The precision of my lines is sometimes so
demanding that I draw whilst holding my breath.
I hold my breath as if the
slightest breath might cause a line to waver,
shift a shape or blur the sharpness of a
contour.
I do not always choose to hold my breath.
It happens when the line demands more
close attention. The air hangs still. My
chest moves less. Around my hand, my
body restricts its movements.
My breath ceases to accompany the
drawing and enters the drawing.
The outside world recedes. My attention descends
towards a few millimetres of paper, the tip of the
pencil, the resistance of the surface. As
the field narrows, the material
takes its full place. I no longer watch my
hand drawing. I am within what it is doing.
The tip moves forward. The paper resists, then yields
slightly. The pressure changes. My hand
responds to whatever it encounters. The line is born
between the advancing tip, the surface that resists it,
and my body holding its breath.
For a few seconds, the distance
narrows. The sheet is no longer in front of me. The
gesture and the material become difficult to
separate. I become one with this contact.
Then the line comes to an end.
The air returns. My chest resumes its
movement. The field widens. The sounds
regain their distance. The room returns
around the sheet of paper. I then discover the depth to which my attention had
descended.
I begin again.
Not all lines require this
depth. Some move with the breath.
Others hold it. Within the same
drawing, my body shifts from one state to another:
breathing, holding, drawing, releasing.
Holding my breath does more than just stabilise my hand.
For a few seconds, it reduces the
distance between my body and the material.
I hold my breath. The tip touches the paper.
Everything tightens around that point of contact.
Then I breathe out.
I return to the surface.
