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After lazily ripping out sheets of tracing paper, I carelessly sketched five different drawings of my assembled objects all from a different view point.Then, with the annoying encouragement of my teacher, I was forced to find a window and tape all my sketches up one on top of the other and then tape a blank piece of white paper on top of all the sketches.At that moment the world stopped moving and nothing existed except the artist and her work.
Apparently how you stacked your sketches would be how your drawing was translated onto paper. It all looked like a mess of lines and shapes anyway, and I was more concerned with how many more minutes were in the period because, man, I was hungry.
The bright light from the window shined through the transparent layers of tracing paper, making it easy to see each mark I had made.
Some figures needed to be given depth, some needed to remain absolutely flat, and others needed to be somewhere in between.
My eyes screamed in protest as they were forced to concentrate over and over again on the meticulous task of perfecting the color of every single form.
My tracing paper sketches were inconsiderately crumpled up and tossed into the trash, and in my hands I now held the skeleton of my Cubist drawing.
That drawing had to be one of the most surprising things I had ever experienced.
I had an idea of the color scheme I was going for; the feeling of the piece called for semi-muted colors that were at the same time vibrant.
I settled on a palette of browns, blues, oranges, and purples.
When I was old enough to appreciate genuine fine art, my parents started bringing me to museums that housed some of the greatest artists the world has ever seen.
Raphael, Michelangelo, da Vinci, Donatello, and Botticelli intoxicated me like only the finest of drugs could.