Beauty in the Eye of the Beholder
Portraiture presents a unique challenge to the novice artist — if I dare call myself such — but the rewards of success are rich. I painted this study from an image in my mind's eye, born of a chance meeting whose memory still burns. ‘Twas the evening of my art tutorial and I, a most unlikely student, was en route to the Uni. As I strode past a storefront barber college, I glanced through the window, past the ghost of my own countenance and was captured by that which was before me. She sat undisturbed in the student stylist's chair. A young beauty on the verge of womanhood. Her hair was a yellow not found in nature, but rather that of a fountain straw or bathtub duckie. A green bow had been knotted atop her head, a precise compliment to her red — no, rose! — spectacle frames. Something about her harkened back to my schoolboy days, but I was discomforted to examine this notion further. I shook myself from my reverie and quickly moved on. But I carried the image, as I said, in my mind’s eye, along with a decision to scuttle my current drawerering — a painting of the neighbor’s cat staring down a fully-dressed turkey bird — and redirect my efforts thusly. Whether I had the skillset or fortitude to do this maiden justice, by pastel chalk or brush, I would commit her image to canvas. I would call her, "Lady in Waiting." No! “Barber Ella.”
Portraiture presents a unique challenge to the novice artist — if I dare call myself such — but the rewards of success are rich. I painted this study from an image in my mind's eye, born of a chance meeting whose memory still burns. ‘Twas the evening of my art tutorial and I, a most unlikely student, was en route to the Uni. As I strode past a storefront barber college, I glanced through the window, past the ghost of my own countenance and was captured by that which was before me. She sat undisturbed in the student stylist's chair. A young beauty on the verge of womanhood. Her hair was a yellow not found in nature, but rather that of a fountain straw or bathtub duckie. A green bow had been knotted atop her head, a precise compliment to her red — no, rose! — spectacle frames. Something about her harkened back to my schoolboy days, but I was discomforted to examine this notion further. I shook myself from my reverie and quickly moved on. But I carried the image, as I said, in my mind’s eye, along with a decision to scuttle my current drawerering — a painting of the neighbor’s cat staring down a fully-dressed turkey bird — and redirect my efforts thusly. Whether I had the skillset or fortitude to do this maiden justice, by pastel chalk or brush, I would commit her image to canvas. I would call her, "Lady in Waiting." No! “Barber Ella.”