The Quality of Line
As my August 2009 residency continues I’ve found myself talking quite a bit about “line quality”. And while most of the folks around me hear what I have to say, nod and move on, I’ve come to realize that it really must seem a throw away expression.
Why has no one said, “what the hell are you talking about?” (assuming they listen or care).
As I work, day in and day out with nothing but black and grey lines (ink and pencil respectively) I find that when I close my eyes I continue to see lines of varying width and sharpness, and as I read a book at the close of the day I find myself examining, almost subconsciously, the heft of the line used to connect the two pillars of a capital “H”, or the gentle slope of the letter “c”. One might think this bothersome, but really it feels like a meditation: the more time I spend with the line the closer I feel I come to truly understanding it.
Now, I know that may sound odd, but it really is what I’ve chosen to do with my life. I make images which, by and large, are comprised of a series of lines that when viewed as a whole, form an image greater than the sum of its parts. I believe that getting to know the singular line allows me a superior control of the overall work: that with the flick of the wrist a whole piece can be altered, perhaps imperceptibly to the uninitiated, but changed nonetheless.
Every artist, I would imagine, dreams of a time when their work transcends the boundaries of their mortal life, discussed in a far flung art history course on a campus full of activity long after the artist’s passing. For me, I would like it to be said that Jason Covert understood the line – that the body of his work spoke of an exquisite quality of line.
One Response to “The Quality of Line”
You do make a mother proud…
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