Last week I visited my childhood home in chilly rural Michigan. While searching through a closet mausoleum I found a stack of forgotten sketchbooks. Seven of them in total. I pulled the small stack from the forgotten depths of the guest room closet and was visually delivered into my creative escape. I paged though them many times. I marveled at the color choices. Lightly fingered the textured pages. I pondered the text and phrases that I had written. I was completely enchanted.
There was a time in my life when drawing was queen. The act of mark making and the desire to create line was all that I creatively needed. I made books filled with carefree experimental drawings that reflected my own personal time and place. When I did not have a solid place to call home a box of my sketchbooks traveled with me. Like a mother hen, I thought I had gathered them all into my safe keeping. They were my home. They were my place. They were all I needed.
I have made a resolution.
I will make drawings again.
(wish me luck)