The Empty Sketchbook
I have several beautiful sketchbooks, which I admire so much that my day-bag is rarely without one. My current favorite has a slubbed linen cover in a muted shade of cerulean. Ceruleans are the blues that attract me most of all, and this is the loveliest sketchbook I've yet found. Like most of the others, it is empty.
The sketchbook is an artist's creative wellspring; so why do I sit and stare at the pretty closed cover, instead of busily scribbling visual ideas inside?
Why indeed?
Well, the sketch might not be perfect, and someone might see ...
The sketchbook only has twenty pages, and it's watercolor paper, and I don't want to waste any ...
Gadzooks! I'm in a public place. What if somebody sees me drawing?!
Reminds me of when I practiced piano after class every day in an elementary school's music room. One of the teachers routinely snuck up behind me and yelled, "Don't make a mistake!"
Do you have empty sketchbooks? Do you, too, sit, incapable of action, once the time and the sketchbook - or canvas - are finally both at hand? Is Miss P----- watching eagle-eyed, ready to yell from behind you?
Those are reasons, but I think that more serious factors are often the real issue. Here's a thought trap I often fall into:
1) Time not spent making art is worthless.
2) Thus, if I am not using my time to make art, I am worthless as an artist.
3) Therefore, any art I might make is also worthless, so I might as well not make any.
That line of thought can damage an artist's morale, spirit, and ability to create. It is guaranteed to leave me staring at the beautiful blank page.
Wrong premises lead to wrong conclusions. I am trying to learn that time spent away from art is important, even restorative. Time spent doing nothing - just sitting quietly, gazing and listening. Time spent soaking up sensory delights: a delicious meal; a vibrant farm market; the sun on one's face; the warmth of good company. God spent the evenings in Paradise simply walking in His garden.
Oddly enough, I have one sketchbook that does get used. It's not so pretty that I fall into thinking it's for show. Instead, it's unobtrusive. I always have it with me, and I never leave it around where anyone can look inside. It's private and it's mine. I paste things in it - clippings, images. I write in it - ideas for paintings, random thoughts, and possible titles (recently I gleaned a list of nearly two dozen from the Song of Solomon). And sometimes I sketch in it. Most of the sketches aren't terribly presentable. But I do go back to them, over and over, as the raw material for paintings. Even the most rudimentary sketch or written note brings back the visual memory, the day and the moment. This sketchbook is deliberately un-organized, and that makes it all the more useful to me. In fact, I have three decades' worth of these private sketchbooks. Funny how easy it is to open one of them and go right to something remembered from years ago.
Do you suppose God has a sketchbook? I rather doubt it, myself. But I can imagine Him looking over my shoulder, saying "Hmmm," at mine.
Brie Dodson, On Sabbatical
5 Comments
Reader Comments (5)
Imagine this: Maybe God does have a sketchbook, and it is this physical world and all that is in it that he created. Maybe we are individually and collectively works in progress, constantly being erased, refined and redefined until we disappear in the light (placed in the perfected piece?). The Aztecs thought that.
Yes, I have many, many sketchbooks that are too lovely for me to mess up. But I'm working on that with a water brush sent to me by a dear friend;-)
Disappearing in the light: I like that idea very much.
For some reason, I gave up using the sketchbook. I have instead broken sheets of 300 lb. arches into smaller squares and rectangles. I carry a few in my purse with a pencil and eraser. Then back in the studio if I like the sketch, I go ahead and paint it, finish it ready for hanging. If not, it goes into a shoe box. Somehow this is working for me. One small sheet of paper does not invite much comment, and does not weigh much in my purse.
A whole book was just too much.
I can give the finished cards away or sell them or just thumb through them to cheer myself up.
Thank you, Gay, for sharing your use of the loose 300 lb. Arches pieces. I like that idea - carrying the loose pieces seems refreshingly non-structured and non-intimidating. And storing the unfinished sketches loose in a shoebox sounds just right to me. That invites leafing through them and finding one that's just right to finish.
For anyone who is not used to working with 300 lb. paper, it is substantial, thick, and sturdy. It is rigid enough that you can paint on it without any backing. One way to divide it easily is to mark the lines on which you want to cut, then paint along those lines with clear water. Let the water soak in for a few minutes, and then it will be fairly easy to separate/tear the paper along a metal straightedge. If not, re-paint the "water line" and try again.
At least one vendor sells quarter-sheet watercolor paper assortments that would be good for this sort of thing, if you don't already have a stock of paper on hand. Since we're not in the business of recommending vendors, just e-mail me if you would like to know where to look.
What a terrific idea, the single pieces of heavyweight paper instead of one of the sensuous, but intimidating, "sketch" books (which never get sketched in) that are piling up! It also occurred to me that those "patches" of sketches could be sewn together or attached to make a quilt of images.