used sketchbook

I don't really like the word "used." Usually I say something cheezy like "well loved." But I don't know-- it was loved enough but I am too disgusted to admit to loving it well. Because right now I'm just grossed out by it.

Sometimes I spend a lot of time wondering why I chose to draw in this book. The pages have lines and margins, like notebook paper. In every picture, the lines distracted away from the drawing itself. The margins were laminated; it wouldn't accept graphite, which is my favorite medium. If I tried to draw on it, it would only damage the page. I hated it but dealt with it; I really wanted to include a lot more detail. Background, scenery, the like. It was restrictive, but it seemed like a good idea at the time to draw in it. You know how it is; you make the best of whatever you have right in front of you.

The drawings inside are not bad. Not at all inspired, but decent. I mean, you can tell what the subject was, but in truth I was never really moved to draw them with any great zest. Yet I put what I could into them, and some of them, I can even say they make me a little proud. Some of them are funny, some of them thoughtful, some of them adventurous, some of them soft and warm. Except for the last one. The last one is none of those, but I'll get to that later. I still don't like the distraction from the picture by the lines and where I lost the drawing in the margin. You can kind of see where the picture ran off into the laminate- there are dents there where the line should have been.

None of this stuff will ever sell. What I see and what you interpret it as are two very different things, and because of that, I don't want them to be seen by anyone else.

I'm not as apprehensive about the rest of my work as I am about what's in this sketchbook. I'm proud of my other work... well, some of them suck or mean nothing, but for the most part, I'm pretty proud of what I've done in the past.

Here's one I like a lot. I used some of my colored pencils on it to warm it up. It's on the edge of a a forest, of a little mushroom. It's red and standing proudly alone with little plants budding around it, moss below. I saw something like it this summer.

And another one I like, it's a picture of a couple standing and looking in a window. You can see their smiling faces in the reflection as well as the object they're looking at- antique dentist's tools.

Another one is of a dark stormy day, through a sliding glass window, the trees are bent over from the wind. I guess I like the look of the reflection in the window, because there's a reflection here, too. One person is taking care of the other- the defeated one on the couch is cold and wet and looks ill, the one standing up is bringing him a blanket and a hot cup of something- a steaming mug. The comforter looks tired but content.

Here's one of people at a party. It's casual, but people are laughing and generally enjoying conversations with others. There's nothing special about that scene, really.

The only other one of note is the last one. And it's not because it's any amazing piece of work. It's the only one that displays any real passion. It looks like sorrow and then hate. From one end to the other, kind of in a diagonal pattern, what begins in the upper left hand corner as a dark weepy blue deepens until it's black. The black is covered with bright red gashes that look like torn flesh. There are brown scribbles, orange scuff marks and yellow spots with jagged edges, kind of like stars but no where near delightful. There are tears in the paper where I scribbled too hard. It looks like what you see when you are belted across the face by some bastard or the split second you're hit by a speeding fist, the moment before you hit the ground. Just before the edge of the paper, it fades back into a light gray, just a tiniest edge, but in the plastic laminate margin, there are flames drawn in permanent marker. Looking back up at the left hand corner around the weepy blue, the margin is colored with browns and blacks as if it were charred by the flames in the opposite corner. It looks damaged. It looks like a bad situation that became a huge misunderstanding that ends in hatred. It looks like giving up, it looks like the end. Funny how you can't see the lines except in the lighter corner. Or maybe it's not funny that you can see them at all; the lines are gone when hell broke loose.

I'd think of all the pictures in my notebook, that's the one that is the most inspired. But it's also the one that's the most frightening to me. When I started that picture, it was the quiet colors in the upper right hand corner. I felt sorry and I wanted to express that. But as that drawing went on, it became a torrent of emotions and ended in the most horrible way-- I never thought it would end like that. It certainly troubles me, mostly because in order to finish it, I became so infuriated that I ripped through the page, and then proceeded to rip through every page after that. Originally I thought I might go back and revisit this book, possibly draw some more pictures, but I know it isn't going to happen. What's not in there will never be in there because the rest of the book is essentially destroyed.

Of all the things I have thought of doing to this book, I think I'll just put it on the shelf with the rest. It pains me to think that this book represents a failure. But I know eventually I won't care and maybe I'll appreciate it for something new I see within its pages. Not till later, when I might be more wise.