Michael Nobbs

Tag: Drawing

  • Dealing With Last Page / First Page Anxiety

    A view of a tea tray arranged on a bed covered with a crocheted blanket. On the tray is a patterned hen tray mat, and resting on the mat are a white milk jug, an orange insulated mug, a tall stainless-steel flask, a lime-green teapot, and a slim reading light rising just behind them. In front of the tray lies an open sketchbook. **On its left page is a dense pencil drawing of some of the items from the tray — the reading light and the milk jug — shown sitting on the hen-patterned mat.** On its right page, centred within a large area of blank paper, is a small hand-drawn version of the Stanley logo — a winged bear wearing a crown — with “STANLEY. Since 1913” written beneath it. Warm lamplight falls across the scene.

    This morning I woke with a tightness around the idea of making my morning drawing — a physical resistance to picking up my sketchbook. I’ve been working backwards through this sketchbook, so although I’d reached what was, for me, the final blank spread, it was also the first pair of pages after opening the cover. I’d been feeling it coming for days and, unusually, it had been haunting me.

    I’ve been working this way through sketchbooks for more than two and a half years — since I first returned to drawing after Mary Gordon died. It was a strategy born out of needing to avoid the paralysing pressure of a perfect first page. At first I simply chose random places to draw, but soon I settled into working from back to front. It has served me well, but with this sketchbook that first-page paralysis has reared its head again — maybe because of the recent stress around my health and all the newness.

    Interestingly, in worrying about meeting this page, I’d forgotten about the power of routine. Simply making my tea, arranging my tea-things on the tray, and bringing it back to bed found me reaching for my sketchbook and pencil and beginning to draw. I stayed gentle and started with something small and contained: the Stanley logo on my insulated mug. I’ve been wanting to draw it for a while, and its sparseness felt like the right entry point. Once that was on the page, the drawing grew easily — the reading light, the illustrated hen mat, the milk jug. Familiar shapes. Familiar company.

    I decided not to add any colour, and as I dated the drawing to mark it as finished, I felt a quiet satisfaction at having made it through that moment of resistance — and at having filled another sketchbook, one drawing at a time, from back to front.

    A close-up view of an open sketchbook resting on a bed. On the left page is a dense line drawing made with pencil showing a reading light and a milk jug, both sitting on a patterned hen tray mat. The hens form a repeating background across the whole page. On the right page, centred within a large area of blank paper, is a small hand-drawn version of the Stanley logo — a winged bear wearing a crown — with “STANLEY. Since 1913” written beneath it. The date “17–11–25” appears in the lower corner. Above the sketchbook the edges of the tray from the drawing can be seen showing the base of the reading lamp and part of the hen patterned tray mat from the drawing, along with a short pencil with a gold point guard and what looks like the base of an orange mug and a silver flask. Warm lamplight softens the edges of the paper.

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  • Drawing with the Stub of my Pencil at 5.00am

    A view of a gentle early-morning tea-tray scene arranged on a crocheted blanket. An open sketchbook sits on a tray decorated with tiny hens, its pages filled with loose line drawings of birds, a Barista oat-milk carton, and a handwritten reflection about drawing with a pencil stub at 5 a.m. A warm yellow clip-light illuminates the pages. Around the sketchbook are the familiar objects of the morning ritual: a **lime-green teapot**, a tall stainless-steel flask, and a bright **orange Stanley insulated mug** whose **Perspex lid is softly clouded with condensation**. A Barista oat-milk carton stands at the back of the tray. On the right-hand side, resting on the patterned surface, are a **brass pencil sharpener** and the **tiny pencil stub** the drawing was made with — small tools emphasising the quiet, handmade nature of the moment. The atmosphere is cosy, domestic, and attentive — an early pocket of comfort and drawing.

    I just used a pencil for today’s drawing. I wondered about adding some colour, but wanted to keep things simple.

    I found myself revealing a little more about my habits and routines than perhaps I intended — talking about my need to use a pencil to its stubbly end and how I’ve developed a routine of saving the old stubs in a jar — with another for the shavings.

    The new insulated mug is present again, not quite fully on the page. The new chicken illustrated tray-mat too. Both feeling much more familiar — enjoyable even – to draw.

