The Unexpected

Well, I'm typing this post from a computer station at our local library.
We couldn't go to church or into Portland to have dinner with our grandparents today, because the Arctic weather is eager to freeze our farm solid. Oh, and my laptop might have just died this morning. It was comatose, last I checked. Some of my plans, both near and distant, are looking iffy. And fa-la-la-la, it's the holiday season, with the busyness that comes with that.
So, here I am, contemplating how to spend a day that is not going how I hoped.
Do I grumble and mumble and mope?
Do I curl up and try to ignore it all?
Give thanks in everything, the Bible says.
Thank You, Lord, that the pipes haven't frozen yet, and we have electricity and a wood-stove. Thank You that I had a working computer as long as I did. Thank You that You've blessed me with gifts of creativity so I never have an excuse to be bored. Thank You that a life of trusting You, accepting the unexpected, is an adventure.
I could write some more in my novel today--I like writing on paper better than on a screen, anyway. I could make some Christmas collage cards. I could make cookies, and warm up the kitchen.
The unexpected is full of possibilities.

Composition: Invisible Lines

“In short: there are no rules. And here they are.”

Scott McCloud, Making Comics

That pretty much sums up my view of art instruction. I will tell you right now that when it comes to teaching art, I have very little idea what I’m doing. I love it, I can talk endlessly about it, and I hope that somewhere in my jumble of thoughts is something that benefits another artist.

After looking at photos from a family getaway, I was struck by how two pictures, of the same subjects, in the same setting, taken only moments apart, conveyed a very different feeling to me.

 

Lake pic 1

Lake pic 2 

I considered their composition.

Composition basically means ‘what it’s made of and how you put it all together’. It’s a subject as broad as an ancient map of the world, with plenty of beasties rearing out of the ocean, and lots of blank spaces at the edges where unwary explorers venture at their own peril.

After looking at the pictures, I decided that their differences came down to lines.

I vaguely remember, as a curious young artistic child, asking, “Mommy, if you look really closely at things, do they have little lines around them, like in a drawing?”

In some ways, there really are invisible lines throughout the visual world, and like long-ago astronomers playing connect-the-dots with the stars, an artist can learn to see them.

A straight line on a page can become anything: the first letter of a word, the first note of a symphony, the first blade of grass in a field. But once you add a bend or a second line, you create a relationship…you create meaning.

Invisible lines fill the spaces between forms. They are the relationships of direction and angle that set the mood, guide the eye, and communicate a message.

Visible lines show the forms. Invisible lines guide the relationships between the forms.

There are two basic kinds of line relationships, as far as I see: Static, and Dynamic. These apply to both the visible and invisible lines.

Static is composed of vertical and horizontal lines placed at right angles to each other.

A composition featuring a lot of these well-behaved lines is likely to appear peaceful, relaxing, thoughtful, ordered, vast, epic, distant.

Dynamic lets it all hang loose.

When you visualize the invisible lines in a dynamic composition, they look like a game of pick-up-sticks. A dynamic composition can convey motion, action, excitement, frenzy, chaos, disorder, confusion, exhaustion, casualness.

I think most compositions are a combination of these two types. Throw in some unpredictable curved lines, and things get really interesting.

Breaking the two lakeside pictures down into basic lines and shapes helps show what’s going on. The half-white, half-black circle indicates the focal point—the place where there is the highest contrast, and therefore where the eye will be drawn. (My thanks to Beth Verheyden for introducing me to this concept, and many other helpful points on composition.) The circled brown dot is the vanishing point, where the invisible lines of perspective lead. The red lines indicate the invisible line relationships.

Composition 1

Composition 2

In both compositions, the massive triangle formed by the tree-covered hill in the background—and its reflection—forcefully draws the eye to the mountain, but then the eye bounces back to the girl, with her combination of pale skin and black shadow.

In composition 1, the invisible triangle formed by the three people perfectly mirrors the visible hill and reflection, making a dynamic partnership of direction. The tilting horizon line, while unnatural, enhances the dynamic feeling. Note that the invisible lines on the girl—especially on her torso—point toward the vanishing point, further enhancing the dynamic motion.

In composition 2, I adjusted the picture so it had a natural, static horizon line. Note that I had trouble determining the vanishing point—I think the far right is correct. The ripples from the boy dominate the water surface, creating interest that competes with the girl (not to mention his in-motion posture) to be the focal point. The lines of the girl’s torso angle away from the vanishing point, creating further conflict.

And see how the outline of the man forms a near-perfect square? It doesn’t get much more static than that.

All this comes down to: what are you trying to say?

To me, composition 2 says: “This day at the lake is quiet and restful. Rather boring. In fact, we’re losing interest in our surroundings. Is it time to leave yet?”

