Michael Nobbs

Category: Drawings

Posts that feature my drawings and the visual work that forms the heart of my practice

  • A broken pencil at 3.00 am

    A close-up of a small homemade sketchbook page containing an early-morning self-portrait. The face is partly drawn in black with bold blue glasses, dense black hair and a red area at the bottom of the page. The handwritten note at the top reads, “3:00am My pencil broke so I stopped. I’m not sure I’m going back to sleep.”

    I was following my current early-morning drawing compulsion of pouring out my tea and reaching for my mirror and sketchbook. It was even earlier than usual — 3.00 am today — and I’d rather have still been sleeping. But the rule seems to be: I wake up, make tea and draw myself. So that’s what I was doing.

    When the pencil broke

    Midway through drawing, the lead of my pencil broke. I’d been using a rather lovely old and waxy Derwent Drawing pencil in Ivory Black and enjoying the heavy, pastel-like quality of its lines. It was as I was working the pencil hard, drawing the now familiar line of my mouth, that the lead simply crumbled. In that moment, the spell was broken and I was able to stop drawing.

    I realised I liked where the drawing had ended and decided to leave it where it was. Switching to a pen, I grounded the drawing in the moment with an early-morning report in the corner.

    I think — and this is new — even though the drawing was “unfinished”, being forced to stop meant my compulsion to draw had been quenched and I was able to relax into being awake and drink my tea.

    A second drawing

    After a little while, I reached for my newly started A4 Fabriano sketchbook and began another drawing, not because I needed to, but because I wanted to. This time I drew slowly, probably for about an hour, stopping regularly to enjoy my tea and notice the sound of the rain on the window above my head.

    Something interesting happened with this drawing. The self-portrait was drawn first, with the now-sharpened Derwent, much as I’ve been drawing them these past couple of weeks. But then I switched to my broad-nibbed Kaweco Sport and returned to the very familiar language and materials of my tea-tray drawings. It was as if these two, until now separate ways of drawing, met for the first time.

    At 4.20 am I added a few words to ground this drawing too: It’s raining hard. I’m awake and drinking tea and thinking I might just make a second pot.

    In the end I didn’t. I fell asleep instead.

    A small homemade sketchbook resting on the bed beneath a round mirror. The page shows an early-morning self-portrait with bold blue glasses, black hair and a red area of clothing. In the mirror above, my face, yellow phone and green teapot are visible. Handwritten text on the drawing begins, “3:00am My pencil broke so I stopped…”
    An A4 sketchbook open on the bed beneath a round mirror and tea tray. The page contains a large self-portrait framed by the outline of the mirror, with black hair and glasses. Below and around the portrait is a blue chicken-patterned tea-tray mat, drawn in pen and Neocolor II. A handwritten note at the upper right records being awake at 4:20am, listening to the rain and drinking tea.
    A close-up of an A4 sketchbook page showing a large self-portrait inside the drawn outline of a round mirror. The face has black hair, glasses and loosely drawn features. The lower part of the page is filled with a blue chicken-patterned tea-tray mat, with small hens picked out in black, red and blue.

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  • Have I been looking or remembering?

    A blind contour self-portrait drawn in black ink across two pages of a small sketchbook. The face is loosely constructed from overlapping, wandering lines, with glasses, eyes, nose, mouth, chin and one ear emerging from the marks. Handwritten notes at the bottom read “Mostly with my eyes closed” and “Blind blind contour drawing!”, with the date 16-9-26. The sketchbook rests on a colourful crocheted blanket, with a dark blue pen lying beside it.

    I haven’t been following the Selfietember prompts very closely, but this morning I was curious to try yesterday’s: Close your eyes and draw yourself.

    No mirror needed today, of course, and the drawing became essentially a blind, blind contour drawing.

    What interested me most was how familiar parts of my face felt to draw. I almost always begin my self-portraits at the left side of my glasses, then sweep up and around the frames towards my right ear. Even with my eyes closed, that route felt familiar. So did my nose, mouth and chin.

