the table you see in this picture, for us to pick up before the rehearsal before each service. On Sundays, we rehearse in regular clothes, and then put on our cassocks and surplices right before the service.

A rare sneak peek into the women's locker room! We've each got a locker where our gowns are stored and where we can keep personal items. Usually this room is very crowded as we all hurriedly get dressed. How much we wear under our gowns depends on how cold or hot the church is -- the gowns are pretty hot, especially these long surplices, new last Easter, that feel like you're wearing an entire bedsheet -- but they look really good.

Here's Michel, having a quick snack, making sure he doesn't spill anything on his surplice to incur the wrath of Mary, our wardrobe mistress! The choir has eight paid professional singers, who lead each section (Soprano 1, Soprano 2, Alto 1, etc). We do a lot of double-choir repertoire, and a lot of music that calls for five or six parts - divided soprano and tenor, for instance. Michel is the Bass 2 pro.

This is my friend Carole, our Soprano 1 soloist, with Phil, who is the Tenor 1 pro. They're both fantastic singers, and good friends with each other. When you sing together for a long time, especially in a group like this, you do form close relationships with people, and value them a lot. Of course the pros also see each other in other groups -- the Montreal Symphony chorus, Opera de Montreal, Les Violons du Roy, etc. When I joined, I thought there would be more of a separation between the pros and the unpaid singers, but it isn't the case: we're all friends, we're all in it together, and after you've sung with the group for a while and are seen to be doing your best, you are accepted as part of the team. At the same time, people come and go. Some of the young professionals are with us only for a year or two, before leaving for a solo career, to study in Europe, to find work in other cities. (Nearly all professional singers also have other jobs or freelance employment, whether that's teaching or translating or whatever.) We always have some university students who sing with us or who serve as organ scholars or assistants. We watch them grow into adults and much more mature musicians, and then they leave to pursue their careers: it's a special process that I feel privileged to be part of.

Here we are at the back of the cathedral just before 10:00 am, getting ready for the processional. (The main door, through which the congregation enters, is just to the right of the "Exit" sign here.) When the organ prelude starts, we all settle down and get into position; usually we sing an introit first in a semi-circular formation at the back, and then, singing the first hymn, we process in pairs up the center aisle behind the crucifer to our seats in the chancel; the clergy follow the choir. We're carrying our music folders, hymnal, and often a bell; if we've managed to think ahead, we've left our water bottles near our seats after the rehearsal.

If we're going to be singing accompanied music from the organ loft, the pairs split at the head of the pews and come back down the side aisles and then climb up the spiral staircases at the back into the loft (you can see one of those stairs in the center of this photo.) It's a little hard to sing when you reach the top - you need a few moments to catch your breath -- and often we sporanos have a descant to sing on the last verse of the hymn. And then there's only a short prayer between the hymn and the Gloria of the mass. It's a heads-up sort of job, which is part of what I like: I've always liked doing things that require full concentration and keep me fully in the moment.

In the loft, there are no seats, just a couple of chairs or stools for our older members or people who've got a bad back or knee that week. When we're at full numbers, we cram into the two sides like sardines, with the organ console in the middle,  and sit on the floor during the readings. The sound is good from the loft but it's hard for the two sides to hear each other; we have to follow the conductor carefully. For Christmas, we had a big choir with several visitors - between 25 and 30 people. During the regular season, the full choir is between 20-25 singers, and for our half-choir Sundays (two per month) there are four professionals and half of the unpaid singers, which can be as few as 12 people in all - at those times, we fit easily on one side of the organ loft.

Here's Patrick, our music director and organist; he's looking out toward the nave of the church. Seated at the console is the assistant organist, Adrian, and Alex, our organ scholar, is standing. You can see a small video monitor near Adrian's head; that shows the altar and helps the organist know when to begin or end. The organists do a good deal of improvising to "stretch" hymns or to provide music during transition points in the service; most of this is done extemporaneously, often as a variation on one of the hymn tunes, and it's one of the most remarkably skilled aspects of high-level organ playing. I love having a ringside seat to watch and listen to the organists doing their work and assisting each other in the dance of pulling stops and turning pages.

Finally, here's the view from the loft, with the cathedral bedecked for Christmas Eve. On the far left center, below the white arrow, you can see a boom with microphones -- that's how the sound is transmitted to radio for the Sunday afternoon Evensong broadcasts. There's another set of microphones in front, hanging from the arch above the altar, because more often than not we are singing a capella music from the chancel instead.

--

Cathedral choral music comes to many people's minds at Christmas, and appropriately enough, the December issue of BBC Music Magazine had a feature about British cathedral choirs, their future, and the traditional of liturgical music they represent. Although we're in Canada, we and the choirs of large Episcopal cathedrals in the U.S. are part of this same tradition, and subject to the same financial pressures. However, recent statistics in Britain have shown that despite shrinking attendance at parish churches, cathedral attendance has actually grown over the past decade, and that the quality of music presented there is a major reason.

Matthew Owens, organist and music director at Wells Cathedral, could have been speaking for us as well in that article when he said:

It's true that people come into our cathedrals because they're beautiful buildings. But they are often seeking so much more than an architectural thrill. If we happen to catch them for evensong, those unfamiliar with the daily liturgical round are often transformed by the experience, even if they are not religious by habit or affiliation... We're all privileged custodians of this tradition. With that comes the responsibility of handing it on in a better state than we found it.

And one of the adult singers, tenor Ian MacLeod-Jones, expressed my own feelings when asked what singing in the Wells choir meant to him:

It means being part of an extraordinary choral tradition at Wells that stretches back more than 1,100 years. It means performing the sung daily worship to the best of our abilities, working closely as a team, always striving for excellence, it means being at the forefront of new music for the church, which [due to commissions] means we have the privilege of premiering additions to the living sacred choral repertoire; it means enriching others, whether regular congregation members or tourists from around the world who may have stumbled into evensong quite by accident, through the power of the universal language of music. And it means doing something that I love every day, and all, I hope for a greater good.

I hope you've enjoyed this little look behind the scenes; for us, Christmastide isn't yet over: we still have special music to sing next Sunday, January 6th, and the following week, on the 11th, when the season draws to a close with a service of readings and music for Epiphany. Happy Christmas and Happy New Year to all!