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The finished first drawing at the Every Other Sunday sketch meetup in the West Fulton Market. Took a bit of a cluttered view. Lots of repetition with bottles and tiles but also a nice stacking center as one looks past the barfly to the food court beyond. The second sketch was to my right of the accompanying architects dramatically backlit by the afternoon sun. Fountain pen and Pitt Artist Pens on Tomoe River Paper.
A collection of heads from recent treks about here & there.
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 In the mysterious landscape of limestone caves, gorges, sinkholes, underground lakes and rivers just northeast of Trieste, known as the Karst, Dante was inspired to locate the entrance to the Underworld.
 As the subterranean water carries away the soft calcium carbonate rock, so too does the River Styx’s ferryman Charon whisk away souls who strayed into a life of dark choices.
 Often we are led to believe that The Prince of Darkness has lured the beguiled by way of seductive trappings. As thou we were under the cunning ploy of a grifter’s game of 3 card Monte. Adam is drawn into sin by the moist fruit offered up by the curvaceous Eve; herself entreated to fondle and nibble the hanging handful by the wet smile of the writhing serpent.
  But, we are told, Satan is on a leash. And  like Béla Lugosi’s Count Dracula, cannot cross a threshold uninvited.
  Thus after leaving Trieste and Dante behind and snaking by rail thru Italy’s northern regions, I find myself in the humid realm of Milano.
 For weeks I thought back over Dante’s netherworld, it’s bleak entrance within the Karst, and the adjacent port of Trieste, itself a city not unfamiliar with carousing and the lustful ramblings of many a person given to the appetites of the flesh. One soul bearing such feverish appetites was James Joyce, who soddenly traipsed to the city’s bordellos while scribbling about his fear of roasting in the dark flames of Hell.
 As I sat on the apartment’s balcony mulling over temptation, beguilement and suffering, or what defense attorneys might deem entrapment, I would casually take note of the stairwell in the grounds below.
The grassy courtyard never served as playground for children. Nor frisbee park for dogs & owners. No sunbathers were to be found, reclining on elbows, ankles crossed and bikini strap unhitched while reading pulpy delights thru Foster Grants.  It’s said a parking garage was beneath and this was but one of half a dozen stairwells scattered among the large apartment complex leading to the cavern of cars. Occasionally, I would glimpse someone laconically strolling to and then down the stairs. Never rushed. Hesitant at times as though guided by curiosity or accompanied by uncertainty. No destination imploring urgency.
  But never in the months I spent there did I witness a soul emerging from the stairs.
  If we are to believe that the first move
need be made by the sinner, this would run counter to the notion that those inhabiting the animated mud are but pawns in the tango betwixt grand overlord and his errant
Angel. The leash dropped once free will exercises poor choice. Must we see that choice as necessarily guided by the foulest of humors, craven longings or foolishness? Were not the children of Limbo denied basking in celestial glow through no fault of their own?
  The door to The Land of Shade is neither arduous to open, nor hung with wreath of rotted fruit calling the spiritually weak as if fruit flies.
 The door is simply there. Available not just because morality has proven a shifting and confusing compass. It is en route to the most banal of tasks. It’s convenience at times without question. Even the most mindful might tumble, as has the diligent ant, into the lair of the Antlion.
Drawn with fountain pen, DeAtramentis Document Brown ink, Pitt Artist Pens on Tomoe River Paper.
Tintoretto. Been reviewing his work and pics from my recent visit to Scuola Grande di San Rocco in Venice. In particular, some really dynamic figures from the Crucifixion in the Sala dell’Albergo, the room off the main hall on the second floor. This massive oil on canvas painting, is 17.5 ft tall by 37 ft wide. Many figures are life size or damn near.
My sketch is of a very dramatic figure in the lower left helping raise the poor soul nailed to a cross. The idea here is to draw like a bat outta Hell in order to retain some of the fury with which Tintoretto worked. Known as Il Furioso for proceeding at a break neck pace you’ll wanna be sure you’re taking the corners on two wheels. Take a look at a close up of two figures to the left of the Crucified Christ. The incredible figure bearing the cross beam of the cross in an exquisitely stressed posture no model could have held for any length of time before their thighs started trembling and their calves cramped and their toes seized up. To his credit Tintoretto was a devout student of anatomy and more than capable of winging it should poses become outrageous. Juxtapose that with the bastard on the horse casually leaning forward and talking to someone while his steed munches of boughs. Hunh, chillaxing while people all about him are being staked to post and hung till the moaning stops and the buzzards show up.
When I first saw these paintings 44 years ago, I was mixed in my feelings about the abrupt an grimy way they were painted. But given that the dude had such a large commission, one of 55 he painted at San Rocco in a 23 year stretch, and the savagery of the images, the dark skies and angry brushwork truly move me. Artists had to bid out commissions which covered assistants, studios, scaffolding and pigments, so you could see another reason to go sparingly with expensive lapis lazuli and the Venetian taste for brilliant color and succulent palettes.
I don’t intend to wait decades before returning to gawk and draw before these powerhouse works.
I tossed in a pic of the adjoining Sala and a mystifying wooden sculpture just before you enter the Sala dell’Albergo. Could be a snake wrapping around a lustful sinner. The wages of sin being suited to the nature of the transgression. Your guess is good as mine.
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Drawn on Tomoe River Paper with Faber-Castell Grip fountain pen, DeAtramentis Document brown ink and Pitt Artist Pens.
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Now I’m not sure of the source of this eye gouging coat, but I was sketching someone else when I happened to turn and see her wrapped like a chevroned cocoon. Jumped subject’s immediately and drew what just might have been the striped tail from a very, very large Coatimundi.
Fountain pen and Pitt Artist Pens on Tomoe River Paper.