(no subject)
Teaching helps me keep my mind off of the past few days. Since the 11th, every morning's been a trial. They haven't gotten easier, the way I'd expected them to. The events of that day, that Bucky and I were trapped in, what came after- they follow me around as much as the actual events ever did. The first week I was unbearable to be around, and I knew it, and I tried to make myself as scarce as possible. Bit by bit, I'm getting back to myself, I'm being less distant, I'm brooding less- at least visibly.
But it's not getting easier, and I don't know that it ever will, and the thought is troubling.
So I do what a lot of people seem to. I pile more onto my plate, try to keep busy and distract myself, and teaching is maybe my favorite way of doing so. The class is going well- those who were already trained, or skilled, are advancing in their personal styles and grasp of an artist's tools. Those who took the class for the novelty all know how to sketch, now. They're learning quickly, and well, and doing good work. I'm considering encouraging a collaboration between the drawing and painting classes, though I'm not sure how yet.
I stayed after, today, to work on my own. The extra room in the gallery I teach the classes in is airy and large, and quiet, and I like spending time in it. I just washed the white button down shirt and khakis I'm wearing, but they already have graphite smudges on the collar and rolled up sleeves, a little forest green paint on my belt loop. I don't mind it. I leave the larger piece I'm just starting to sketch out covered and in the back, and small sketchbook tucked into my back pocket, stubby pencil absently turning on my thumb, I head for gallery's exit, entrenched in thoughts of what to do next and where to head, now, if there's any distraction I can conceive of.
The day has been an easy one, the class a good one, and it'll be light outside for another few hours. Time enough for something, though I'm not sure what. I absently scratch my cheekbone with the thumb of the hand my sketching pencil's in, and when I drop it again there's a figure in my peripheral vision, one of the infrequent visitor's to the gallery, I assume. As badly as I thought I needed a distraction, though, I find myself hesitant to look over and risk having to interact.
Maybe I can finish the repairs to Captain Thrace's punching bag. Then maybe she'll let me use it again.
But it's not getting easier, and I don't know that it ever will, and the thought is troubling.
So I do what a lot of people seem to. I pile more onto my plate, try to keep busy and distract myself, and teaching is maybe my favorite way of doing so. The class is going well- those who were already trained, or skilled, are advancing in their personal styles and grasp of an artist's tools. Those who took the class for the novelty all know how to sketch, now. They're learning quickly, and well, and doing good work. I'm considering encouraging a collaboration between the drawing and painting classes, though I'm not sure how yet.
I stayed after, today, to work on my own. The extra room in the gallery I teach the classes in is airy and large, and quiet, and I like spending time in it. I just washed the white button down shirt and khakis I'm wearing, but they already have graphite smudges on the collar and rolled up sleeves, a little forest green paint on my belt loop. I don't mind it. I leave the larger piece I'm just starting to sketch out covered and in the back, and small sketchbook tucked into my back pocket, stubby pencil absently turning on my thumb, I head for gallery's exit, entrenched in thoughts of what to do next and where to head, now, if there's any distraction I can conceive of.
The day has been an easy one, the class a good one, and it'll be light outside for another few hours. Time enough for something, though I'm not sure what. I absently scratch my cheekbone with the thumb of the hand my sketching pencil's in, and when I drop it again there's a figure in my peripheral vision, one of the infrequent visitor's to the gallery, I assume. As badly as I thought I needed a distraction, though, I find myself hesitant to look over and risk having to interact.
Maybe I can finish the repairs to Captain Thrace's punching bag. Then maybe she'll let me use it again.