Drawing is one of my most soothing pasttimes. It eases my anxiety to draw line after line and watch the image develop, not unlike those magic 3D posters from the ’90s. Drawing also serves to support my other media, as I practice forms, textures, and levels through my illustrations before I bring them to canvas and clay.
But I’m not drawing these days.
I spend the first half of the day painting and the second half working on dolls, and in between doing all the domestic and family and grooming tasks. I’m not used to being so on deadline with my art, but it’s good: I’m being very productive and I love meeting my goals and thinking more broadly and putting so many resources towards my art.
Still, like a broody tween clucking over a baby-faced crooner, I consider my pens; the exquisite potential of unblemished paper. They call to me.
Maybe after this art show is over I will spend the summer lounging with pen in hand, delightedly developing use callouses and aching fingers, filling sketchbooks with lines and intention. My hands and my back may cramp up but my mind will be unburdened: a totally fair trade.