Draw the lines you see.
I enjoy drawing, and I’m pretty good at drawing mathy things — like surfaces and shapes and diagrams — but beyond that I really have no idea what I’m doing. I’ve always wanted to improve, so when I saw a “Drawing for Teachers” course in the Math for America catalog I was excited to sign up.
The course was terrific. It was facilitated by three teachers, each with different backgrounds in art and different experiences teaching non-art subjects. Each session was filled with theory, history, exercises, and happily, lots of time to draw. It was the best kind of learning experience, one that affects you in many ways. I left with techniques to help me practice, fun activities to try at home, connections that inspire my teaching, and ideas to think deeply about.
But I keep coming back to one particular piece of advice I got from the facilitators. “Draw the lines you see.” I’ve said this to myself many times over past few months as I sit down to sketch. Doing so accomplishes two important things.
First, it centers a basic principle of drawing: everything is made of lines. I suppose this is the kind of observation that is obvious when you know what you’re doing, but as a novice it’s both helpful and practical to be reminded of. That moment I pick up a pencil and commit to trying to draw an object is often overwhelming and intimidating. There’s always a part of me asking “How am I ever going to draw this?” Now I have an answer. Draw the lines you see.
Second, this advice warns me about the common trap I never knew I was falling into. I often draw what I think I see, rather than what I actually see. I think I know what a bird looks like, so after I start drawing it, I stop looking at the bird in front of me and draw the bird I’m thinking of. The problem is I don’t really know what a bird looks like, at least not in enough detail to draw it accurately. My brain dutifully fills in the gaps, and before I know it my bird looks like a flying shark. “You draw with your eyes” was another good piece of related advice from the facilitators.
As eminently practical as this advice has been for drawing, I find it guiding me in other ways. The other day my son politely asked me to try playing the piano accompaniment as it sounds in the recording, not in the bouncy, internal rhythm that I naturally bend all music to. And when reading a book on physics and for the millionth time drifting away from what was written because I’d heard it all before and it didn’t make sense to me, I paused a moment, re-focused on the author’s words, and surprise! It made sense.
Draw the lines you see. Play the music you hear. Think on the words you read. All obvious in retrospect, I suppose, but maybe that’s just the nature of good advice.
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