Sketching in Charcoal
No seriously—there was a time (almost another life it seems) when I would spend an hour or two a week with a glass of wine in one hand and a stick of charcoal in the other. I wasn’t at the professional level; let’s be honest, I wasn’t even at the intermediate level. But there was some notable improvement from when I first bought my own sketchpad.
I’ve been spring cleaning like a fiend lately, and rearranging furniture, and boxing up winter related items, and I came across all of my drawing gear. That’s what brought this bought on.
I think what’s most curious about drawing is knowing that the more I do it, the more I advance at it, and I just don’t know what to do with that advancement. It’s neither writing nor photography, both of which I want to excel at. And it’s not something that I do socially. In a sense, drawing is much like my aspirations to play the Ukelele (bet you didn’t know about that one, did you? And for good reason—ask me to hum a few bars and you’ll see why). There are so many fields and specialties that I enjoy doing, often for their own pleasures, but the pragmatic side of myself always asks: “And to what end will you do this?” If I can be happy with a peach or a pear, which one do I choose? The one that makes me feel the most full?