And composition 1 says: “This day at the lake is wonderful! We are exploring, interested, moving in motion with the wind and water.” It seems to invite me in for an adventure.

Whether I’m using a photo reference for my artwork, or just my own imagination, I try to be aware of the line relationships, how they’re directing the eye, and what they’re saying. I refine compositions by removing elements that distract from the movement and message, and enhancing the ones that carry it.

For example, I might strengthen composition 1 by removing the submerged rock in the foreground and the boat in the background—distractions. I might change the positions of the girl’s legs so one is thrusting straight forward, and the other straight back—clarity of motion. And, because her downturned head could indicate the wrong emotions, I think I would tilt her face upward to the light.

As I engage in the art of following invisible lines and studying their relationships, as I listen to the stories they tell, I sometimes feel like I’m joining in the rhythm of a dance.

Am I nuts? Possibly. But there were probably a few good points in there. May God bless you with flowing inspiration!

A Mystery Unfolding

I am not a patient person.

       Resting, trusting, waiting…to me those words often conjure images of agonizing boredom and stalled frustration. I think of the times I’ve spent waiting in a lonely place for someone to pick me up. There is a twist of anxiety in my stomach. I lean against the wall, stare out the window, slouch on the bench, afraid to walk away lest I miss the coming of my ride. When are they going to get here? I might pull out my notebook and jot a few words, but they tend to be dull. My stomach is a knot getting pulled tighter and tighter as I stare toward the road, watching for the car. Did they forget about me?

I’m an impatient artist. If a painting or a piece of writing isn’t turning out how I want, or if it’s coming slow, my first impulse is to say, “Well, this must be the wrong thing to be working on.” Then I scrap it and start over. To me, fast, quick, smooth, flowing, and instant are all blessed words. If I had my way, life and art would be microwaveable. Put in the dish, press a few buttons. Whiiiirrrrr, DING! Instant results.

      God has different ideas.

Lately, I’ve been working on the same old novel. The same old fantasy novel I started about three (or was it four? Or five?) years ago. The same old novel that has gone through multiple rewrites, dramatic changes to characters, and has seen my writing style blossom. That same old novel that’s still somewhere in the middle of creation.

       It started trying my patience a long time ago. I even gave up on it for a few months. I had serious doubts that this book was God’s will for me. I sometimes seethed with hatred toward the stupid thing—because it would not leave me alone.
       There have been shining moments, too: just recently, I prayed desperately for an inspired new plot-point to replace a snarly mess in the middle of the story. I went to bed musing…and woke up with a fresh vision that fit the characters better and tied up more strings. Thank You Lord. Even more recently, in a flare of creativity, I cranked out a mound of new scenes, most of which I thought were pretty good, even in first draft. Thank You Lord, again. Then I ran face first into another wall. Whump.
       The scenes started reading flatter than a pancake—a wet pancake, with mold—and I realized what the problem was. I had a whole culture and a handful of secondary characters in this part of the book that needed more thought and planning. Back to background information—again. I could fill a book-size volume (or at a least a novelette) with the reams of character profiles, history (yes, fantasy worlds have that too), and assorted scribblings that will not appear in the actual novel.
        Just when I think I’ve got this book figured out and can plough full speed ahead toward completion, I get another—

NOT SO FAST.

And I have to sit down and write another stupid character profile. Sometimes I wonder if this book is destined to perpetually be “in progress”, but never getting there.

Similarly, there are situations in my life that are trying my patience. Things are not moving fast enough for me. I’m not getting what I want, when I want it, how I want it. Just when I think I’ve got God’s plotline figured out, I get another—

            NOT SO FAST. WAIT. TRUST ME.

“I want to trust You,” I cry through frustrated tears, “but it’s so hard to wait!”
       Then God surprises me. Little gifts are sometimes the ones that have the biggest impact. An unexpected Kleenex shows up in my pocket when I’ve been crying. A CD I wanted appears on a thrift store shelf for a dollar. I love you, He whispers to my heart. Trust Me. And one time, when the frustration of waiting came to a head, and I felt like the tension inside was going to rip me apart, all I could do was say, “I’m giving this burden over to You, Lord. I still choose to trust You.” In that moment, He surprised me with overwhelming peace. The weight lifted in an instant.
       “Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.” (Matt. 12:28-30)

 When I finally submit to patience, and let it have its perfect work in me, my eyes begin to open up to things I had not imagined.

 This last week, me and my grudging attitude sat down to plan fictional history and culture, and write the backstories of several minor characters. But as I did it, the knotted mysteries of the same-old-novel began to loosen, and by the end of the week, I was amazed by how the disjointed, random ideas from the first draft were finally coming together, taking their proper form, and making sense. It was as if someone other than me had been planning this story all along.