    The text reads:

    Drawing with the stub of my pencil at 5.00am. I’m reluctant to let it go, bo but I can’t sharpen it any more (sic). I have a jar where I keep the old stubs

    A close-up view of an open sketchbook resting on a tray patterned with tiny illustrated hens. Warm yellow lamplight softens the cream pages. On the left page is a handwritten note about drawing with the stub of a pencil at 5 a.m., with a row of small bird sketches beneath it. On the right page is a loose line drawing of a Barista oat-milk carton beside a **round orange Stanley insulated mug**, seen from above with its **Perspex lid lightly misted with condensation**. At the top of the image, the real orange insulated mug sits just above the sketchbook, and to the left the curved edge of a **lime-green teapot** enters the frame. On the tray beside the sketchbook lie a **tiny pencil stub** and a **small brass pencil sharpener**, catching a little of the lamplight. The whole scene feels intimate and quietly early — a small pocket of drawing before dawn.

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  • Drawing in the Dark (Again)

    A softly lit tea-tray scene resting on a crocheted blanket. On the patterned tray are a lime-green teapot, orange Stanley mug, stainless-steel flask, and a carton of Alpro Barista Oat milk. In front of them lies an open sketchbook showing a bold drawing of the same objects, partly coloured with red, blue, and ochre Neocolor crayon. A small lamp casts a warm yellow light across the page and teapot, turning the whole arrangement into a cosy night-time study in repetition and reflection.

    I was excited to pick up my sketchbook this morning. After yesterday’s experience of drawing in the dark, I was keen to experiment a little more.

    Only a little light

    There was a small pool of light cast from my bedside reading lamp to the left, but the tray in its usual position on the bed was mostly in darkness. I could just make out the familiar shapes of the things on it, but much wasn’t clear.

    I began with the ninety-degree Perspex handle on the lid of my new bright orange insulated mug. I drew the gentle curve of the top of the mug and immediately felt the comfort and pleasure that can come from drawing. I couldn’t see the shape of the mug’s handle, so I drew that from memory — and did the same with the Stanley motif on the front.

    Next came the flask, drawn a little less clumsily than yesterday, and the milk jug — a mix of what I could see and what I remembered from drawing it so many times before. Then the oat-milk carton. The top half was lit better and I could observe it directly, but this wasn’t my usual brand, so when I reached the darker lower half I left much of it undrawn. Then my teapot: familiar from memory, but not quite right.

    Choosing colour by instinct

    Finally I added the crocheted blanket the tray was sitting on. As yesterday, I chose colours without seeing them clearly — relying on the remembered length of each crayon and a sense of how light or dark it felt. I did better at choosing today, though I didn’t know for sure which colours I’d picked until daylight began to seep into the room.

    At first, I hadn’t planned to include the illustrated hens on the mat (or to colour it), but I was enjoying the session and gaining confidence in drawing from memory. As the room brightened, I could make out the white shapes of the hens, though not their details, so I added a few approximations. To finish, I coloured the mat with what I hoped was a Neocolor II Ochre crayon — it was.

    A litte fiddling!

    When I decided the drawing was finished, I realised there wasn’t much space left to add the date, so I tucked it into one of the white borders of the crocheted blanket squares. Unable to stop myself fiddling (and breaking my rule of the drawing being finished when I add the date), I added a couple of small touches of colour where I’d missed before — the only moment of dissatisfaction in an otherwise deeply satisfying drawing.

    A closer view of the open sketchbook resting on the tray, its pages filled with a line drawing of the morning tea-tray — the Alpro carton, flask, teapot, and Stanley mug — outlined in black and filled with bright blocks of ochre, red, and blue. The yellow lamplight gives the page a golden tone, echoing the warmth of the objects around it. The date “12-11-25” appears in the top corner, anchoring the drawing as part of the ongoing Tea-Tray series.

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  • Familiar Spouts, a Mr Kipling Apple Pie and My New Mug

    An open sketchbook rests on a tray covered with a printed cloth of small illustrated chickens. The drawing on the page is made entirely in pencil: a jug with a pronounced spout, a teapot, an insulated mug with a lidded top, and several loosely sketched chickens. The jug appears slightly larger in scale than the other objects. The drawing is left in line only, with no colour or text added it is dated 7-11-25 in the bottom right corner. Above the sketchbook, the real objects sit on the tray: the jug, the teapot, the insulated mug, and a small pie in its wrapper. The scene is arranged on a softly crocheted blanket made up of blue and purple squares with a white borders. A small white reading lamp lights the scene with a gentle orange glow, and the overall feeling is quiet and domestic.

