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.
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It’s been quite a while since I last wrote here. I think gaps can say almost as much as what’s actually said, so I’m not going to try to catch up, but rather begin again from where I am today.
I’m drawing self-portraits at the moment—joining in with #Selfietember. I’ve bought myself a mirror and have been eyeballing myself in the wee small hours when I haven’t been able to sleep.
Today felt intimate and uncomfortable. I was very tired, but couldn’t sleep. Wired. I enjoyed making the few marks that made up this drawing.
Oh, and I’m drawing with a pen these days. My pencil seems to have found its way back into its pencil case—for now, at least.
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I made a drawing this morning hoping for a little comfort. I drew the objects I know: mug, teapot, oat milk, tray. Familiar companions to steady anxious hands.
As I worked, I found myself thinking about “firm ground” — the feeling of being steadied by something reliable. I’d hoped the drawing might give me that today. But as the lines unfolded, I realised that hunting for ground might be what pulls me off balance in the first place.
Maybe there isn’t firm ground in the way I keep wanting it. Maybe drawing is simply a way of staying with that uncertainty for a few minutes at a time — accepting the unsteady surface, line by line, rather than trying to find something solid underneath.
A note to self: perhaps comfort can come from letting go of the search.
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This feels like an important drawing — the first I’d made in nearly ten years after suddenly stopping drawing in 2013. It’s of my dear friend Mary, who had just died.
In my grief after hearing she had died, I was sent into quite a spin about my own mortality, and I realised with a sudden shock that I didn’t want to die myself without drawing again. I went into town looking for the familiar — the pocket-sized Moleskine sketchbook I used to draw in many years ago — but I couldn’t find one.
I ended up ordering one from Amazon that same afternoon.
I’ve just found the invoice — dated 10th March 2023 — the very day I received the message telling me she’d gone. That was how urgent getting hold of that familiar sketchbook, and making a drawing in it, must have felt.
According to the invoice, it arrived the next day — so this drawing could have been made on or around the 11th of March 2023.
It is an upside-down drawing, following an exercise from Betty Edwards’ excellent Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain. The exercise — turning a photograph upside down to draw from, so the brain is tricked into really looking at what’s there — felt like a gentle way back into drawing after so many years.
Looking back, I think I also needed Mary herself to be upside down so I wasn’t looking directly at my lovely, now dead, friend. That slight detachment helped me see only shapes and lines, rather than the full weight of grief.
Unlike most of the rest of that sketchbook, this drawing looks more like the drawings I’m making today (and the ones I was making back in 2013). The marks feel very me — in their quickness and weight. Most of the other drawings feel nervous and uncertain. This one, though — this one feels like me finding myself again.
The drawing mattered then because it was proof that I could still make a line. That drawing itself was something I hadn’t lost — not completely. It mattered because it was a beginning — or maybe more accurately, a returning — even though I didn’t, or couldn’t, trust that at the time.
It matters today because I can see what I couldn’t quite see then: this drawing quietly held both loss and return. It was an opening — quiet, unannounced, and upside down. A small act of mark-making that allowed all the others to follow.
See also: Finding out that Mary Gordon had died and Moleskine Invoice
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On the face of it, this little piece of digital ephemera shouldn’t matter. It’s simply an order for two Moleskine sketchbooks made two and a half years ago. But it’s much more than that…
Firstly, these two sketchbooks were the first I bought after returning to drawing following a ten-year break.
Secondly, the date of the invoice shows that they were bought on the same day I heard that my friend Mary Gordon had died.
Mary dying was the catalyst for my restarting to draw. I remember clearly that when I heard she’d died, I knew — suddenly and without doubt — that I needed to draw again. That I didn’t want to die without at least trying to get back to a drawing practice.
What I didn’t remember was just how closely these two events — hearing of her death, and ordering sketchbooks — sat together. According to the invoice, they were not just related, but simultaneous. The sketchbooks were bought on the same day.
That realisation has given this little digital record a much greater significance — it has become a timestamp that shows not just when I returned to drawing, but why.
See also: Finding out that Mary had Died and Drawing Mary (upside down)
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