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The white page will soon be transformed. I start with a line -
anywhere. A desire to open the space to uncover the reality living
deep within. Lines, shape, and reform - thin lines expressing the
grace of movement as it begins to flow - thin lines becoming darker
in the presence of others. The pen becomes a brush. Colors mix with
water. They bleed, together, they suggest something to me. The
discovery is one of the elements that interests me most. Pensive.
There could be someone under the shadow. I'm searching. My finger
runs across the form trying to see the shape. Braille. The light
part is the head. I start to see it all in the dim values of color.
It's blue with edges of green and the yellow is pushing through.
A whispering is at the point of my brush. I follow. It leads me to
mysterious places. Once revealed it disappears. It's the dream. It
happens in the awake of a trance. Another thought stirs an idea. I
look out the window. Facing a wall of many windows - watching people
move in and out of them. I shift back to my world. My brush swirls
in the water beating a rhythm on the side of the glass. Dark purple
cuts a path through fields of red and blue. The color is unruly.
I paint rectangles of different sizes. In my mind they are rooms. Rooms that will find the lives that belong there. Eyes are suddenly looking at me. I'm always startled. It feels so real. Who are you? We start a dialogue. Where are you? The whispers are now heard. I'm in the place of my creation. I can go wherever I want. She said it loud and clear. I could hear her far in the back of my mind. More people appear wondering where and who they are. Some have faces, others are part of the faceless crowd. They are the people I pass everyday, catching a glimpse and hurrying by, seeing but not really seeing, thinking about other things. My thoughts are here and there. Here. Hands are holding objects. Boxes and eggs. Women think about creation, the center of the universe, it mingles with other thoughts. They gaze at each other. Are we finished? Perhaps. The page turns. It's white again. Untouched. Unspoken. And so it goes, days, months, years, page after page. Enjoying the process, watching the drawings grow and change. Giving it life and sometimes wishing some of them would disappear, just go away. The books tell the story, they see it all, the good parts, the bad, and the ugly. Nothing escapes. Nothing edited. It's the rule. I hold fast to the tradition I have created. If I did it I have to see it. Whether I like it or not. It is all part of the process. Truth. It is not always welcome. Don't break the rule. It must continue, page after page. It must have a beginning and an end. Just as I live my life. Moment by moment, the beginning, the end. I often look back at the work, sometimes remembering the moment it happened, many times looking at the drawing as if someone else had been there. Did I do this? I ask myself. If I like the work I can not imagine how I did it. If I don't like it I can not imagine how I did it. "There are no mistakes in art." Richard Lindner once told me so. It always comes to mind when I start to make judgments. I have to believe him. As I write this I think about the work. The history that has gone before. Fifty years plus. Time is so ethereal. Like snow, like rain. It all passes through. It's all so equal. We all live in the same minutes. Each seeing a different story, your life, my life. It's the same. No matter where and how we live. No matter how hard it is. Time is the constant. The great equalizer. The phone rings. It scares me. I was deep in thought. Exploring the moment. Discovering. Following my imagination. Running wild. Racing. Getting ahead of myself. Being at two places at the same time. I answer. Eleven eleven. I listen. It's Catherine Gilmore-Barnes, the art director for the New York Times Magazine. They need art for the cover of the Sunday Magazine. Breast Cancer in younger women - 35 - a true story - I listen. My hand starts drawing. Little thumbnails , three by two inches. Ideas start to follow as I listen to her words. When is the deadline? A week, maybe two - it depends on what's happening in the world. It's a backup story. We settle on a price. I agree to do it. I ask about the nipple. How much? Can I show it? 
I remember the poster I did for the American Cancer Society - "Breast
Cancer in Black Women" and not allowed to show the breast. The
poster went to and was for doctors. Is that true? You're kidding!
Catherine remembers the John Lennon cover I did for Rolling Stone a decade
ago. I want it simple like that. It's still in her memory. I draw
some more. Thinking simple.
I present about ten ideas - with variations on each - all simple. Some more literal than others. I'm not there when the many eyes have a meeting and select the one. She reaches me by phone. They decide on the simplest sketch - a single multi-colored line, a profile of a breast, on a stark white page. What about the nipple? I ask again. It's fine just as it is.  Drawing the "age" of the breast is a challenge. Not too young, not too old. Should I show the underarm? No, it's too confusing with the masthead. Do you want a thin line, thick or still thicker? Medium thick, but do a variety. I start. With a brush I draw thirty breasts, all different. Some swooping low, some a little full at the top. It's all nuance. I choose the ten I like best and fax it to her. It's still not there, I get more direction. I draw twenty more and fax five. We all like number three. A black line of medium width. What about the nipple? It's OK. I scan it into the computer. This will be a fifty fifty job, the line by hand, the color by computer. I do many variations of the color. They decide they also need one of smaller size to continue on the inside with the story. I make one with a thicker line. It can be seen better when it reduces. The two weeks I thought I had now becomes just days. They are moving the story up. Can we have it by tomorrow? Yes, I'll be there at four. 
The next morning I get the frantic phone call I've been expecting all
along. It's the nipple! She was panicky. Can you make it smaller?
The man next to the top decision-maker is worried. The top person
hasn't seen it yet? I start reducing the nipple on the computer in
five variations until you can hardly see it at all. It's almost two
PM. I need to hurry if I'm going to make the deadline. The phone
rings. It's OK, it's OK. He likes it just the way it is. Bring it
in as you had it before.
It's all on disk so they can choose any one they want. It's always like this. I'm used to it. I bring it in. It's a very brave cover, said Janet Froliech, The Design Director. I'm surprised. I thought the cover they did a few years ago, the photograph of a woman revealing her mastectomy was much braver. Janet doesn't agree. Why? I ask. Yours is so simple, that's why. |
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