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Thanks for that, Steven. Having gone through stretches of my life without the sketchbook in tow, I thankfully rediscovered the joy a few years ago. At Starbuck's in Santa Monica, airport waiting rooms, farmer's markets, even grocery lines, the sketchbook is a constant companion. It's one of the advantages of being an artist, you never have to be bored. I learned a secret just recently, at the exhibit of David Hockney's portraits at the LA County Museum. There was something there I'd never seen before, a display of 15 of his sketchbooks, all in a glass case, open somewhere in the middle to a tantalizing hint of the treasures they contained but obviously untouchable. Next to the case, however, there was a monitor with an interactive screen that allowed you to select any sketchbook and virtually flip through all the pages. What one sees is a record of minutiae, the moment by moment experience of hotel rooms, boring cocktail parties, lovers sleeping, shoes by the bed, stretches of road, cars at a stoplight, faces glimpsed on the run, gesture portraits, toothpaste tubes on a bathroom sink, anything and everything that fell within Hockney's view as he went through his day. The first thing that struck me was that while every now and then a simple pen and ink line drawing was spectacular how many of them weren't especially good, and many were either incomplete or inept. Wow, I thought, they don't all have to be masterpieces and a bad drawing doesn't ruin a good sketchbook. But the big lesson I learned was to carry a small sketchbook. Hockney's were relatively tiny, 6x4, hardbound, unobtrusive, easy to carry in the pocket. I went out and bought several identical ones and I was hooked. Suddenly the sketchbook is no longer judging me, it's undemanding, pure fun, without obligation. It's become a friend I can confide in, a confidante, a co-conspirator. It invites me to push the limits of my abilities, it gives me permission to fail, and cheers when I succeed. -- John C.
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