Sometimes I feel like my drawing is similar to composing music. I start drawing just something and hope that it begins its own life.
In this drawing i start from the clouds and doesnt have any idea what it is gonna be at end.
Outside my drawing table window are straight and weeping birches. We lost one of the birch trucks and, tragically, a beautiful OLD Japanese maple during an ice storm a few years ago. The third trunk is still in my mind's eye.
The aspiring writer Wilkie Simmons came to Scholars Court 5 years back to finish his debut novel. Rarely seen in society, he works day and night hole up in apartment 6B. What sounds like talking to himself, he assures the concerned neighbor (somewhat jump
A3 The fish (scale- and eyeless) swam into a motley selection of patterns filled into a scribble/string. Done with graphic pens and watercolour pencils blended with water.