The novel is not done yet. And my struggles to be patient in life and art will probably not end until I get the call to leave this world. But I know that the Lord is trustworthy. I know His story is worth waiting for. I know if I obey Him, waiting will be far from boring.

It can feel like forever as I wait for my ride to come. If I stare too long at the road, every distant car begins to look the same. They all pass by. Leaves rustle and shadows dance.

Suddenly, it’s here. The car pulls up.

Joy fills me, the knot unwinding in an instant, a smile bursting on my face. I run forward, slide in, and fasten my seat belt. As we drive away, I can look back and see the place where I was waiting. From the window of my long-awaited ride, I watch the scenery spread out, and the waiting place becomes a beautiful piece of the mystery unfolding.

Pilgrim's Hymn

(In writing this poem, I discovered that it is a great challenge to set words to music. Keeping metre and rhythm, while communicating what you intend to say can be difficult. I highly recommend it as a great creative exercise!)

To the tune of “Nettleton” (“Come Thou Fount”)

If the sacrifice was easy
It would be no offering
If there was no chill of winter
Where would be the joy of spring?
If the gift you gave cost nothing
How could it have any worth?
If the mother bore no sorrow
How could she give her child birth?

There is pain in every healing
Setting bone the mend begins
If the foe you face is weaker
Then what vict’ry do you win?
If the road was smooth and simple
Then no joy at journey’s end
And no eager expectation
If you see around the bend

Bind your off’ring to the altar
So your heart can’t stray away
Burn for those who live in darkness
So they see the light of day
Poor beggars at the gate rejoice
For Christ brings good news to you
Oh rise up you broken-hearted
For Christ heals and makes you new

Come forth captives from your prison
Freedom’s shout you now have heard
See the door that’s standing open
Fallen walls and chains shattered
For your tears and ashes barren
Christ gives you His oil of joy
Clothing you in praise and beauty
And a hope no death destroys

If the road was smooth and simple
Then no joy at journey’s end
And no eager expectation
If you see around the bend
Keep on pilgrim for you know that
Sun and moon will pass from view
Wars will cease and winter end when
All the world is born anew

These all died in faith, not having received the promises, but having seen them afar off were assured of them, embraced them, and confessed that they were strangers and pilgrims on the earth. For those who say such things declare plainly that they seek a homeland. And truly if they had called to mind that country from which they had come out, they would have had opportunity to return. But now they desire a better, that is, a heavenly country. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for He has prepared a city for them. (Hebrews 11:13-16)

A Moment of Beauty

In the cold, drizzly weather of an Oregon November, the majority of leaves on the ground have been reduced to brownish yellow mush. So this one blazed out to me like a torch.

Why does a simple leaf, the merest speck in the massive cycle of season change, attract my attention? Is it the brilliant color? The contrast of red and green is somewhat unusual and striking, like a fantastic kind of fire. Perhaps it’s the symbolism: the leaf is the most beautiful as it dies.

            I don’t believe it’s a coincidence of brain chemistry that draws humans to beautiful “useless” things. Paintings, songs, stories…and pretty dying leaves. They seem to serve no purpose in day to day survival, yet we would dread life without them. I believe it’s the image of our Creator in us. We love beautiful things because He does.

            I think part of what it means to be an artist is to always be on the lookout for these moments of beauty. Sometimes when I’m in the midst of creating a story or picture, what brings me the most delight is a simple thing: an image, a word, or a smudge of color…something that stands out against the dull background as bright and fiery and true. Those are the things I am most eager to share, and I wonder if anyone else will feel what I do: that these moments of beauty are glimpses of God’s glory.

Ready, Set...Hesitate?--Part 2

Oh artistic person who attempts to instruct others, instruct thyself!

That was the thought going through my head this last week as I paced around my room looking to do anything—ANYTHING—other than write in the novel I have been trying to finish for several years. The resistance to sitting down, the sheer refusal of my pen to touch paper, seemed like an oppression of the mind and body that was almost spiritual.

            I knew what I needed to do. Praise God for the gift of creativity. Thank Him for the new story ideas that have brought redemption to the convoluted plot I used to hate so much. Ask for His strength. Turn on the instrumental music. And just do it.

            I can’t say I went about this in a clear, concise manner, but I did finally sit down and over the course of the week, wrote about 11,400 words. It’s been a while since I’ve written till my hand was sore, and it felt exhausting in a good way.

While going through this little battle with hesitation [confession: I put off finishing this blog post till the last minute], I thought of a few tips I didn’t include in my previous post on the pressing problem of procrastination:

1: Find your ideal time of day.

