I drew a portrait a month ago that I was proud of. It was a mastercopy, so the master artist, Jacob Collins, had worked out the composition, the color palette -- all the planning problems. All I had to do was make a good copy of his painting, and soak in the artistic wisdom. I spent about 15 hours on it, using about 30 colors of pastel pencil.

Later, I decided to frame the drawing, and I found a good frame in my studio. I only needed the mats. I prepared my drawing for a trip to the frame shop. I looked around for a sheet of slippery paper to tape over the drawing to protect it. I couldn't find anything in my studio, and I was running out of time. I went into the house and I saw a roll of wax paper on the kitchen counter. Eureka! Wax paper! It's cheap, it's on hand, and it should work. I tore off a sheet and taped it over my drawing. 

At the frame shop, I removed the wax paper and chose the mats. (Why do I always choose expensive mats?) I put the wax paper back on, and I put the drawing in the back of my car. I drove to school to attend a painting class. The drawing sat in my car for the whole afternoon, and it was a warm day. As I later discovered, the wax paper warmed up, leaving spots of melted wax on my drawing. 

Back at home I removed the wax paper and stared. My drawing! My drawing! Oh no! 

It was ruined. For the next two days, I felt depressed. I moped. I thought about tearing up the drawing. I thought about ways to salvage it. I couldn't really think about anything else. Eventually, I came back to life and did a little studio organizing.

Now the drawing is hanging on the studio wall, unframed. It will not be framed or offered for sale. I will, however, refer to it when working on my next portrait. 

The morals of the story are: (A) Child, step away from the wax paper. (B) When one drawing dies, another will surely be born. Have a good cry, and make your way back to the easel. 

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​Update (2018): I framed the drawing after all, wax spots and all, and hung it in our bedroom. A cautionary tale. 

I just have to say something about master copies, because my husband and I disagree about their value in this world. 
Mr. Teicher: "Mastercopies just don't ring my bell." 
Mrs. Teicher: "Not only do I like them, but I've been urged by various instructors to make them -- make them early and often."
I've reviewed those instructors' words in my mind, and I'll quote them here. 

"You can't do enough master copies," said John Rizzotto, a classically trained artist who is teaching my painting class. "If you do five slammin' master copies of a master's work, you can say you studied with that master." (He was holding a photo of a Rembrandt.)

"Master copies are like intravenous art education," said Gary Faigin, artistic director of Gage Academy of Art, where I attend classes. 

"The practice of copying masterworks has helped train some of the greatest artists who ever lived," wrote Juliette Aristides in her book "Lessons in Classical Drawing."

I have made two finished drawings (and many sketches) from masterworks, one by Pierre-Paul Prud'hon and another by Jean-Baptiste-Siméon Chardin. I realize that my nude looks like a linebacker, but I drew her when I was 42, just a baby. How could I be expected to perfectly execute that perpetual tormenter of artists: proportion. This won't be my last attempt. My desire to copy masterworks has only grown more intense since I started studying art a few years ago. 

Mr. Teicher will just have to put up with it. 

Veronica was an admired figure model at Gage Academy of Art. She has now moved to Florence, Italy, to develop her modeling career. I hope someday she'll be back. The slideshow shows the evolution of my drawing of the lovely Veronica. 

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Update (2018): Veronica has been back in Seattle for a few years. I no longer prowl the halls of Gage Academy of Art, but I hope she does. She's a wonderful model—a paragon of femininity. 

"Teapot after Chardin" in graphite, two stages.

My first portrait commission included three siblings. This is the first of three drawings. Charcoal and chalk on toned paper.