Thursday, June 4, 2015


I am not an Artist (clearly).  Not with a capital A.  My sister is The Artist.  An amazing one.  But somewhere in me must be a drop of that same need-to-paint.  I never did before...well, unless you count high school art classes, where I drew many angst-y self-portraits with lots of black glitter and whole pages of abstract eyeballs.  I have always been strictly the Photographer.  Documenting the creativity of others.  Also afraid to fail, afraid to look silly, afraid to express something that wasn't already in plain sight for a camera to capture.

 I guess this doodle mania started when I began to make little cards and sketches for my boys, copying their favorite books and such, to send to them when they were away visiting their father and heart-sick, I missed them so badly, I kept turning pages in their abandoned books on the coffee table, looking for them.

And then, I found drawing soothed me.  Now I do it almost daily, if I have a free moment.  My hundreds of doodles are never anything wonderfully meaningful or terribly well done, just things I see, or dream up, or like.  Some days I go for realism (or as close as a newborn doodler can get) and some days my sketches are wild, wacky creatures the kids suggest.  CD covers, postcards, notes for my Bubs...I only work in pen and cheap watercolor, because $5 is pretty much the max I'd ever spend on myself.  I don't want anything else anyhow.  I'm not concerned that I am no good, technically.  I just love it and every year that passes brings me closer to being whole.  I think maybe we are all born whole, and then sometimes trouble takes us apart.  The rest of life is about putting your pieces back together.  Click.

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