On Drawing

Thanks to the generosity of the Walker family and the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, I had an extended stay at the Walker House in fall of 1982. 
I had admired paintings by Mary Hackett, a self-taught artist who spent much of the year in Provincetown. Friends who knew Mary encouraged me to simply knock on her door and introduce myself. So one afternoon I did, and Mary greeted me warmly, and we struck up a dear friendship which lasted until her death in 1989. I loved talking to Mary about her paintings. 
I often had questions for her about her art and other artists. And of course we often talked about our lives. One afternoon Mary said to me, “Michael, you love art so much, but you don’t even draw!” I immediately replied: “Mary, 
I can’t draw.” Mary immediately said, “Oh for God’s sake, don’t let that stop you!” Her tone and opinion were riveting. The very next day I purchased some art supplies and began drawing. I could not draw referentially well but began experiencing line and color in unexpected ways. I have been drawing ever since. One of Mary’s fine paintings is entitled The Big Me Standing in My Way. Fine advice for anyone. And this is the best advice to young poets I can think of.

Tomas Tranströmer wrote me a letter in 1981 explaining why he could not write a blurb for my poetry book, Ruby for Grief, published by the University of Pittsburgh Press. Tranströmer wrote, “I will never write blurbs about poets in a language that is not my own.” He offered me a “(private) blurb”:

I remember when Monica and I were walking in the desert and saw a huge heap of stones that had something in it, some caracter [sic]. Then we realized that it was The Sphinx, but seen from behind! I often have the feeling that your poems are the sphinx seen from behind and I would like to see the face of it more often.

My scale is often small. I often have a slight agenda, but more often don’t have any agenda at all. Often I return to drawings a good while after they’ve begun. As in my writing, I am at times intrigued by a mistake. I prefer to think of it as a mistake. I sometimes mix drawing with something, usually a poem or a failed poem I have written. And often I am drawing small sequences. I think that just having drawings in the vicinity of poems creates possible relationships which otherwise would not occur. I do not exaggerate when I say I am not sure if I would have had these experiences if it hadn’t been for Mary Hackett’s exclamatory remark.

 

Stop, explain, and lie, 2013, mixed media, 5 × 7 in.

 

If only, 2002, mixed media, 4 × 6 in.

 

In the Middle of the Stone, 2009, mixed media, 4 × 6 in.

 

Unwarranted, 2017, mixed media, 4 × 6 in.