So as Jesus finishes carrying his cross through town, flanked by masked faces in sinister tall black peaks, 10 of us gather together and circle round a beautiful naked girl, sitting in pain, so we can draw her, I guess we all have our weird faiths and our burdens.
But soon graphite slides like silk over smooth cartridge and my feminist angst subsides, I remember how fond of this I am. It is about sensitivity, respect, the simple act of finding form in space.
Maybe the BDS was too much of a good thing, or maybe it was naïve of me to think you could organize something and enjoy it. But for the past year, my love of life drawing had gone, or maybe it was just resting.