I seem to have reached the limits of my figure-drawing abilities, at least in the realm of realism. Yikes, what a compendium of anatomical and perspectival errors. I would never even print this out, let alone put it in a gallery. And yet here it is, for all to see. Cause this ain't no art blog, this is a me blog. All me, all the time. The good and the bad, the successes and the failures, the saintly and the pure evil. The essence of roses and the pile of dog shit. Mother Theresa and the pimple on her hiney. Okay, you get the point. Three hours of sitting on a folding chair bent over a graphics tablet--it was a bit much. The model, Brandi, held her pose for three hours without a break, although, truth be told, I often hold a similar pose for eight hours or more, albeit not precisely in a state of consciousness. And not necessarily naked in front of a semicircle of sketchers. That I recall, leastways. You never know what people get up to when you're sleeping. Well, time to go do some more mourning for Gerald Ford. Catch you later.