The Exterminating Pencil Volume 2

Part two in a number of drawing shows.

She woke up. And again, as before, she unzipped the trousse, took out the Sunburned Yellow and put it in her left hand. The one different thing from before was that she did not take off the pencil grip. It seemed confident to bear that green Stetro plastic gripping object. She tried then to move, but it felt as if her body was tied down by invisible threads. She felt herself frozen in her overwhelmed state. Yielding the unrelentless surge of power that came with this coloured piece of wood in her hand.

 

Her eyelashes and curled hairtips flushed upwards. Her hands went up too, and her bracelet made a dry sound against her shirt. Her fingers wrapped themselves affirmably around the  drawing instrument. Just as they crashed down onto the rectangle in front of her, about to write, she suddenly moved away and began to slowly consider what she was about to do. She took everything else off the desk, the empty cup, the orange peel, the eraser, the sharpener, leaving just the small white flat rectangle piece of bleached tree-bark. Her analytical mood she kept though. She stood above the chair, put on her reading glasses and stared into the white. She was not able to concentrate. Her thoughts were unable to focus on what was in front of her. They were saturated with an invisible stress, not physically present in her studio, yet more real than the pencil she was holding. She became lost in her own mirage of thought. 

 

Then she sat upon the chair, once overcome by a cemented stress. She was now suddenly lifted of that stuck feeling. A new enrishment empowered her by possibly a steady rotation of her wrist or the thought of a relaxed face that she had seen on the bus earlier that day. Once this feeling hit, she began a steady line with the Sunburned Yellow beginning in the corner of the page. She drew, her bracelet made that same dry sound against the paper, similar to the sound of an exhalation of air. With this new sense of inspired density about her, our protagonist, scrawling her line on the white rectangle, feeling like the last bolt had been attached to the creative machine inside of her soul. Her hand felt warm and at the same time cold. It tried to envelop an Artichoke Green, to draw these feelings in and at the same time push them out onto the paper. Her imagination grew larger and more intense than the day before. It felt as if it was about to burst wide open. It was the strangest sensation, something that went beyond simple image making. It felt as if some empirical power inside her were slowly working it’s way through her onto the crisp white sheet of A4.