I blog often about sketchbooks and related subjects. I love them; their look, their feel,
the whole idea of a cache of visual and sometimes written bursts of creative thought.
And I've kept nearly all of mine.
Some are the bond-paper booklets I made back in elementary school, most are the store-bought variety. The sketchbooks span my years from a kid of nine, across middle and high school, through college and art school. Many are only a few months old, massed in heaps on my studio bookshelves.
They are a record of my ideas and progress. They are a record of my abilities and inabilities.
They contain me; the child, adolescent, young adult, and the still-maturing artist.
Mattering only to me, each page is a remembrance, a recollection, and a connection to the person I once was; decades--or just an hour--ago.
Unlike the pages of a diary, most arose not as the purposeful documentation of a daily life but rather, as an undetermined outpouring of my mind and heart. They transcribe my journey as surely as a vacation log, but it is one of metamorphosis, not of miles.
Kind of you to visit--thanks!