I have finally started a sketchbook. Of sorts. Separate from my daily journal which can contain sketches as well as writings and collages and the other variations of manifestations of my thoughts.
My sketchbook is neat, no matter how I tell myself it's okay to mess it up. No matter how I want to mess it up.
I like how it looks though. I like that it looks "serious". That I am more than merely doodling. That I am serious about practicing.
I don't like that it looks like the sketchbook of a frigid rigid person. Of someone holding back. Of someone scared to make mistakes and afraid of taking full leaps. Believe me, I unlock and loosen up at certain phases of the moon and with the right magic words. It has happened before.
But I have to live with the fact that my default is to be orderly. I like my well-defined lines and clean spaces. I was wondering about this the other day (and my current difficulties at attempting a "wilder" execution of my paintings) when a bit of a poem spilled out:
I need my lines.
I need to see the deliberation of
Than merely assuming intentions
From spillovers claiming abstraction.
I want the clarity of shapes and directions,
More than the supposed free and wild almost-pattern
Splashes of colours and nothing in particular,
That could mean anything, possibly
Whatever seems appropriate or trendy at the moment.
I want definitions, rather than guessing games,
That is why my hands are always ink-stained
From writing down the answers to the riddles of a heart,
Charting maps of possibilities for just-in-cases,
Making notes on the margins of my patience.
The One True North has an invisible line,
But a line nonetheless, unerring, always true,
Like a choice, a commitment, despite inevitabilities,
Despite givens. There are no assumptions, but assurance.
I need my lines. Dark and indelible.
Like tattoos on the soul.
(Poem by Marichit Garcia)