Habits of the Creative Mind
Assignment 1: Looking and Seeing
Drawing of my friend, Daniel, for an assignment.
Assignment 2: Flash Fiction (Ernest Hemingway’s “Baby Shoes”)
Assignment 3: “Two Queens” Exercise
Observing and using visual cues to deduct character from an image has shown me just how powerful suggestion is when it comes to making an image. Via two exercises in observation, I’ve learned greatly. Visuals are the greatest indicators of emotion and character, especially in the realm of artistic vision. In our most recent classes, I have come to this conclusion while observing portraits of two queens of England: Elizabeths I and II, as well as when observing two portraits of Elizabeth II at separate points in her life
In the first exercise, in which we compared and contrasted the portraits of the two Queen Elizabeths, the organization and structuring of each image provided insights into the nature of each queen, her personality, and reception among the public. The portrait of Elizabeth I is striking in character, her white face standing out like a light against the darkened background. Her expression is one that resonates benevolence: she lacks stark emotion but what she does radiate is a sense of caring, wisdom, and absolute power. Her hand over the ceremonial orb representing the world and her other hand holding a rod reminiscent of a shepherd’s staff, the painting shows symbols of her power over the people she rules. Beyond the obvious, all the major guiding lines in the image (found in the staff, the cloak, the crown, etc.) lead to her face, a radiant, ethereal expression. This image contrasts with the photograph of Elizabeth II, in which light radiates onto her from above. Her expression and posture are far more relaxed and her attire more vulnerable, a simple dress compared to Elizabeth I’s many layers of cloak. Rather than having her hand over the ball as with her predecessor, she holds up the ball as if to express her willingness to bear the weight of the world. Her crown is also considerably large for her head when compared to I’s, a suggestion of the United Kingdom’s large military presence in the world at the time it was taken. While Elizabeth II is the focal point in the image, she is not the sole object: she sits on her throne within a cathedral, suggesting not only her faith, but willingness to take a backseat to the powers that others have.
In the second exercise in which two portraits of Queen Elizabeth II were used, each taken at a different point in time, inference and background played major roles in the observing process. In the first portrait, Elizabeth appears to be a queen struggling to find her footing, an unsure gaze across her face. In the second, she has aged significantly, her assured expression with an added bit of jade; her years in power have clearly hardened her, and the cloudy background with an outcrop of sunshine suggests that the sun may be setting on her reign in the years to come. In both photos, she is seen wearing an admiral’s cloak, initially too big, but fitting her snugly by the second photo.
So much can be derived from the subtle hints artists put in their work. A portrait, if done correctly, can act as a biography of character and morality via the expressions one chooses to show during the taking of one. In these images of the queens in particular, much can be said about how they ruled and the evolution of their rule.
Assignment 4: Five Day Object Journal
Entry #1:
I have selected an object: a leaf taken from the ground outside of Old Main. When I took it initially it was dirtied, folded, a little dry but not to the point of crumbling, and numerous yellow spots on it. Since taking it back to my dorm it has started to shrivel, notable brown spots, signs of rot, are appearing along the stem and veins, the folds of the leaf are more permanent, and small tears have appeared along the edges since it was in my backpack. When touching the leaf, I get the same or similar sensation gotten when rubbing crumbled paper that has been unfolded. The aroma is far more distinctive, smelling of maple, but my initial impression was something akin to apple. The smell, for a moment, took me back to the carefree days of childhood where I could just go into my backyard and play, or go to the orchard and pick apples. Anyway, my time is up, I will save tasting for tomorrow.
Entry #2:
It has been a day and the leaf has become brittle. It has become flimsy and flaky to the touch with a surface analogous to leather. It can no longer be properly unfolded on account of the delicacy, and the stem is permanently affixed parallel to the veins. I had kept the leaf within the folds of my notebook, so that may have caused the severe flattening. Rot is evident: the sides have many more tears and the brown along the veins is spreading. The leaf is for closer to death than yesterday, and is now completely different. The only thing similar about it is that pungent odor, that familiar autumn smell. As I whiff, the memories still flood back to me. This, the smell, is the only tether I have to the leaf I was all too familiar with.
Entry #3:
The chlorophyll in the leaf has almost completely died out, replaced by brown dead-weight. The yellow seems to be enveloping the leaf as well, patchy and dingy. Even the smell is fading; it is faintly notable. I notice more cracks forming along the veins, their beautiful order inhibited by the chaotic signs of demise. Is this my fault? Have I severed the natural order by preventing this leaf from natural decay? Have I prolonged its suffering, made it worse? I am only left to wonder if any of what I’m stating is true. The flattening was my fault, for my dry notebook has made the surface stiff. Everything else is natural: the cracks, tears, and rot. Had I not chosen this leaf, it would’ve returned to the earth of Old Main by now.
Entry #4:
The brown of the leaf has advanced to a block rot indicative of death. The veins are breaking out into a brilliant yellow, the edges of the leaf are fading to white. The texture is brittle yet flexible surprisingly, rough still due to wrinkling. All smell has faded. The back of the leaf is skeletal like bones clinging to dead, sagging skin. All life in the leaf, it appears, has been lost in the shrivel of death.
Entry #5:
I have split the leaf in half. The break is uneven along the part with the stem; it is jagged, crumbling, and little resembles the morsel of life I discovered last Wednesday. The other half was broken in a cleaner manner, it is also flatter and more varied in color than its contemporary. The stem, the I attempted to bend it back, was broken off. Have I caused this ruin to the leaf? Have I made it shrivel, crumble, and break in ways worse than what could be expected in nature? Should I bear this responsibility, or accept these events for how they played out? Ultimately, there is no going back; the leaf is forever ruined. Dust the leaf is becoming, so dust I must make it. Before I return my chlorophyll-laden friend to the earth, I shall observe the taste at last: it tastes how it smelled, for my memories of those long-gone fall days flash from the back of my mind. Like the leaf, I have been torn and worn in my time. One day I shall mingle with the leaf in the ground, from dust to dust.