    It made me think about how much of my recent self-portrait drawing may now be coming from memory — or perhaps muscle memory…

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  • Perhaps one day I’ll be pleased I did

    Wider view of Michael’s 15 September self-portrait resting on a dark tablet on top of a crocheted blanket made from blue, cream and muted pink squares. The black-ink drawing lies in the foreground with a dark blue pen and an orange pen beside it. At the upper right, a round wooden-framed mirror reflects Michael lying nearby in glasses and a white top, holding up a phone with a yellow case to take the photograph. The drawing’s loose handwritten notes are visible along the bottom, including the phrase “perhaps one day I’ll be pleased I did.” The mirror, drawing, pens and blanket together show the immediate setting in which the early-morning self-portrait was made.

    Drawing after a little more sleep than usual

    This morning I drew before making my tea. Early, though not quite as early as has been the case for most of my self-portrait drawings over the last two weeks. Today, because I’d had more sleep, I think my brain was more capable of thought — of piecing together memories and ideas.

    I drew with the same growing compulsion that has been present in my recent drawings, but what was missing was the anxiety that has accompanied much of my drawing since I returned to the practice over three years ago.

    What prompted this shift was looking back again at photographs of my MA show on Flickr, and a memory they sparked from that time.

    A memory

    My mother died in early 2008, in the run-up to my final MA show. As we cleared her house, my brother filled bin bags with papers and bits and pieces — letters, cards, notebooks, shopping lists — things that, to him, looked like rubbish.

    After he left, I spent two weeks unpacking them all again.

    I remember being particularly drawn to the shopping lists. So many of them contained the same things, repeated from week to week. Ordinary things. Everyday things. But that was exactly what made them feel important.

    They were traces of her life.

    It didn’t really matter what the marks said. What mattered was that she had made them. Her hand had moved across those scraps of paper. She had thought those thoughts, written those words, lived those ordinary days.

    Just making marks

    Today, I can see that my drawing has been reaching towards something similar.

    Not being concerned with how the marks look together, but rather that they are there. Not waiting for inspiration or the right subject. Just making marks. Making a mark. Saying: I’m here.

    Not concerning myself with the why, at least not today, but rather giving in to the compulsion, letting the anxiety fall away, and making a drawing.

    Holding on to the thought that perhaps one day I’ll be pleased I did.

    Photograph of Michael’s exhibition statement from his 2008 MA show, headed “The Archive” with “Michael Nobbs” beneath it. The statement reads: “Recently, I have been seeing myself as little more than a collector of the small pieces of ephemera that pass through my fingers as I live my life. Notes, lists, doodles, the occasional more deliberate drawing (and even the odd chocolate bar) have taken on a great importance since my mother’s death. I’ve realised that often all that is left to show we have lived our lives are the small scraps we make and leave with very little thought for their content or potential longevity. The many shopping lists found in the pockets of my mother’s coats and the bottom of her shopping bags as I cleared out her house in March this year are an incredibly important reminder of a life lived. Prompted to preserve and record fragments from my own life, I am searching for ways to collect, archive and present them.” Along the bottom are four small photographs of everyday traces: a mug with a note, a handwritten list, a page containing a drawing and writing, and a small electronic object beside another handwritten note.
    Close-up from Michael’s 2008 MA exhibition showing a small lined page from his mother’s handwritten diary, preserved inside a clear plastic bag and pinned to the wall. The page contains several dated entries from late December 2005 and early January 2006. The handwriting is faint in places, but readable lines include references to spending Christmas with Michael and George, “Michael has looked after me very well,” feeling “very much better” after a rest, and, in the final entry, “Am starting to feel much better! Am able to do a few more things.” Behind the bag are enlarged fragments of handwriting and part of another photograph.
    Installation view from Michael’s 2008 MA exhibition. A grid of clear zip-lock bags is pinned directly to a white wall, each containing small pieces of saved ephemera: handwritten notes and lists, envelopes, scraps of paper and other everyday fragments. Some of the papers are faded and creased, and two include small printed “Santa Claus” motifs. Below them sits an iMac showing a colourful computer window, while to the right a small wall-mounted screen displays a blue-toned face. Handwritten Post-it notes, a CD and other scraps are also attached around the installation.
    Black-ink self-portrait drawn across a folded sheet of off-white paper on the morning of 15 September 2026. Michael’s face fills most of the page in loose, uneven lines: large round glasses, one strongly outlined eye, nose, beard and closely cropped head. The top and right side of the head are built up with dense layers of cross-hatching. Along the bottom are handwritten notes including the date, “15.9.26,” “6.00 am,” and words about drawing himself before making tea because he feels he has to, ending with the smaller phrase, “perhaps one day I’ll be pleased I did.” A dark blue pen and an orange pen lie beside the drawing.
    Close-up of the lower-right corner of Michael’s black-ink self-portrait from 15 September 2026. Part of the jaw, neck and dark cross-hatched marks are visible above several lines of large, loose handwriting. The text reads, in part, “before I’ve made my tea because I feel I have to” and, in smaller writing at the bottom right, “perhaps one day I’ll be pleased I did.” The paper is slightly buckled and layered over another sheet beneath it.

