Blurred Lines

I am an incompetent drawer (another one of those pesky words that totally has two meanings with one spelling; I question myself every time I write it). I love looking at lines and shapes, paintings and sculptures, but if it comes to recreating the slightest resemblance to what I'm looking at, then I fail utterly.

I once believed that I simply needed tutoring in the fine art of depth and lighting, shadows and color, but then I realized--to my shame--that I cannot even draw a straight line. I literally cannot do it. (I can trace a straight line, but so can everyone). My hand, while steady throughout other daily pursuits, has no desire to remain straight. What is frustrating is that a straight line is supposedly simple. It is a line of demarcation, a separation of two areas, a delineation of space. Why can't I draw a straight line?

Plato says that no one has ever seen a perfect circle or a perfectly straight line. He is using it to express his theories about form (everyone knows what a "perfect" circle looks like, even though they've never seen one), but that's not important here. His argument is that every circle/line/triangle is made up of a series of infinitely small dots or lines, and no artist can create each of those small dots or lines perfectly. This theory comforted me, not just in my artistry, but in my life.

I listened to someone try to draw a line for me the other day. (I could do this whole part as he/she, but I'll save us both some time: it was a he. My telling you his sex (problem of universals, anyone? It must be a Platonian day) is not meant to draw any abject generalizations on that sex; I have seen/heard multiple women try to convince me of the same position some with less and some with more logic--neither, however, with more success)

He started off simply. By the end, however, his line which was made by a rigid, fat marker on white paper, veered and dipped, and zigged and zagged. He then had the gall to conclude that this line--these beliefs--was/were the only logical answer to his original premise. I sat in horror (and a little awe,) and thought about Plato's belief. I thought about how many individual lines went into the drawing of this fat line. For this to be a perfect line, (like he promised) each one of his individual lines had to be perfect, and they weren't. His individual, minuscule lines lacked depth, wisdom, exceptions, and frankly, thought.

I silently begged him to sit down and visually draw this line of reasoning. Had he done so, he would have been shocked to see the childlike scrawl that it resembled. No one would consider that line as making any sense, or being aesthetically pleasing (It might even resemble modern art, a style which every good member of this man's group despises). I would then hand him an eraser and tell him to use it, to revise where revision is called for, to be willing to smudge the unnecessary areas, to think about each one of his individual lines, and then make each of those lines perfect.

Straight lines are never as simple as they appear.