Layers of Lead
​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​I’ve drawn many portraits since failing my first one. Some were good, some weren’t. But all of them told a story. When I finish my portrait, I hope it tells mine.
Another page was ruined. “Ugh! This is nothing like the picture.”
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As the crumbled page misses the trash can, I go back to the drawing board. Literally.
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The fear of ruining yet another sketch after having started so well has affected my strokes.... They’re far from the smooth lines I wanted them to be; they’re rough, they're jagged. Still, a fear of failure pushes me over the finish line, and I try to feel good about the underwhelming sketch in my hands. I upload some of them to Facebook where the compliments of my friends sound more like consolation prizes. “My sketches aren’t good enough. I wonder whether it’s my technique. Maybe I just don't have the right pencils,” I think to myself. Then again, Michelangelo only had 7 colours, and look what he accomplished.
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With sharpened pencils and a fresh new page, I start again...
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Sketching, and portraiture, in particular, is like grasping a complex scientific concept. You can’t just glance at it, try to recall where everything is, and then execute on paper. That’d be like rote memorization: ineffective. Instead, you’ve to consider where the light is falling from, and how it’s radiating from the skin. You’ve to allow the contours of the face to make their impressions on paper as they’d on an actual face. And every once in a while, you have to take a step back to see what’s developing with a fresh pair of eyes. Speaking of which, I like to start with the eyes.
A harmony between lead-filled shapes, numerous erasures, and the unfilled whiteness of paper gives life to the eyes, and with them, to the rest of the portrait. It’s always the eyes, isn’t it? Sometimes, I only draw the region around the eyes to make my friends guess who it is, and they seem to recognize the person rather effortlessly. I love how unfinished portraits lead to a sense of longing. As if there’s a hidden message, a truth untold. Sometimes, the use of a pen leads to a more thrilling experience as I trade the steady roughness of a lead pencil with the risky irreversibility of a ballpoint pen.
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Often, the toughest part is the start. It’s difficult to foresee a likeness from thin, lifeless lines. But you get used to it, and agony slowly turns into anticipation. The belief, or lack thereof, that the lines will eventually come together can make or break a portrait. Slowly, minutes on the drawing board turn into hours, and I become oblivious to the rest of the world, often forgetting to turn the fan on as the thrill of the moment overwhelms all else. It’s only when I realize that the drop of sweat dripping down my forehead could spoil all my work (again) that I get up and turn on the fan.
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It’s almost done, but not quite. The closer I am to finishing, the more vulnerable the portrait is to stray marks. A few wayward strokes and smudges could turn what was supposed to be a Keanu Reeves into a Benedict Cumberbatch. It’s a testament to the complexity of art, but, more importantly, it’s a testament to the intricacies of the human face. Human expressions aren’t the same to me anymore; a smile is no longer just the tightening of the cheeks.
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The strokes in a portrait are like our actions in that a few different decisions could lead to a new outcome, a new story, a new portrait. And just like in portraits, in life, sometimes, erasing a mark can make a better sketch than adding one. If the colours can go beyond the borders, so can the art.
