My sketchbooks get messy. Even the one I began days ago is now showing the inconsistent and immeasurable thoughts of a cluttered mind. But, mainly, it’s all good (considering the many connotations of that word).

   Mostly, I am a writer and photographer (many days one more than the other). Like the tattered notebook I use to carelessly jot down random scrabble, immediate ideas and nonsensical everyday drama that may someday make it into a poem, essay, or manuscript, the sketchbook is only a stop in my creative process.

   What is contained within the book may or may not make it to another level or format, but I know it is there for me to use whenever, or however, I decide to use it. 

   Earlier this year, after all my oil paints, solvents, brushes and canvases were packed away in preparation for a relocation, I purchased a modest set of watercolour paints, oil pastels, ink, and a big sketchbook to keep content my creativity. I filled that book up over the summer; more of a means of coping than creating.

   My sketchbook, in so many ways, after what I endured or experimented with these past months, become a form of art therapy that was available to me.

   In its essence, my sketchbook is full of plans, or concepts of a plan. At times it is experimental — I’m currently concerned over underpainting, the colour wheel, and the uncalculated risks of layering watercolours — a lot of what I do in this sketchbook is conceptual practice exercises with media or texture and perspectives not quite clear to me at the moment of creation. Nonetheless they serve a purpose in this, at times, cruel and compilated world.

   Art needs a place in your life or mind and a sketchbook, if nothing else, allows you that time. Like life itself, indeed it does get messy.

09/15/2024                                                                                                                j.g.l.