Dean C. Graf's Uploads

My painting professor drew this diagram on the board and suggested that it is a diagram for a painting. "Begin with large areas, covering the canvas with general colors and shapes. Refine the shapes and begin adding details. Refine the details and work with smaller brushes. When you are adding marks that your viewers would not notice, be done." There is more, but that is enough to ponder for now.

Being funny with students requires a certain amount of facial expression. I have been debilitated in my attempt to be funny with students.

Health matters. A healthy person can have several goals. A sick person has one goal. Make good choices, because they will make you. Easy to say. Not always easy to do. Eat well. Move with intension. Read to learn. Meditate and pray, and receive from that. Do what I say, not what I do. This writing is for me, not you.

Learning to see through drawing. It is a form of therapy.

This one is from a photo.

Thank you Elaine for your input and expertise. You are a rich source of wisdom and possibilities in connecting art to wellness. I will let you know how this develops. -Dean Graf

2B pencil focusing on the eye, nose and mouth. The reflection today is a suggestion that we find what we look for, and we see what we want to see. Our family dinners include a sharing time of: 1. Who blessed you today? 2. Who did you bless today? and 3. What are you thankful for? It is suggested by some that if you focus on the abundance, you will not see so much of the lack, but if you focus on the lack, you will not be able to see the abundance so well. This was illustrated by the questions: "How many red cars did you see on the way to work this morning?" My answer was: "No Idea!" It is because I was not looking. If I was being given $100.00 for each red car I spotted, I would have certainly been looking, and maybe even getting creative with the definition of 'red'. What are you looking for? What are you finding?

Years ago, I sketched Gibby at work—pencil in hand, bold strokes alive with motion. I caught them from over the shoulder: just the back of their head, the soft curve of their face, and that focused arm bringing something into being. They were 9 or 10 then, already showing the spark of creativity and concentration that pointed toward who they’d become. Now in their mid-20s, Gibby is thoughtful, insightful—quick to listen, slow to speak, and wired to process the world with care. Their path has been remarkable: two degrees in 2.5 years, no debt. That didn’t happen by accident. It took grit, German immersion schooling, 16 college credits earned in high school, and testing out of 24 more once at university. That’s Gibby—quietly determined, resourceful, and steady. But their story isn’t just academic. Gibby’s always been gifted with their hands—drawn to set design, locksmithing, welding. Trades they wanted to pursue early on, and still feel pulled toward. They’re at a bike shop now. It’s not the dream, but it fits: their hands know how to build, repair, and reshape the world. There’s been frustration—maybe even anger—that we didn’t let them follow the trade route right away. I get that now. Life veers, and sometimes the path chosen isn't the one imagined. But Gibby’s resilience—their ability to adapt and press on—is what I admire most. They’ve embraced their journey with honesty, stepping into their identity as a they/them person, unafraid to define success in their own terms. That takes courage. I’m proud of them—not for a résumé, but for who they are. This old drawing isn’t just a memory—it’s a thread connecting past to present. A reminder that the creative spark, the steady hands, the deep soul I saw back then is still shining. So here’s to you, Gibby: the kid who sketched with fire and the adult who still shapes the world with quiet brilliance. Your value has never been about the path you’re on. It’s about the person you are. And I’ll be here, cheering you on—every step of the way.

Lino cut print over pastel. The story goes: The bird fell in love with the whale the first time she saw him break through the ocean’s surface, sunlight dancing on his back. From high above, she sang to him, and deep below, he answered with a song as old as the tides. She longed to dive, to join him in the rolling blue. He wished to rise, to fly beside her in the endless sky. But air and water would not trade places. So each day, at dawn and dusk, they met at the edge of their worlds—she on the wind, he in the waves—singing a love song carried by the breeze and the tide, never together but never apart.

We know God has a sense of humor because He says 'be anxious for nothing' and then he gives you kids.

What happens if you really only look in the mirror, and not at the paper?

Gouache experiment.

Often I am given to making marks on paper that reflect the objects I see coming towards me as I gaze out the front car window. I do this exercise as a passenger of course. The goal is not the end product, but the process of connecting what I see with motor control. The product is an indication of movement and energy. Give it a try!

