Drawing is not just about
entering a world of shapes and
colours.
You also have to learn to step out of it.
The final stroke stops my hand, but it does not
stop me entirely. My gaze
remains on the paper. My fingers linger
near the colours. The room surrounds me,
still distant.
I put the pencils away one by one.
The yellows return to the yellows, the greens
join the greens, the reds, the purples and the
blues take their places again.
My hands still continue the drawing as
they gather the colours together.
I am no longer drawing. I am organising. Picking up a
colour, moving it, setting it down: the gesture
still resembles drawing, but already it is taking me away from it. Each pencil returned to its place
imperceptibly increases the distance.
My hands begin the return journey before I do.
My breathing slows.
My gaze returns to the room.
The sounds come back little by little.
One sound stands out, then another. The light
returns to that of the room. I feel the chair
beneath my body, my feet against the floor,
the space behind my back. Nothing had
disappeared. Yet everything returns.
I do not abandon the drawing.
I accompany it until it falls silent.
The hand, the gaze, the hearing and the body do not
return together. The hand has already stopped drawing
whilst the colours still hold
my gaze. Sounds resume their place
before I fully feel my body
in the room. I return in stages.
Only then does the ordinary world
resume its place.
The drawing is still before me. It is the
distance that has changed. A few moments
ago, I was still moving amongst its
shapes. Now, I can look at them without
touching them.
The next drawing is already there.
It does not yet call for any movement. Between the one
I have just left behind and the one to come,
my body rediscovers its own rhythm.
The drawing never really stops.
It simply changes its rhythm.
