right brain v left brain?

I have recently taken up sketching classes again and thought I should try and do some of the left brain v right brain exercises to loosen up my creative spirits. It was an interesting exercise which took up several classes. I have included all four sketches, two being drawn with the right hand (dominant) and two with the left hand. I think they are amazingly similar and hard to tell apart. It was much easier than I thought, apart from the occasions when using the left non-dominant hand the pencil went in the opposite direction to what I was thinking and a couple of times I couldn’t move it at all – it was sort of stuck to the page!

Would love some feed back on which two you think are with the right hand and which two with the left, and if anyone has had similar experiences?

One

Two

Three

Four

the mask – uncovered – daring to live

The Mask I wear.

Hooded eyes, hide

a lifetime. Of terror.

Strenuous, tenuous lines that

shape a face.

Are two holes a nose, or spaces that

inhabit lens to view the world

and seek our souls?

1. Audrey – through glazed eyes

Audrey had had a shit of a week. Lost her wallet, lost her boyfriend, lost her job. And it was only Wednesday. Consoling her losses she headed towards the Bay, took her shoes off and walked absent-mindedly along the pier – and that was when she lost her new Manolo Blahniks. One floated and one sank as passers-by held her back. Drowning would have been the happiest way to end that week. Crying uncontrollably he took pity on her.

Vulnerable and lost she felt her head rest on his shoulder. The tears smudged her mascara and left black streaks on his linen shirt.

He lifted her face and softly wiped away the tears with his forefinger. Startled by the tenderness Audrey looked up. He held her stare and she looked away. She started to walk away and then turned.

She reached out and touched his face. With trepidation he asked for her phone number – 0439 281 349 she answered – let’s talk next week?

Sleep came easily …

Courtesy of Google images

Arching forward

With the thrust of her hip, she, an unknown
searching for, clamouring for love, thrusts her abdomen
forward
hoping to see, feel, hear an answer
to a question she cannot articulate.

Full, and buxom in delivery
She sits
Waiting, wishing for the touch of another.
Skin deprivation, a disease of her type, clamours over her body
like an asp
repellent in its existence.

Calling, calling, her body cries in a
language
interpreted by the masses
or an individual
a sole stranger looking for the same.

She lunges forward, slowly, like a leopard watching prey
waiting to pounce
a victim, food, satisfaction.
One small error and the prey is safe again.

Boldly the leopard arches in defiance, enacting a confident
stride
a stance, a posture.

In total ambiguity and absence of features, the leopards lies
form and shape camouflaged on the paper.
Lines leading to lines, contours carved in graphite.
Waiting, waiting
to pounce
the kill in total absence of colour, lies, lifeless
eyes closed in sublimation.

bold in black

From the edges of the canvas I am etched
dark, black, broad marks define the soft caresses
of that part of me that is pegged to my frame.
Mere stabs of charcoal, shards, points
facet together the features that make me unique.
I am my own body, safe and secure in a physical frame
weak by design
but it is the mental frame that is strong in design
characterised by eyebrows, softly pared,
lips parted and pouted
and a single ear, protruding from the chignon of the nuggets of my hair.

And so my body enacts the thoughts that nil can see
save for the stresses, solid black marks which line my face.
Chin cupped, hands securing alternate cheek to knee. Breasts cower
shrouded by the pear-like shape of my thigh.
an elbow rests, eyes stare into the nothingness of the air.
A sole calf rest humbly on the blanket which bathes and consoles.

Together, with all three, the chalk becomes dust
smearing, patching the space which surrounds my presence
my escape, my sanity.
Serenely, I stare at the floor, through pupils
covered in the gossamer of the evening sun
wisps, which filter the day’s delights and the warm thoughts
of night to come.

Words and sketches: Susie Packham

the confusion of a moment in time

I reach forward, desperate to touch
to be touched
my hands are dirty, stretching through
the gutters of depravation
turgid with grit and gravel.
My fingers scrape the urban canvas
nails scratching at reality
knuckles grazed, crazed in depravity.

Through the gossamer of morning mist, I,
rest the dilemma of my life in my wrinkled palms.
Sitting, I stare into oblivion. My arms are crooked
my leg haunches in anticipation.
My eyes stare, want, need no more.
My body rests among the turmoil of subsistence.

