"He's a Smart Big Fish, He's Gone Under the Boat."
This moment was the first time Quint realized that he might have met his match, and you can tell that part of him relishes it. After God knows how many years of shark fishing, here was a target that wasn't playing by the rules, and maybe Quint was going to find out just how good of a shark hunter he really was.
Later, when the shark surfaces, finally showing itself to its pursuers as it leisurely passes by the Orca, Hooper cries out, "That's a twenty footer!", to which Quint quietly replies, "Twenty-five. Three tons of him." You can hear the respect in his voice.
My twenty-five foot, three ton shark is none other than Paul Pierce.
I've been attempting to do a charcoal drawing of Pierce holding his Finals MVP trophy for the ALS auction sponsored by the Sons of Sam Horn, the same auction for which I've already drawn the David Ortiz portrait that I blogged about a few posts ago.
I can usually bang out a charcoal piece in a couple of hours, and this one was going well, until I got to Pierce's face. I just can't nail his face. I've drawn it and erased it three separate times, and I've hit a wall. It's never happened before. With each attempt I attacked it in a different state of mind (whether by choice or coincidence: slightly buzzed, pretty damned drunk, and stone cold sober). Didn't matter. Snake eyes.
I'm pretty determined to finish it now, not only for the auction's sake but just to prove to myself I can't be beaten, but it's a foreign feeling, and not an entirely unpleasant one. Given the safe and unoriginal nature of the artwork I make, it's easy to get complacent and then bored (which is deadly), so it's nice to actually feel challenged for once, tasting the blood in my mouth from the stiff jab that somehow slipped between my upraised gloves.
After the third failed attempt to get Pierce's face right, I clicked off the lamp above my drawing table, looking at the piece and the chewed-up vacant space between Pierce's neck and his World Champions cap, and thought approvingly, "He's a smart big fish, he's gone under the boat."
I shall return to the table soon, harpoon in hand. Or knowing me and my creative process, Harpoon IPA in hand. Either way, I look forward to it.
I am nothing if not a creature of habit, so if I were a gambling man, I'd bet on me having about 17 beers tonight and then throwing myself at this piece in a rage. The final results may be interesting, because psychologically I need to complete this thing one way or the other. Perhaps this will usher me into my Cubist phase. I smell a $1000 bid!
I figured a game thread would make the process more interesting. May your nipples become erect with anticipation.
Edited by LoweTek, 10 August 2008 - 07:40 PM.