Contour - the edge of things - 2025 12 30

 

2025 12 29 - Graphite, acrylic ink wash on paper - 9" x 12"

I concentrate on following the contour with my mechanical pencil loosely held in my fingers. I tell myself, "The edge of things, no matter what," over and over, as the line traces my dishevelled, messy, unkempt image. I am still in my pyjamas, wearing a wool shirt for warmth. My spiky grey hair bolts from my head in disarray, recently released from a wool toque. 

I hear Eddy, our young, large, rescue dog trying to break through the temporary fencing into the kitchen downstairs. Adele is in her crate beside me, upstairs at my art desk. She is barking to let me know Eddy is up to no good. Interruptions. 

I focus again on finding the edges. Is it the edge of a shape or the edge of a shadow? What is contour? What is shading? Is it the edge of a shape or the edge of local colour? What is contour? What is local colour?

These unkempt hairs on my head curl gently and persistently in no particular order, no identifiable style. Just the style of an old woman who has vowed not to buzz her hair again but also refusing to get it trimmed by a professional. So her hair grows at will, a whimsy of overreach, a refutation of 'beauty' and the aesthetics of hair obsession. 

In other portraits I have left my knit cap on. In one of them, I am wearing my Mom's fancy winter hat, a pink knit hat with a fake white fur trim. It makes me look like a diasporic slavic aristocrat, without material resources but endowed with a will to survive and thrive no matter what.

For this portrait this morning I decided to let my hair show, in all its anti-patriarchal, anti-capitalist, anti-religious glory. How much can be said with a refusal to tend the hair on my head. 

The wrinkles in my face are clear to see. Dare I draw every one? Dare I not? What does it mean to have these life lines cross hatching my right eyebrow? What does it mean to have these tracings of age, experience, worry and care add contour to the once smooth skin of my cheek? What will I look like if I draw in the contours of the wrinkles around my mouth? Even the word, 'wrinkle' is off-putting. 

But I ask myself, "How dare I not?" What does it mean to feel, even in this private work of self assessment and self discovery, that I need to somehow measure up to imagined, unrealistic standards of what it means to be beautiful, or at least make the attempt. It is a personal challenge to draw the contours of the wrinkles - to neither exaggerate or minimize - to simply acknowledge their existence, the reality of life and time that they represent.

Some part of my face are edged with clear lines of contour - my eyes, the edges of my ears, others are edged by a change in structure that shows up as a change in light and shadow - my nose, my mouth, my chin. It is tempting to draw them as contour edges, but I know from experience that does not work. They are defined by the shadows that form around them, shadows that indicate a surface, a depression, a rapid change in topography.

The edges of my pyjama top and wool sweater are also more complicated than I assume. These are not hard edges, but rounded transitions from one surface to another, with edges of shadow marking changes in elevation or shifts from one material or layer to another. I draw them with as much care as I draw my eyes, nose and mouth. 

The fabric of these garments give definition to the person who embodies them. These pyjamas were my Mom's. I kept them because they were such good quality, and almost brand new when Mom died. Now, a year after she is gone, I have started wearing them for sleeping and I find comfort in their thick, soft, cotton structure. My wool shirt was given to me by my sister. She found these gorgeous recycled wool shirts and decided I needed to have one, too. It is like putting on a protective friendship. The wool is slightly coarse and thick. I feel my sister's protective presence, the shirt is a buffer from the harsh cold of the morning and life on life's terms.

I mix up an ink wash to add to the contour lines. I have been so pre-occupied with contour, and the contour lines have brought the shadows to my attention. Shadows are behind everything I see. How do I know what is there? I add three teaspoons of water to my shot glass of yesterday's ink wash, and then add three drops of burnt umber to the mix. I'm curious to see what colour the wash will be today.

As I add the wash, I notice this sharp outline of light bouncing off my shoulders, my hair, the highlights of my face. I wonder how I would ever be able to bring that angelic outline into the drawing.