    Today I turned my new tea-tray mat over, revealing a calm brown background. I also added a Mr Kipling apple pie to my tray — something with warm associations from long ago. Together these two small changes helped me into a calmer space before I started drawing than I was in yesterday.

    I began the drawing with the spout of my milk jug. I get pleasure and comfort from drawing its shape — the same is true of my teapot spout. After drawing both, I moved on to my new insulated mug, starting with the little sticking-out piece of its lid. I can see that this might become a familiar starting point — it isn’t yet, but the possibility that it might pleases me.

    I made the decision to include the chickens on the tray mat — more unfamiliarity — but then I spotted a chicken that was familiar. It is the same as the one on my lesser-used (but still often drawn) Go Gently George mug. Seeing that one helped the other illustrated chickens feel friendlier. I was getting to know them better as I drew. Quite suddenly, I realised I was enjoying myself, and noticed that the new mug is more on the page and part of the drawing than it was yesterday.

    No colour today, no text. I rather like the open space left on the page.

    A calmer time drawing — and, with the new insulated mug, my tea was still hot when I finished.

    A close view of an open sketchbook page showing a pencil drawing of an arrangement of tea things on a tray. A jug, teapot, insulated mug, and a number of chickens are drawn with strong lines. The photograph is a closely cropped view of the sketchbook, but the top of the image shows the tray from the drawing and includes a small reading light casting an orange glow and a stub of a yellow pencil with a gold ferrule. It can be seen that the chickens from the drawing are illustrations on a brown mat that is covering the tray. The image suggests a feeling of intimacy, cosiness, and domesticity.

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  • Drawing Through a Transition and a New Understanding

    An open sketchbook lies on a bed beside a tray. On the tray are a white ridged jug, a small green teapot, and a bright orange insulated mug on a chicken-patterned mat. The drawing in the sketchbook depicts these same objects and their arrangement. Coloured pencils and a small reading light are nearby. The scene is softly lit with warm, indirect light.

    Two new things in my world

    When something changes in my small daily world, it can feel larger than it might seem to someone else. I often need time to learn how to be alongside the new thing — to find its place and let it find mine. Drawing can help with this — not always straight away or with one drawing, but over time, drawing by drawing, I can begin to feel comfortable with the new and unfamiliar.

    Today’s drawing, The Shock of the New shows the start of a transition. I have a new bright orange mug and a new turquoise tray mat covered with small white chickens. I really love them both, but on my tray, in this drawing, they both felt out of place — loud, jarring and too new.

    Drawing through the discomfort of transition

    In the drawing, the new mug appears only partly on the page, as though it hasn’t quite entered the familiar world of the drawing yet. The chickens on the tray are clumsy — my hand doesn’t know their shapes, so it feels its way slowly, uncertainly. Nothing is fully settled. I am still working out how these new things belong.

    As I stayed with the drawing, I noticed that something began to shift a little. The new objects didn’t feel comfortable, exactly — but they felt less abrupt. I wasn’t trying to make them fit, but I was enjoying exploring them and and feeling the possibility that they might.

    What I’m beginning to understand

    I’m beginning to see that drawing helps me move slowly through a change, to sit with the discomfort of it, and to let something unfamiliar become part of my world. In that sense, it is a therapeutic process.

    More than that, I’ve realised today (with a quiet shock of recognition) that my recent drawings have also been revealing a little more about me than I had quite seen before. I think that understanding is part of another transition and I need to let it arrive slowly too — drawing by drawing.

    A close view of an open sketchbook page showing a line drawing of objects on a tea-tray: a ridged jug, a small teapot, and the upper portion of a tall insulated mug. The tray mat beneath them is turquoise and patterned with small repeated white chickens. Areas of flat colour appear in turquoise, black, and orange. At the top of the page, handwritten text reads: “The shock of the new. Trying to draw my new mug and tray mat among the more familar (sic). I'm not very good with change.” The image is lit by a soft orange light, which may be somewhat altering the appearance of the colours.
    The Shock of the New (6th October 2025)

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