I showed my dad the large blood blister on my index finder. He studied it and said, "I guess they didn't teach you about hard work at college." I felt fat with education... I forgot that I was the first person from the Bair family to graduate from college. that everyone before me felt this blister, and knew how to lift.
I was lifting crates of milk. My mind was keen on my sketch book in my locker. i wanted to sketch the towers of lined up cartons stacked inside cardboard boxes... it reminded me of drawing class two years ago. When my professor threw down an emptybox in the center of the room. The spot lights spilled very dark to very feint shadows from the flimsy cardboard... the girl standing next to me said, "this is stupid why draw a cardboard box?"... "you're not looking," I said.
my dad sat at the other end of the cafe table. We both finished our grave yard shifts. On the opposite wall was a print of a bicycle. My dad looked at it and said, "I like that." The drawing looked flimsy to me. The frame was drawn with out a straight forward hand, the lines meandered and pulsated around the shape of a bicycle.
The waitress said,"The artist drew it with out ever setting his eyes on the page."
A contour, continous line drawing... The art of observation.
My dad said, "Molly, draw a bicycle for me." I stirred my coffee... I felt so removed from being an artist. My head focused on my making money... my heart set on becoming worth while.. My sketch book waiting inside a locker. Two unfinished canvases on display in my studio. I sleep by them, but I haven't touched either in weeks. I glance at them before closing the door.
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