No peaking, and the experience is more valuable than the product.

Pencil. Waiting for my daughter to complete her shopping at forever 12... I mean forever 21...

I am an art teacher with a master’s degree—trained by brilliant professors who believed that art could do more than decorate walls. I offer safe spaces for teenagers to grow—nourishing soil where their imaginations can take root. And yet… I am assigned to hallway duty. This is compulsory education, after all. So I sit—posted like a sentinel—watching young lives stream past. “Get to class,” I say with a smile and a nudge. The system wants attendance; I’m hungry for presence. Armed not with a whistle or clipboard, but with a pen— my scribble’s soft insurgency. The hallway stretches out like a geometric hymn. Columns and corners chant structure. Teenagers swirl past—half-formed galaxies of limbs and laughter— their orbits chaotic, their gravity pulling time forward. I begin to draw. Not their tardiness, but their motion. A shoulder. A blur of sneakers. A tilted head chasing freedom. Feet flickering like seconds. Each mark a pulse. Each smudge a breath. My paper becomes a seismograph of seeing— trembling gently through the mundane. This isn’t about making art for a frame or a feed. It’s about refusing to leak away in the fluorescent hum of obligation. It’s a quiet mutiny against the clock. I do this on long car rides, too (passenger side, mind you). Letting the lines grow wild, jagged, and unapologetic. Not for polish— but for presence. This is how I remember I’m still alive. Still growing. Still watching. Still choosing to see. Because sometimes mental health looks like a piece of scrap paper, a moving pen, and the simple, sacred act of marking time with wonder.

An attempt at organizing my 'why' for making drawing the center of my curriculum, and selling the idea to my students. Suggestions for refinements welcome.

There’s a lot of waiting in life. Waiting in lobbies. Waiting on answers. Waiting for braces to tighten, kids to grow, hearts to heal, or prayers to be answered. I sat at the orthodontist, watching dollars tighten on tiny wires, and made this sketch. A tree. A house. A street. Color helped the moment breathe. I remember once hearing a chess master say, “There is no waiting in chess.” It confused me—wasn’t there always a turn to wait for? But he explained: “There’s no waiting. Only planning. Plotting. Analyzing. You’re always thinking.” I once repeated that to a FIDE master. He got mad. Maybe because waiting and patience aren’t the same thing. We can be still and deeply active inside. We can pause without being passive. And then there’s Lindsey’s voice in the back of my head: “That sounds like a first-world problem.” “Speak life.” “Be thankful. Rejoice always.” And she’s right. So here’s to filling waiting time with something creative. Something kind. Something that turns a delay into a doorway.

Kierkegaard said we undersand life by looking back, but we must live life forward. On a trip to the Chicago Art Institute with a group of students, I penned the students behind me and then I penned the rapidly moving images I saw through the front window of the bus . I still do not understand life except that perhaps it is full of energy and art and love.

Years ago, while digging through old journals and sketches, I stumbled across a quick, scribbled drawing of two pears. Beneath it, I'd written a raw and honest note: "Ann is pissed. I think it's because she's uncertain about me, us, life itself. She just ran into my car with the van. She says it was an accident, but she seems happier now—almost like it was cathartic. . . Like sex." At the time, I scribbled this in frustration, feeling a deep disconnect between us. Intimacy had become a confusing and distant concept in our relationship. The pears I'd sketched were rough and scratchy, charged with my chaotic feelings. Looking back, I see how emotions can drive us to strange actions, some intentional, some accidental, often leaving us oddly relieved afterward. Humans are complex, fascinating beings, navigating messy emotions and messy relationships, sometimes colliding intentionally or unintentionally, seeking relief in unexpected ways. Perhaps the pears were my subconscious pun on "pair," reflecting the awkward, confusing way Ann and I were bumping through life together—making messes, but occasionally finding strange humor and genuine catharsis in the chaos. I've learned to smile gently at the rawness of our humanity, appreciating even our scratchy sketches and emotional collisions. They're reminders that life, relationships, and our own hearts are never simple, but they're authentically human. Here's to embracing life's unexpected catharsis and finding humor in our imperfections.

Observation while waiting.