Michael Nobbs

Category: Ephemera

Found things, fragments, and small pieces of inspiration that accompany and inform my work.

  • Drawing without glasses

    I think I’m probably overstimulated. After quite a long period of not venturing far from my bed, yesterday G drove me to see the Mary Lloyd Jones exhibition at the National Library. So many paintings, such beautiful colours — probably too much for one visit.

    I met up with a couple of dear friends who I haven’t seen in a very long time, and we sat in the café chatting after looking at the exhibition. Seeing my rather diminished self through their eyes is something new and a little unsettling.

    Tonight I’m grateful for Ounce’s company whilst I’m not sleeping, and for the familiarity of drawing my tea tray. I don’t feel able to cope with too much sharp focus just now, so I’ve taken my glasses off and am embracing the blurriness.

    Ounce, a silver-grey tabby and white cat, curled up on green and grey checked pyjama-clad legs beside an open sketchbook on a bed. The sketchbook contains a loose black ink drawing of my tea tray, with handwritten notes about drawing without glasses, being awake in the small hours and visiting an exhibition the previous day. Beside it are a Mary Lloyd Jones exhibition booklet, a striped earthenware milk jug with a spoon, and a tall metal flask. The bed is covered with a red, grey and cream checked duvet, and the scene is softly lit.
    A close-up of an open, homemade sketchbook containing a black ink drawing of a tea tray and its contents. A tall flask, striped milk jug, teapot and large mug are drawn in loose, overlapping lines, with the patterned hen-covered cloth filling much of the background. Handwritten notes describe being awake at 2:10 am, Ounce's company and a visit to an exhibition at the National Library. Behind the sketchbook is a Mary Lloyd Jones exhibition booklet, with a striped ceramic jug partly visible at the top.
    An open, homemade sketchbook resting by a tea tray covered with a brown cloth decorated with black illustrations of hens. The pages contain a loose black ink drawing of the tea tray, including a striped milk jug, a teapot coloured with green pencil and a large mug with the letter M on it. Handwritten notes across the top read “Drawing without my glasses (Not sleeping)” and describe Ounce keeping me company in the small hours, and yesterday's visit to the Mary Lloyd Jones exhibition at the National Library. A small note says “I feel the need of blurriness.” The drawing is dated 3 November 2026 and timed at 2:10 am. Three pens and pencil together with the foot of a small reading lamp casting a warm orange glow are visible above the sketchbook.

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  • The Exuberant Artist Podcast

    Lovely to start the day listening to and watching my friend Monique talk about her creative practice, building community and living well as a home-tethered artist and maker.

    A timely reminder to find ways to live well within our limits.

    A photograph of a cosy early-morning drawing setup on a red, grey and cream checked duvet. An iPad is playing The Exuberant Artist Podcast, showing a video conversation between Emma Freeman, wearing a green jumper, and Monique Francis, seated in a darker room. In front of the screen is an open, handmade pocket sketchbook containing black ink portraits of both women, with speech bubbles recording snippets of their conversation. The podcast's title is handwritten across the top of the pages, with the date 31-10-26 at the bottom. An orange fountain pen rests beside the sketchbook, while an orange reading light illuminates a tea tray with a hen-patterned cloth to the left.
    A photograph of an open, handmade pocket sketchbook resting on a red, grey and cream checked duvet. Across the two pages, beneath the handwritten heading “The Exuberant Artist Podcast”, are two loosely drawn black ink portraits of women wearing glasses. On the left is Emma Freeman, with speech bubbles reading “You're a beautiful soul” and “I love that you have this delight!” On the right is Monique Francis, with speech bubbles containing fragments of the conversation, including “Sometimes remind myself I'm living the life I want” and “I much more about process than product.” The date, 31-10-26, is written at the bottom. Part of the podcast video is visible on an iPad behind the sketchbook, with an orange pen lying to the right.

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  • Not sleeping and getting past my buyer’s remorse

    I slept for a lot of today and now it’s bedtime I can’t get to sleep.

    Instead, I’ve been watching this video of Musa Mayer reading from the book I bought on an impulse this morning. Now I’m excited about its arrival (hopefully tomorrow).

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  • Instagram and drawing at 4.00 am

    Screenshot of an Instagram post showing an open handwritten journal page dated 22 September 1970. The page is filled with thick black handwritten notes about paintings, travelling, poems, photographs and everyday life. The caption identifies the book as Life with P.: Journals, 1966–1976 by Musa McKim Guston.
    Close-up of a self-portrait drawn in red Neocolor II crayon across an open pocket sketchbook. The face fills most of the page, with large round glasses, one eye clearly visible, a bald head, moustache and beard suggested with loose, waxy marks. Areas of dense red crayon frame parts of the face. At the bottom, the drawing is dated 23-9-26 and accompanied by the handwritten note: “4.00 am I’m not sure if this the start of the day or an interlude between sleeps.”
    Early-morning photograph of a small self-portrait drawing resting on a red-and-white patterned sketchbook on a bed. The portrait is drawn in soft red Neocolor II crayon across an open pocket sketchbook, showing a bald man with large round glasses, moustache and beard. Above it is a round mirror reflecting the artist’s face and yellow phone. A mug of tea, a red crayon and a dark pencil sit nearby. Beneath the portrait is the handwritten note: “4.00 am I’m not sure if this the start of the day or an interlude between sleeps.”

    I’m not sure if this is the start of the day or just an interlude between sleeps, so I’m hedging my bets and drinking decaffeinated tea.

    Yesterday Cathryn described Neocolor IIs as “friendly”. I feel the need for some friendliness in the very dark morning — it feels especially dark this morning; I wonder where the moon is in its cycle — so I’m drawing myself with a red crayon and enjoying its soft waxiness.

    This book caught my eye on Instagram. Do I really need more artists’ journals to read? I have Keith Vaughan and Derek Jarman waiting for me by my bed. Tove Jansson’s letters have been calling to me. But this does look interesting: paintings, reproduced journal pages and scraps of notes. Right up my street.

    I think I might just accept that the day has begun and make a pot of real tea…

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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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