9 Moons Ago

Have just scanned 2 new portraits, drawn from old family photos:

To see the rest of the photostream, just click here:

Buttons McTavish’s aka Amy Lehr’s Flickr

Just thought I’d share something which I find appealing, both as an artist who loves portraiture and the stories behind a face, as well as someone who has always been fascinated with old photos and genealogy.

Click to see The Rogues Gallery

This article shares the way people at the last turn of the century in Britain were dealt with for public drunkenness and the behavior which accompanied it. And, as for these faces, as an artist who loves to draw/paint portraits, they are a wealth of rugged terrain. Most of these subjects are pretty much caricatures already. Some are hard to look at and imagine their life, some so comical through the sadness. Some, just “Yikes!”
They are pathetic, doleful, comical, angry, dazed, ashamed, scary and strange all at once. They obviously had hard and sorrowful lives, aged prematurely and were no strangers to violence…

I had to pull out one of my favorites, who someone expertly pegged as Elmira Gulch from the Wizard of Oz. I also kept thinking of her as an extremely dour Mary Poppins. You’ll pick her out, no problem. Here are some visual cues:

Here’s to hoping we never have to endure such a fate! Cheers!

THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS

by: W.B. Yeats

WENT out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

I’ve started keeping a small sketch journal. This is my first drawing, in pencil and two with digital alterations. It is based on a 1916 portrait of Marie Rapp by photographer Alfred Stieglitz:

There are a few more variations on my flickr account.