“Art of Tudor and Stuart Britain”: An epic artistic journey across England from the perspective of the artistically challenged

[This is a guest post by Henry Southwick (’15) taken from the London Program’s Blog].

After week three of this amazing program here in London, one thing has become particularly apparent – there is a vast array of artistic talent when it comes to our sketches. A few students have taken observational drawing courses before, a few drew throughout high school, and a few have discovered a natural artistic talent within themselves. I won’t name names, but there are more than a few students on this program who have produced jaw-dropping pieces. It has been so impressive.

And then there’s me. Hi, my name is Henry and the last time I drew something that isn’t a stick-man doodle was probably sixth grade art class. I’m part of the small contingent on this program that were destined to take a lifelong ride on the artistic struggle-bus. Don’t get me wrong; I am definitely one of the “creative types.” I have always prided myself on devotion to written communication, theatrical performance, and music. But when it comes to picking up a pen and capturing the shading contrasts of my muse while she is reading on the couch across from me, you definitely should commission somebody else.

To give a little context, “Art of Tudor and Stuart Britain” is the second of our two art courses. In it, we take the different artistic skills we learned in the Monday drawing class (for example, sketching in pen) to different museums and sites all over London. There we find a particular piece we find interesting, learn a little bit of the history of it, and try to recreate certain aspects of it in our sketchpads. So far we have done the Museum of London, the Victoria and Albert, and the Tate Britain.

When the course first got started, I was not particularly pleased to be drawing. I have always found it difficult and, as a result, have shied away from it for many years. I chose to come on this program originally because seeing four shows a week on West End is any theater kid’s dream. Knowing nothing about how wonderful Juliane would be, I viewed the art courses as a price I would have to pay to see the best theater in the world. Our first day sketching in Oxford I drew a rock. When we went to the London Museum I drew an ax. At the Victoria and Albert I went out for a pint and pie (Are you getting the picture?). For two and a half weeks I half-assed my way through sketching while moaning, groaning and cracking jokes about my own ineptitude, blaming my laziness on a concussion sustained in Oxford.

And then I saw her, one bleary morning at the Tate Britain. Leaning against a brick wall with bright eyes, a smirk on her face and a melon in her hands. It might have been the three hours of sleep I got the night before, but it seemed that smirk was directed right at me. There were all sorts of others in the room around us. There were my classmates sketching, two women in bed holding babies, a remarkably busty portrait of Queen Elizabeth, even a man standing in a bog without any pants, but I knew that smirk was for me. Not only was she smirking at my glorious attempt to grow a luscious beard, but that smile also said (in what can only imagine was a Scottish accent), “Boy, you think you’re good enough to capture all this on canvas?”

Well, needless, to say, I am not the sort of fellow to back down from a challenge issues by a beautiful Scottish woman. And so I sat down there on the bench before her and said, “Yes mam.”

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Henry you are a terrible amateur artist, what on earth are you doing trying to recreate this beautiful, cheeky woman chilling in the doorway of a renaissance pantry full of lettuce?” Well, round about 30 minutes in, that’s about what I was thinking too. But I could not give up and have the cheeky Scottish lady laughing at me. Besides, Pierre had already taken a picture of me with my head tilted to the side, contemplating the art. I had to have something to show for it.

And then I went deep into an artistic stupor. These stupors come around whenever I am feeling inspired while I write (my dream is to be a writer), and hours can fly by before I come back to reality. This is significant for two reasons. The first is that I was there, unmoving, for nearly three hours. The second is that I did not previously realize that I could be so fired up about drawing. I dunno if I was still rocking a creative high from writing the night before or was angry with myself about my previously demonstrated ineptitude, but I took my pen to my sketchpad until I ran out of ink, and then I pulled out my backup pen. That was the morning that I decided that if I was going to be terrible at art, it wasn’t going to be because I wasn’t trying.

I have no doubt that if any other member of our class had sat there for three hours and tried to crank out the same painting they would have created something much more beautiful than mine, but, honestly, I don’t care about that at all. For the first time in my life I had fun drawing, and the result wasn’t even that bad to boot. I’m really quite proud of myself for the effort I made. I discovered that I quite like drawing with pen. In fact, as soon as this post is up I will be sketching the pants-less bog man (he’s daring me to, I can just tell!), and this coming Wednesday we will be going to the Hampton Court Palace, where I certainly plan to have another go at pen sketches if given the opportunity.

So, the conclusion I have drawn (HA! See what I did there?) is this: even though there are a few of us here who are struggling with the arts course, if practice doesn’t make perfect, it at least makes it a little better. Besides, trying to draw 500 year old Renaissance (read ReNAYsense on this side of the world) art is a pretty great way to spend your Wednesday morning.