Me, an Artist?

I never considered myself very artistic. I only started drawing for pleasure a few months ago, less than a year ago. I’ve never had lessons, unless you count some required classes in elementary and secondary school. Anything I attempted to draw in pencil was somewhat atrocious. My art was dance, and that was it.

However, I was very adept at calligraphy, which was probably a first clue. When I was thirteen my parents bought me a set of nibs for Christmas, and I practiced by writing letters to friends and pen-pals.

When I began to seriously study choreography this year, I started drawing very crude figures in my notebook as a way of recording certain moves. I used pen and ink without a second thought. In time, I found that I could flesh out the bodies if I was patient.

I’ve been told to attend “life drawing” sessions, but static nude poses aren’t really my thing. I prefer motion. I’m an arqué dancer myself. My medium is motion. And ink. I still can’t draw in pencil, ha ha.

God, I love to draw dancers. They’re such wonderful subjects because they wear form-fitting clothes that don’t hide anything, and they’re always in motion. When they move, it’s almost like the muscles draw themselves. Though they’re often skinny, the muscle development is perfect, honed by simply moving about again and again in space without the resistance of weighted equipment or water, as so happens with other athletes. They have such natural definition that it can hardly be called athleticism, and they have such an ingrained understanding of line and form. It’s a pleasure to draw them.

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