Dean C. Graf's Uploads

I use to take students to museums. COVID has altered much. We adjust now. So much is virtual.

All things excellent are as difficult as they are rare. -Spinoza

Henry was 5 when he created this. The color is a result of limited choices in chalk.

A value study sample for students. Grey out the paper. Erase light areas. Darken shaded areas. Refine. Lots of success on this one.

Finding edges is a conversation between values. That sounds political. Like Ruskin's observation that drawing is soiling the paper delicately.

A horizon of chalk—black sky heavy with silence, gold earth glowing with embered breath. Between them, a thin line of turquoise, the pause where one world ends and another begins. It is not sky, nor sea, nor sand alone. It is the threshold—a doorway, where silence teaches and light remembers. Stand here long enough, and you may hear it breathe. inking and seeing for better being — https://forming20.com/

Ms. Nathan was a play production teacher with flair and a big personality. She wore colorful clothing and loud socks that never matched. Her joyful, chortling laugh filled the room—or the hallway—wherever she happened to be. Staff meetings and PD days have always been strong invitations for observational drawings. Over the years, I’ve found that there are many boxes to check in a wide variety of systems. I often created my own boxes—and checked them with sketches of my colleagues. This one goes out to the colorful Ms. Nathan.

Two wicker chairs in the sun. One for the waiting, one for the hoped-for. The table between them holds its silence, its place set for bread or talk. I draw what is here— lines quick and unerasable— and what is not here, her presence, waits with me in the white of the page.

It might be that Spirit arranged it for a little personal time with you.

Behold the Chair (inspired by Wendell Berry) Make a place to sit down. Sit down. Be quiet. The chair does not strive. It does not speak loudly. It simply is— ready to receive, to hold what comes, to honor the silence. This drawing does not shout. It listens. It does not disturb the quiet— it joins it. Like a prayer whispered to the One who listens back, this mark is a presence, not a performance.

Imperfect Lines, Honest Presence This sketch is not perfect—and that’s exactly why it’s alive. The bold figure, the dissolving hat, the tilted chair: all of it feels unfinished, fleeting, caught in motion. It’s what the Japanese call wabi-sabi—finding beauty in the imperfect, the impermanent, the incomplete. But there’s something deeper here too. A quick sketch is not just what the eye records. It’s what the soul permits. To draw without fixing, without polishing, is to admit the world will not hold still for us. Life slips past. The lines break off. And yet, somehow, the essence remains. When you sketch this way, you are not the master of the moment—you are its guest. The pencil does not carve permanence; it pays attention. The act of drawing becomes an act of being present, of honoring what is already vanishing. So here’s a challenge: grab a pencil and sketch someone near you in sixty seconds. Do not erase. Do not perfect. Let the lines falter. When you finish, ask yourself: What truth did the imperfection reveal? Perhaps presence itself is the real art.

This is no landscape you could ever stand in. No observational drawing, no safe horizon line. This chalk experiment is a dream unfolding in color: a golden field lit from within, a scarlet seam of fire at its edge, and a storm-heavy sky pressing down with ancient weight. It feels like a place between worlds—where the conscious and unconscious meet, where memory and imagination blur. Some might see a battlefield, others a meadow after rain, and still others a veil between life and death. That is the beauty: the painting does not tell you what it is; it invites you to confess what you see. Psychologists say we project ourselves onto images like these. So—what do you notice first? The light? The darkness? The burning red? Perhaps that is not about the drawing at all, but about you.

Sunday morning, more than a decade ago. Music, fellowship, and reports about what God was doing here and there. Some things are worth remembering. We learn from looking back— but we must live forward.

Sometimes the quickest drawings hold the deepest truths. During an after-sermon discussion about understanding the love of God, I found myself listening with one ear and drawing with the other. Frank, seated across the room, made a natural model—relaxed posture, thoughtful presence, and a face full of character. With a pen in hand, I traced his form in a quick contour line, following the folds of his shirt, the tilt of his jaw, the stillness of his hands resting in his lap. Contour drawing asks us to see more than just the surface—it demands patience and presence, a slowing down until the line itself feels like prayer. Frank became more than a subject; he was a reminder that the love of God is often revealed in ordinary moments and everyday people.

Three things the morning never forgets.

So much noise presses in— screens, engines, endless chatter. But silence is not gone; it waits in a turned page, in breath, in light, in the hush between sounds.

Sometimes, a good goodbye is also a fresh hello. As we wrapped up our "Sacred Spaces" paintings, I asked our student teacher to design a one-day project—something playful, earthy, and engaging to ease the class into her care. She brought mud. Literally. Using mud and simple stencils, students pressed images—flowers, insects, wings—onto the sidewalk behind our school. There's something timeless about making marks with the ground itself. It felt ancient and immediate at the same time. These prints won’t last long, but maybe that’s the point. A fleeting image, a shared laugh, a new hand guiding the next phase of learning. Art is about making marks. Not all of them need to be permanent.

Relaxed tension. Two parents at a national chess competition. Their kids squared off at the board, and so did they — one leaning back, shoe propped up, trying for calm; the other sitting stiff, watchful. The game played out in more ways than one.

Against the weight of a storm-dark sky, tender stems lean forward—some bending, some breaking, some still reaching. They hold their fire at the tips, waiting to bloom, waiting to burn, waiting to belong to light. Perhaps this is all of us: stretching through shadows, searching for the thin, golden line that divides earth from eternity.

Sometimes wisdom comes in a joke, and sometimes laughter carries truth. Brian spoke like a sage, Mike answered like a friend, and together they held the room. We draw to remember. Not only the lines of faces, but the presence of goodness, the gift of voices that echo long after the chairs are empty.

Three trunks rising from one root, steady and separate yet belonging. The little bush at their base reminds me that life gathers in layers—quiet companions at the feet of giants. A simple contour line holds it all, the way a moment holds both strength and tenderness.