Burial

Time.
I am sensitive to time this week, working on this drawing that seems never to reach its completion. And spending the rest of my time working for money. It's OK. It's the end of winter; the weather is volatile; nothing can be counted on.
I'm of two minds with these last few pieces... I love how they unfold by themselves. How one thing becomes another. How darkness and light play against, and define, each other.
But I feel as if I am working in slow motion. I look back over the week and see that all the drawings I made are hidden in this one piece of paper.
And I cannot resurrect them.

Not so simple after all

A simple ink drawing turns not so simple...
Again, this started out as a drawing of another drawing.
Drawing and thinking about other processes, like wood cuts and lithograph and etching.
I spent A LOT of time at this. I love the difference between the quick, spontaneous sketches and this – what happens when I make a real commitment to one sheet of paper.
Ink pens (this one is a 15¢ Papermate) are temperamental, sometimes inconsistent soldiers. But they can do amazing things: create light by drawing around it, make gray or black by layering up the marks, texture by altering the pressure, transparency by some small miracle...

Endorphin production

I was just thinking about running. I used to run a lot, and on a really really good day I'd find that it was easier (more desirable?) to keep on running than to stop... as if I could go on forever.
Today while making this drawing I experienced the same thing.

It started out based on a quick brush and ink drawing I did on Friday. Making drawings from other drawings has often fed my process. But, it's not about that anymore. I'm appreciating the mystery inherent in drawings that evolve over time, sort of 'through me' and not always of me.

Everyday should be this rich.

Untitled

This drawing can't decide between subconscious interior pillowy landscape and formal light and shadow rendering. Well, I can't decide.