A simple flex of the hand and the image is gone. Forever.

Figurative drawing was the first class I registered for at Rhode Island School of Design somewhere around 1993. No small effort as I believed I had no business thinking I belonged at one of the finest art schools in the States. A bold move for the shy little girl who once feared raising her hand in class. Determination and want usurped any doubt or insecurities. I had little time for entertaining negative thoughts that would paralyze me from actualizing a dream.

So, there I was lugging a large canvas bag filled with the art essentials specified for this class along with a particle drawing board already adorned with a chunk of newsprint paper and a few expensive pieces of a neutral gray Canson drawing paper. Pearl gray to be exact.

The class was a foundation requirement. Little did I know when I walked up the many flights of stairs burdened with supplies to the expansive studio classroom that I would find my passion as soon as I crossed the threshold. I knew it at an intrinsic level …

Class wasn’t like anything I had ever experienced. The environment was dramatically different than any educational institution I had previously attended. Not good or bad just different. I was energized and driven by this creative place. I sank into what would be my home away from home for the next few years…

Any preconceived drawing class ideas I may have had vanished as soon as Robin Wiseman our instructor began to speak. Enthralling. There would be no #2 pencils in use, nor would we carve the figure out in the usual exacting measures. The human body was worthy of much more thought and consideration. More was expected. Demanded.

Robin was our instructor. A professor that would quietly push for more. Our best. Our immediate response to the figure was captured in one minute, two-minute warm-ups. Responding to and interpreting what we saw.

We my fellow students and I needed to really look at the subject to understand the human body. To truly see what was before us. Flesh, curves, hard angles, and unusual proportions made each body both interesting and challenging. Beautiful too. Nothing quite like it and nothing artistically harder. Figurative art requires a lifetime of study…

The art of understanding your subject matter was integral to the process. Exploring the subtleties of foreshortening. The physical relationships that each human possess are differently and uniquely exhibited in each individual body. There are some standards but there are always exceptions making figurative art fascinating…

Sometimes we were charged with positioning ourselves off to the side of the easel and draw without ever looking at the paper. Unsettling loss of control in one’s search for perfection but liberating artistically. “Use the other hand.” Robin would demand with a musical chair’s urgency. Tricking our brain to exit the comfort of the usual. Hold the charcoal differently he would advise. Experiment. Nothing to lose. It was just paper. Change it up. Work uncomfortably. The paper would undoubtedly reflect a freshness that caution, and overthinking would never produce. Be off balance and run with it…

Broken bits of vine charcoal would chase a figurative essence. To describe without getting bogged down in minutia. A four-minute pose allowed for a lot of information to be described. Working under the pressure of time always seemed to benefit my work. Moving decidedly and swiftly. The energy of the moment spilled out onto the paper.

Longer poses brought a more intense investigation. I would begin at the center of the figure to best navigate up and down the model’s body.  If the model faced away from the group, I would quickly describe the spine in snake like fashion to expose the gesture of the pose. Refinement would come later. An exciting quickness often solidly set the composition. Almost always I would finish the long pose drawing at home. I couldn’t wait to work more on my sketches. Bringing the drawing to whatever conclusion I wanted.

How a body moves? The question and the study thereof have influenced my paintings, always. Power and grace. Strength and movement…

One might focus on the torso only. How the wave of a spine influenced the gesture. The hands. A lower extremity and foot explored. A focused study brought great understanding. Learning what lies under the skin and how it functions became a fevered pursuit as I needed to know it all…

Our work was up on the wall for critique one class during the semester. A professor popped into our Intro to Figure Drawing class. The echo and only sound I initially heard was his sturdy work boots pounding across the paint stained worn wooden floor. He eagerly crossed the room headed to my portrait of Jim Morrison. My first charcoal portrait. I could feel my heart beating wildly as anxiety crushed down on my rapidly rising chest as he crossed the high-ceilinged classroom. He wanted a better look. He walked over to my charcoal portrait “to get a better look.” He had seen it from the hallway as he was passing by and wanted more. The sweet seduction of praise was new to me. There was a spark.

 A heavy plastic box of possibilities rested on my Vermont studio floor.  Unclipping the plastic latches allowed the subtle waft of pencil and charcoal to greet me. A smell now so familiar to me.  I once used a soft tan colored fishing tackle box to house my drawing materials. Deep red interior. I still have the first one purchased; my mom had bought it for me. A physical sign of support and belief in my ability as I started studying at RISD

The contents always included an ordinary paint brush to lightly remove the excess charcoal from the surface. Erasers and tortillons. An impressive variety of charcoal. Willow and vine in medium, soft and most importantly extra soft. Compressed charcoal too. Half empty Windsor & Newton rectangular boxes slightly crushed yet still protective.  A charcoal stained chamois. A China marker and ink pens. A box of possibilities.

Canson paper in various shades of gray. Some tan too. A rough tooth watercolor paper and a smooth white bond paper in stacks under my art table. An old architect’s table that occupies the center of my studio. The paper services all different purposes. Artist’s choice.

I was never great about doing thumb nail sketches. Nor does a pure white canvas intimidate me. I just want to get after it and create. I ignore the roadblock as I plow full on ahead.

A field of charcoal is applied to the center of the paper. Diving into the silky dark dust I am immediately at home with my hands covered in black or a deep brown. A kneaded eraser stretched and molded is my tool to pull an image out of the charcoal. No specific lines drawn as I wait for the image to rise out of the dust. There is an element of surprise and happy accidents that I delight in. Sculpting and moving the medium around while shaping the image. Creating a mood. Telling a story seeped in shadows, lights and darks. Gradations of gray. Dramatic in its simplicity. No distraction from color.

Soft vine charcoal snaps easily. Gliding upon application. Working with small pieces to smudge and stain the paper as the medium is so responsive. Fragile as well. No use of pencil per se but sometimes a touch of graphite for effect. A simple flex of the hand and the image is gone. Forever. Storytelling in black and white…

Elizabeth Ricketson’s Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/elizabeth_ricketson/