Close up, my lips poise towards tomorrow
Arms flail towards me, tender, not comforting.
Their outline is direct without discourse, gently pushing the boundaries
I aim to explode.
Explore, such sanity pervades but does not exist.
Surrounded by the mundanity of the morn, seen through misted glass
my shoulders lean towards the call
the call, a silent call of humanity.
Difficult to experience, to touch from the confines of my studio.
Desperate to escape, skin deprived
I stare, movement binding me to my seat, needled in the pain of living.

Images and writing: Susie Packham

The Muse

Defiant I stand, resolute and upright
I look in the mirror, eyes hardened to another day’s work.
Arms crossed, folded in resignation.
In despair my eyes only see the half that lies above the washbasin.

The other half, completes the picture
my body disconnected by thoughts.
Do I inspire those who choose to follow my form in
chalk, charcoal, pen, pencil or ink?
Do I want to inspire those who choose to follow my form in outlines
they deem fit for paper or canvass?
Do I need to inspire?

Yes, I do. My livelihood, my existence, my whole.
And so I lie, I stand
in stillness, the air checkered by the short breaths I utter,
the movements of sheets, the scratching of the artist portraying
me in life, lifeless yet full of vitality.

Do I sit how I want?
What pose suits my mood?
Does the artist choose the pose that suits my mood, as seen at length.

What thoughts do I have as I sit and wander, thoughts wandering
arms hanging, legs crossing?

Head forward, head lowered, eyes open, eyes closed.
Shoulders wrapped and draped, by fingers
falling carelessly, or held in position by the artist
whose eyes caress me from afar.

How much longer can I sit, this position that.
Staring into space. Please let me go …

Please release me from your frown, your needs are no greater than mine…

I beg, I implore, just cut the bonds
those invisible ties that pin me in this position.
Am I here for you, or me or for others to view?

So many questions – no answers
just let me sleep.
Let my body stop acting, stop lying in wait
muscles tensed, looking relaxed
just let me sleep.

Pulling tight on my arms I’m pulled from above
imprisoned, each day
as I sit and inspire.

As I sit I dream, free as the clouds
lifting and lilting and gliding in space
Forgetting that tomorrow, nothing will change
again I will sit, I will lie, I will stand
contorted as my master or mistress demands.

Lost in a dream?

The shades of night envelop the room is darkness, save for a silvery glow
that swathes my body.
Looking to the left my eyes avert reality.  The tension in my body rises,
in readiness.  My arms are fired by red and orange strokes, reaching out
flaring in desperation.
I lift my arms, slowly one by one, I feel small pin pricks in my muscles.
Showers of probing shots penetrate the muscle sheaths.
Electricity, without pain, catapults itself through the fibres of my hair.  In shock
curling strands cascade down my shoulders.  Following  bony outlines the blades of my shoulders remind me of who I am, the present of where I am. 
Standing, solo my mind alerts to a constant drumming, trying to wake me.  I turn to face the mirror.  It’s hard cold glare returns my gaze.

Front on my image is stark, staring me in the face.  My eyes no longer see me.
Retinas searching through eyelashess, filtered by mascara tinged hairs.   Again, I reach for my hair, caught in my hands, knotted and strangled. 
Freed only from this frozen moment when my gaze melts.

Too scared to look again, open eyes that are closed slits, I turn my body, my cheek raw and exposed, my chin cradled in the crook of my arm. 
Hands clinging to hair, the only solace of softness I can find. 
My skin aches, my face is taute.

The rising undertones of dawn crawl across the palette of early morning.
Face nestled into pillowed down I reach for the security of hair, head lifted,
eyes opening wide
sneaking, peeking.
my dream shattered by the fragility of life.  Another day, saved from my demons.
Bathed in dawn’s muted hues and gentle warmth, I slowly turn my head left, again.

Searching for hope

A bended knee supports a face
calm eyes searching a space
extended in time, reaching to the future.
It is evening and the wind makes a low whistling noise as it crosses the panes of glass that protect her.  She wants to escape, to talk, to touch, to communicate but her eyes only see the threadbare carpet on which she sits.

Pensive

Pensive in thought her ankles bear the weight of a soul.
A soul disguised by the epidermal layers of cells
that hold together her presience.

Her future stretched by gossamer skin, encased by mortality.