I set out, with my partner, on a walk after a day of downpour. I figured the rain would bring opportunities to find so called Temporary Drawings. I wanted to kick start my mind ahead of the weekend, and build up ideas. We ended up delving into what a drawing even is, or could be. He isn’t the creative type (yet, perhaps) but he engaged with the exercise that I was chasing.
“Zorro” had dropped by our own porch, unbeknownst to us, and left his famous Z mark in the form of rust stains from last winter’s snow shovel. Not yet cleaned away, but not long until that occurs. This was definitely a drawing to my mind, as I could feel a story arise in that simple slash of three brown lines. Intentional, no, but a drawing. The temporary nature might be argued — these will last until I clean them up.
Progressions in the sky of varying permanence presented themselves as we pondered. Forgive me. The fading tracks in the sky where planes from Toronto’s airports crisscross the continent even in this pandemic time. Against this backdrop: the power lines of a living city. The contrails hang in the sky beautifully, and distinctly temporary. Already losing cohesion to aimless fluff. I think most would consider the argument for them being Drawing. Art definitely.
The power lines have been strung with intent, and they will last for years or decades. I don’t know if I can define them as a drawing, even though i could collect their paths onto a page or map. A gridwork showing where the people are implied.
And then there: the artist at work. A brilliant white line being drawn across the sky in the medium of water vapor and sunset.
And what might this be? Drawn with intent, and that intent was a form of temporariness — yet lasting longer than expected.
It is almost summer, and in Toronto that means “Construction Season”. The streets are decked out in the regalia of engineer’s marks as they indicate water or gas mains, underground electricity conduits. Soon the streets will be torn up, sidewalks patched, and everyone will bemoan the inconvenience. Torontonians are never happy with their city.
These look like last year’s. A construction project halted by the pandemic. The memory of its hieroglyphics left to fade slightly more with each passing rain storm or street sweeper.
My mind asks: are the cracks drawings? They aren’t temporary though. Move on.
Down a flight of iron steps and we’re starting to think about whether my footsteps count as marks. If my phone were tracking my location it would be at the beginning of a wide circle that leads through the park ahead of us.
The aforementioned rainstorm has finally delivered what I knew I’d find. On this muddy park side road, cars have been leaving the impressions of their weight. A brief record of recent commutes, grocery shopping excursions, and trips to pick up or drop off the kids. An accidental record of the passage of time.
Someone carved their initials in the mud at the park’s entrance. It will be gone by morning, as more rain was scheduled for the evening. Simple, effective, drawing.
(The lines of the image borders, to the left, remind me of streets.)
By the pond, we see ripples distorting the reflection of evening sky. Hatch marks driven by the slight breeze march towards us, dragging reflections too and fro.
Then a parade of ducks leave their mark, stately v-shaped wakes cut the ripples, adding the accidental artifact of intention.
Canada geese silently follow. “Cobra chickens” are an apt name. Bullies and brutes, I wonder why they chase the ducks. Their wakes are disorganized, random almost.
A high pitched hiss draws our attention, and a fisherman casts a line out into the pond. Straight as a ruler, etched in the air. Can a line drawn against no surface still be a drawing?
Beyond the line of trees a busy road fills with cars, and a train goes by. The train races along a line drawn for it, only to turn around later and repeat its path. Over and over.
The random hash of goose prints make a starry scattering above a treeline of tire tread. The asphalt lake can be briefly glimpsed, while high over head grassy clouds drift by.
“Who is this?” someone asks, written in the sand.
This path is all graffiti that will wash away in moments once the rain returns.
A meandering pathway greets as towards the end of our walk. A circular labyrinth with suggestions for travel. No one walking today. With their missing presence, so too a missing passage across the labyrinth.
I still don’t know what drawing is. Is it in the silk threads of the gypsy moth caterpillars as they parachute down from devastated trees? Is it in the fishing line, or trace of a snail’s passage? Does a drawing require intention? or can the processes of physics crack a sidewalk and reveal a drawing?
I’ll spend the weekend with paper and charcoal and chalk and sidewalk. With garden dirt, fallen leaves and the mulch of shredded cedar trees. These seem like fertile ground to explore.
Maybe I’ll stick some chalk to the soles of my shoes and walk a path around the neighborhood.