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)