Drawing from Life by Miles Parnegg

Drawing from Life | Miles Parnegg

Between poses, we eat Oreos and ginger snaps while the animators smoke on the patio. I keep pulling off your hood to run a palm over your buzzed scalp, frosted with bleach. You dip your head as though taking a sacrament. By now, we know the models, not personally or by name, but by their jawlines and hip creases. The drawing saddles are uneven wood, and sandbags still line the studio’s back wall from February’s flood. Paint pigment circles the drain in the bathroom sink, lit by the waving flames of votive candles. The soundtrack is spa-like and ambient, heavy on flute. Spooky, you lean over and jot on my sketchbook. 

You went to art school, offer tips, gentle corrections. I want to learn this without learning, through blind seeing: no books or lessons, no regimentation—but I want your strokes on my page, the impressions of your fingertips and knuckles. You draw only in color, I only charcoal: a difference emblematic of something I can’t quite nail. You shy away from eyes and nose, preferring instead the suggesting shade of a high cheekbone, lifted by a thumb wetted on your tongue. Because you’re late, or you prefer the angle, you’re often on the floor in front of me, away from me. I smear charcoal across disproportionate masses while you hold a fistful of pastels and sit on the floor, cross-legged in your black boots. The bell rings to switch poses, and the model reaches for a stool, and I remind myself she’s the reason we’re here, that it’s foolish to think I can keep drawing you.

About the Author:

Miles Parnegg holds an MFA from the University of California, Irvine. He lives in Los Angeles.