Figure Eight 1952 Franz Kline
He quickly opened his pen knife, deftly sharpening the charcoal pencil until he found the exact point and slant he wanted, all the while the vision forming in his mind. He could see her face, the way the ebony flow of hair covered her left shoulder, cascading down bare skin. Tossing the small tool aside, he studied the blank sheet of paper for a brief moment, adjusted the pencil in his grip, then in a burst of bold, eager strokes, she came to life under his hand.
The pencil shavings lay unnoticed in a small, dark pile on the floor of his studio. There was no meaning in the configuration of curled scraps of wood at his feet; it was all in the curves and lines and movement of black charcoal on white paper.
(Some see the Figure Eight, others see Infinity. I see pencil shavings. It's curious, isn't it? Magpie Tales 127.)