Iâve been feeling sorry for myself lately, so I decided to take stock of my artistic progress since first attending the Academy of Realist art in 2012.
In 2012, I didnât know the difference between comparative and one-to-one measurement. I stood in front of the human figure like a dunce. I drew lines and promptly erased them. A teacher had to literally take my hand and show me how to make whatâs called an airplane stroke with a pencil across my paper.
It was clear to me that being the best artist in the room my whole life didnât mean much when put in a class full of realist masters. There were times in isolation when Iâd cry due to my frustration.
So now itâs 2018. Iâve done four drawings in graphite after the style of Charles Bargue. Iâve learned what shadow shapes are, how to find and key in the darkest dark of the shadows before progressing. I know how to turn the form, i.e, to make it look like it isnât defined by a flat, cartoonish line. I can spot a bedbug line and blend it into the receding midtones. I know that reflected light is always darker than it seems, and to render it last.
I can make a value scale.
I painted my first still life this past summer. I know how to transfer a drawing to a canvas, how to isolate color and match it in paint. I started my first charcoal cast this year. Itâs slow going, but I am learning a new medium and there are some curves.

I havenât won any awards. I havenât sold anything (yet?) and Iâm not featured in art magazines. I havenât gone to art shows or tried to get work put up in galleries. I havenât painted a cover to a Science Fiction novel (personal goal!), or done anyoneâs portrait. Looking ahead is good for direction, but it can also be daunting. I have so much more to do.
If my measuring stick is my own progress, then Iâve come quite a way. Itâs like climbing a hill: look down, and see how small the road is. 2012 Becky is there, and she doesnât know what she doesnât know. 2018 Becky is a like a hiker that wouldnât die in the woods right away.
The thing about art is that youâre never done learning. So Iâll cry if I need to. Iâll break more pencils, drop a palette face-down, bump the charcoal drawing and watch in horror as the darks dust off. Excellence is important, and the rules point to it. A blunder isnât a revolution, so this is about internalizing the rules so that they become innate. How else will I paint what I want to?

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I picked up a poem by Sappho in the original Greek the other day. I found that I couldnât read it very smoothly. Iâd forgotten, you see, some very important grammatical constructions. So Iâve been doing some grammar drills to get that knowledge back.
How else will I enjoy the poetry?