I have been drawing since preschool, and though I don't know this for sure, I assume that I have been doodling since at least high school if not middle school. But it was while debating Desdemona and talking about the twin-cherries in Midsummer's Night Dream, that I first started using two notebooks: one for note-taking, and one (now far more interesting to revisit) for doodling. This was much more practical than it was artistic: my doodles had begun to dominate my notes when they shared the page, and I wouldn't hesitate to draw over the fact that Shakespeare was born in -----------.
As I simultaneously pursued a drawing/woodcutting minor and a psych minor, my artistic brain and my analytical brain strengthened in unison. Great, right? Right. Sure: I think so. But with this, like the valley between two active volcanoes, the divide between these two brains became more pronounced. They can work together, sure. There was no fall-out. No schism. They are like brothers who play well together; but they are also like brothers who both constantly want dad's attention and when dad is playing frisbee with the analytical brain, the artistic brain is jumping up in down in the window until dad finally turns his attention to him, leaving the analytical son alone in the backyard wishing his frisbee was a boomarang. Pretty soon the analytical son drops the frisbee altogether and chases after his brother and father, leaving the frisbee forgotten and unattended, lost in the tall grass for eternity.
To drop the metaphor, my brain wanders to whatever play I am working on or an idea for a woodcut, and once the artistic brain starts wandering, the analytical brain takes its cue and starts wandering as well: revisiting conversations and memories; breaking a part a play I read yesterday; etc. And then Jami asks me what I think of Claudius's prayer to heaven and whether I think words without thoughts ever to heaven go, and I sink and try not to think about the huge intellectual crush I have on this professor and how if I open my mouth I will prove that I have no idea what she's talking about, and I quickly stumble my way to an empty answer that sounds good to everyone but her and my friend Kim because they know it's bullshit just like I know it's bullshit.
The solution has been to doodle. I don't know what the denotation of doodling is, but for me it is a drawing without intention. It is a drawing that is more interested in being visually appealing than meaning anything. No truths are sought. No great mysteries are uncovered. And if you happen to spill coffee on it, so much the better. For me it is a way to engage my needy artistic son while I am playing frisbee with the analytical son. Over this last week, this trick has come in handy. We are at the stage in rehearsals where I am (as dramaturg) most valuable listening to the language of the play and making sure the actors are communicating the intentions of their characters. Greg and Libby - the directors for Girl in the Goldfish Bowl and the director for The Misanthrope - can worry about shape right now, and I will start worrying about it when we move into runs. And at that point my two brains can play together all they want; but not yet.
Of course it appears rude. It looks like I'm not listening at all when I am engrossed in a doodle, but in reality if I am doodling I am listening intensely. If I'm not doodling, then you should wonder where my mind has wandered to.
Rachel had to make a trip the paper store for school, and she gave me some of her scraps of some super swank paper! Delicious. My bank account is thankful she did not take me with her.
Doodles from a week of rehearsal:
Journey To
Dragon
Acorn
Three Wise Men
Systems
1 comment:
I haven't thought about Jamie's class in ages. Ah, the memories. That was one of my favorite classes--I should reread some of those plays...in my copious spare time (insert hysterical laughter here).
Nice doodles.
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