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  • Finding comfort in the uncomfortable

    A wider view of my early-morning drawing setup on a crocheted blanket. My black pencil self-portrait sits open in a small homemade pocket sketchbook beside a short yellow Blackwing pencil. Behind it is a tray with a round wooden-framed mirror reflecting part of my face and glasses, a green teapot, an orange Stanley mug of tea, and a small ceramic jug.

    At the moment, the act of drawing isn’t a comfort to me; it’s more of a compulsion. However, there are ways that I draw that can add comfort to the act.

    Today, I reached for one of my familiar homemade pocket sketchbooks and drew with an old and rather weather-beaten Blackwing 3.

    As autopilot took over and I began to draw the face in the mirror, there was a definite sense of “ahh” that softened the usual anxiety around making the first marks on the page.

    Close-up of a black pencil self-portrait drawn across an open homemade pocket sketchbook. The drawing shows my head and shoulders, with large round glasses and a patterned top. The fold of the sketchbook runs horizontally through the middle of the face. A short yellow Blackwing pencil lies beside the sketchbook on a crocheted blanket.

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  • On auto-pilot

    A wid view of a morning drawing scene on the tartan blanket. On the left, a round wooden-framed mirror reflects Michael’s face and glasses as he looks into it; part of the phone being used to take the photograph obscures the lower centre of his reflection. To the right lies the small handmade sketchbook with the black-ink self-portrait on its back cover and the handwritten words, “Feeling very tired and could hardly face myself this morning.” The date 11-9-26 is written beside the portrait. An uncapped Pigma Micron rests nearby. Behind everything is a tray lined with blue hen-patterned fabric, with a bright green teapot and part of an orange mug visible at the top of the frame.

    Very tired this morning and could hardly face myself, but habits can be like being on auto-pilot and, as soon as I poured out my tea, I reached for my mirrors, sketchbook and pen.

    The only place I had to draw to hand was the back cover of my recently filled little homemade pocket sketchbook, so this was a smaller attempt at seeing myself, made with an 05 Pigma Micron — a recent gift from a friend and a pen I haven’t drawn with since I restarted drawing, and possibly not for twenty years.

    Close-up of a small black-ink self-portrait drawn on the back cover of a handmade pocket sketchbook, lying on a red, grey and cream tartan blanket. The drawing shows Michael from the shoulders up, bald, wearing glasses and looking slightly to one side, with short broken lines describing his beard and stubble. Beneath the portrait he has handwritten, “Feeling very tired and could hardly face myself this morning.” The date 11-9-26 is written vertically beside his head. An uncapped beige Pigma Micron pen lies to the right, with its cap above it. Behind the sketchbook is a tray lined with bright blue fabric covered in patterned hens.

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