Assemblage

I have recently developed a desire to paint an old woman. This is the sort of perverse feeling that creeps up on me whenever I look at Armin Mersmann's work. If you don't know who that is, Google him. You will fall hopelessly in love. He probably has the hippest taste in music of any fifty year old in the world. I don't necessarily agree with him taste, but I can't do anything but stare slack-jawed at his talent. Brat.
Concerning his work, it is, in the main, pencil (graphite) drawings on large scales, increasingly large, in fact, in a startlingly photorealistic style that took me several viewings to really appreciate, or even believe. He's mind-boggling. I would love to know how he manages to draw every single pore and wrinkle, rendering them in such brilliant contrast, but it likely has something to do with the fact that he spends about four hundred hours on a drawing that I would speed through in five or six.
Which reminds me. I haven't done a good, long-term drawing in a while. Probably has something to do with losing my xacto knife, or not owning fixatif. And my portfolio is falling apart like Satan. I've had that stroppy sky-blue folder since I was thirteen, and it has trailed me over the past three continents like a lost puppy.
Speaking of puppies, I was watching a dog show the other night. Shut up. I was. It was the only thing on the telly worth watching, sadly enough. It made me remember why I love borzois so much. Yes, they're lanky and have those irritating wedge-shaped heads, and probably shed too much, and look nervous and aristocratic, but there's something in the curl of their tails and the sensitivity in their ears that makes me adore them. I want one. I promised myself that I shall, someday, adopt a little borzoi puppy and name him Lord Ruthven.
And, to complete this post. I love the Wiggles, don't you?