Like A Bolt From The Blue

It's time for Royal Winter Fair Review! Ahem. I may have missed the point of the entire exercise, something about structure and form, er...The pencil sketches I made right at the fair were all fairly mediocre, so I made the forms a bit clearer. I may have made the lines a bit too stiff in some of the sketches. One of the sketches is actually cut off. That is because I did not position it properly in the actual sketchbook, and thus ran out of space near the knee joints of the horse, which, luckily, is where the partitions that blocked us from the horse began to conveniently obscure my view (O lordy I hope that one flies). 5 minutes is kind of a subjective term, I think. Who knows, 5 minutes to any other person could be like 6 minutes. Or 10. Relative time, you know.

The studies don't show quite as much structure as I'd like. I expect my mark to take a hit for that. Also, though I attempted to replicate what I saw as closely as possible, some of the muscles will still look kind of wonky. Or completely made up. Boy, I gotta say, the lighting was not optimal in the gas chamber that was the petting zoo, the hazy methane fumes swirling in a noxious vortex, the light a shimmering incandescence through the choking miasma. I did studies of mostly stationary animals, like the cows and sheep. I find that the goats calm down after eating enough to justify chewing cud. The horses stay still while eating, or, rather, while staring at people drawing them, as was the case of one particular horse (apologies for depicting the person the horse was looking at so poorly, but I think that the very  incompetent nature of the drawing should reasonably obfuscate your identity, and thus, render the problem moot). The cows are like statues. Statues that occasionally poop in harmony.

I hope the zoo next semester will be a less harrowing experience than the Royal Winter Fair. Fresh air is, I think, a welcome reprieve from the suffocation of indoors animal exhibits. The Korean BBQ was nice though. It was mostly beef: a poetic middle finger at the audacity of the farm animals for deigning to not smell like Febreze fabric softener.