06 April 2012

F*ck off, I'm drawing.

Let's say you're in the park, doing studies of old people and fountains, and a comple stranger wanst to look at what the hell you're drawing.

In "the Natural Way to Draw" Kimon Nicolaides wrote of the techniques described within "The exercise is merely a constructive way for you to look at people and objects so that you may acquire the most knowledge from your efforts."

To improve, you need to practice, and practice a freaking lot! For that, you need a sketchbook.

But wander around a convention floor for a bit, and there's sketchbooks everywhere, either visual autograph books with quick headshots jotted down by 25 different famous people, or published sketchbooks you can buy from famous people, like Dave Pimentel's "Evoke".

Published artbooks can be an inspiration and a joy to look at, and if edited correctly, show nothing but beautiful, finished drawing for the paying public to enjoy. BUT, I find that artbooks (or often, ashcan minicomics) titled as "sketchbooks" give the false impression that every time the artist touches paper, they just throw down a finished drawing.

Which is weird, like assuming every time Orson Wells opened his mouth, he delivered a stirring monolog.

Which brings us to that park analogy. There really feels like this expectation for sketchbooks to be less like a blooper reel filled with doodles, false starts and just bad drawings, and more like a polished, finished product. In truth, a real sketchbook, for personal use, the kind that's so vital to the life of an artist, is PRIVATE.

So Fuck Off, I'm drawing!

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