I realize a lot of artistic people do not have the luxury I do of being able to look at a clock like a plate of hours, all available for me to pick and choose and assign how I wish. But even if you only have a few hours on the weekend, you are probably still aware of when, during that time, you feel the freshest and most creative. For me personally, 9 am to noon is usually when I have peak energy for starting things, and 3 pm to 6 pm is good for “settled in” work. When you recognize your ideal time, guard it! Protect it from the buzzing distractions that want to suck the life out of it like mental mosquitos. Hide your to-do list.

2: Get on “Jewish Time”.

I like to start the day clean. I feel antsy sitting down to work with yesterday’s mess lying mounded around me. I used to spend the fresh morning hours tidying up, feeling rotten about myself as an artist, then work late into the night to make up for it, awaking sluggish and facing yet another mess. The vicious cycle…

            Then, recently, I got this idea to start looking at the day differently. According to Jewish tradition (learned while watching Fiddler on the Roof several hundred times), the new day starts at sundown. Light-bulb!

            If I follow that concept, I can turn the low-energy “scrap” hours of the evening into a productive time of clearing the way for the next morning, when I’ll be fresh and perky again.

            I haven’t applied this new schedule very faithfully yet, but I’m trying, and already I’m seeing good results. I seem to be getting more done, I no longer have massive piles of laundry waiting to be put away, and I’m not noticing so many unfinished projects lying dejected on the floor.

3: Make a “deal-with-it” box.

This is where those buzzing mosquitos of distraction can go chill while you attend to your God-given talents. I have two of these boxes, actually. One is a “pertinent” deal-with-it box, meaning whatever’s in it needs to get done, and within a set amount of time. The other is a “whenever” deal-with-it box…also known as a “black hole”. Things may emerge from it to see the light of day again…or not. But it makes me feel better to put them somewhere.

            When I’m in the middle of peak creative time, and an idea for a different project, an activity to try, or an ought-to-do-it chore pops into my head, I just stick it in one of the deal-with-it boxes and carry on. When evening or an organization day comes, I can dig in. Sometimes I pull out an item and wonder why on earth I even thought it was worth dealing with in the first place.

And finally, I just want to say that this stuff is meaningless. By itself, that is. Schedules, tips, and clever ideas for time-management aren’t worth anything if you aren’t paying attention to the One who gave you time in the first place. He gives us wisdom to organize our time-allotment in useful ways, but most of all He wants us to be obedient with that time. The Spirit isn’t limited by our clocks and calendars.

Mom Approved!

“Well, at least I know my mom will like it.”

I used to laugh at that line, because my mother tends to be one of my tougher, no-nonsense critics…and I love her for it. She doesn’t do the flattery thing, and being her child does not give you any automatic bonus points in her evaluation of your work.

            Mom is a voracious reader (She’s currently working her way through the church library, alphabetically by author), and has basically two criteria for good books: it had better teach you something useful, and/or tell an interesting story. She generally does not find these criteria met by fantasy novels. Which, of course, are what I love to write.

            Gulp.

            When, as a confidence-challenged teenager, I brought her my first real novel, Tales of Rhohin: The Calling, she only got through a few chapters before declaring it needed a lot of work and giving up. However, she respected that I had a love and skill for words, and she had good advice to offer, such as:

            *Don’t start with a history lecture. Start in the middle of the action.

            *Tie descriptions to action:

                        No: He had dark brown hair. He ran toward her.

                        Yes: His dark brown hair flew wildly as he ran toward her.

            *Don’t state the obvious.

I took the advice, got back to work, read books by writers, joined a writers group, and received great reviews from lots of people. Recently, at the still-not-so-confident age of twenty-two, I decided the time had come. I presented the current draft of the novel to my mother, imploring her to please, please read all the way through it this time, just in case I had written something heretical. With fear and trembling, I left the manuscript with her. I was expecting, at best, she would say it was tolerable.

            She liked it. A lot.

            She actually raved about it.

            She couldn’t believe how much better I’d gotten. She could hardly put it down. She definitely thought I should publish it.

            I think I’m still a little bit in shock.

If Mom hadn’t been so tough on the first draft, if she had smiled and been blindly supportive of my work, like good parents are supposedly supposed to be, I don’t think I would be about to self-publish my first novel. Because of her loving honesty, her affirmation is all the more valuable.

A true encourager is motivated by their care for you, but they tell the truth, even if it’s hard. A true encourager NEVER belittles you; they help you grow. And a true encourager cheers loud when you succeed.

            Thank you Mom for being a true encourager! Now I pray God will give me wisdom to be a true encourager to others.