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For his part, Sefton spent most of his time talking with his students, who both spent their time drawing the larger landscape rather than focusing on the actual wildlife. One student used watercolors, capturing the pale blue sky with thin high clouds against the wide savannah of the Masai Mara. The other student focused on a tree nearby, capturing the branches and leaves in exquisite detail using pencil.
Sefton, himself, went off to the side of the clearing where we were located and spent his time drawing on a canvas I couldn't see from where I sat. He seemed to glance in the opposite direction to the rest of us while he drew, and I wondered what was his focus. He took some photographs and then spent his time sketching something, his head very close to his canvas.
Despite my unease with him, I was curious about what he was drawing because of course, he was a very accomplished artist. I had been impressed with his work before I knew who he was, and it was only his behavior towards me that made me despise him as a person. I didn't want any man to pursue me. I had Drake. The fact that Sefton knew about our lifestyle and continued to mention it bothered me.
After about an hour of drawing, I stood up and stretched and took a short walk around the perimeter of the clearing where our group had stopped. I was pleased with what I had accomplished so far and hoped to use the photographs when I got back to Nairobi to do a large canvas using acrylics so I could capture the colors of the elephants and the landscape itself. The pencil drawing would serve as a study so I could work out the details of composition, texture and shade.
I went over to check out Sefton's canvas and was surprised. Of course, he didn't draw the wildlife. He drew people. His drawing was of one of the guards with the rifle slung over his shoulder, a wide-brimmed hat on his head, a cigarette hanging off his lip.
"You're not interested in the animals?" I said, unable to keep myself from asking.
He said nothing for a moment while he worked on the guard's face. Finally, he cleared his throat.
"I'm more interested in the human animal."
I nodded and said nothing else, not wanting to prolong the conversation.
I returned to my own canvas and continued sketching, working out the proportions of the baby to the mother. In a few minutes, Sefton left his place and went around to check on the work of his students, stopping to speak to each one in a quiet voice. He was completely professional with them, not making any comments or behaving in any way that would be seen as improper.
He came over to where I sat drawing and I felt his eyes on me from behind.
"Technically, you're very skilled," he said, his voice low. "The composition is nice, pleasing to the eye in terms of where you've located your subject on the page. You've captured the texture of the elephant's skin very skillfull
y. But what are you trying to accomplish with your drawing?"
I frowned, and stopped drawing, looking at the composition. It wasn't that I was trying to accomplish anything except to capture the elephants.
"I don’t know," I said, hesitating. "I like them and want to draw them as best I can."
"You could take a photograph if you want to merely capture the image. What are you trying to say with your art?"
I shrugged. "I'm not trying to say anything. I have a desire to draw them, that's all."
"A child has a desire to draw an elephant. The only difference between you and the child is that you're far more technically skilled. Art should be more than replicating nature because an imbecile with a camera can do as much. Art should be an expression of who you are as an artist. Who are you, Kate? What sets your work apart from everyone else who has technical skill?"
I shook my head. "I don't know…" I felt insulted and insecure at his comments. I considered my drawing. Yes, it was technically skilled. I already knew that. But he was right – beyond the technical skill, there was nothing different about my drawing than a photograph of the same scene.
"Art should be transcendent," he said, his voice soft. "It should take the viewer somewhere that a photograph alone can't take them – into your soul as an artist. Otherwise it's mimicry and that's not art."
"So you’re saying I'm not a good artist?"
"No," he said and knelt down beside me, his eyes on the level with mine, his expression serious. "I'm saying that you haven't found your voice yet. Until you do, your art will be sterile and not fit for anything more than your own closet. To be put on display anywhere outside of your own home, it has to express something about your vision of the world, of the subject matter."
"You mean it has to be political – like your art."
"My art isn’t political. If it were political, it would be trying to get people to take action. I merely paint scenes that express my vision."
"I've seen your work. You always paint scenes of poverty or inequality or war. That's political."
"I paint human landscapes. The ones that interest me show the extremes of our lives. Poverty next to wealth, hunger juxtaposed against gluttony. My art is supposed to make you feel something. The judgment that it's political is yours."
I examined the elephants standing in the small group by the trees.
"What did you feel about them?" he said, his voice passionate. "Why elephants and not trees or the sky or the river? Why did you choose elephants?"
Why did I choose elephants for my subject?
I shook my head. "When I see elephants, I think that they're such magnificent animals. They've evolved for millions of years, honed by evolution to survive in a harsh environment and we're killing them off, sending them to near extinction. For what?" I said, anger filling me. "For ivory? For jewelry, for piano keys? So we can brag that we killed such a large animal with an elephant gun? It makes me sick."
