George Balanchine (1904–1983)
Balanchine liked to do his own laundry. “When I’m ironing, that’s when I do most of my work,” he once said. The choreographer rose early, before 6:00 A.M., made a pot of tea, and read a little or played a hand of Russian solitaire while he gathered his thoughts. Then he did his ironing for the day (he did his own washing too, in a portable machine in his Manhattan apartment) and, between 7:30 and 8:00, phoned his longtime assistant for a rundown of the day’s schedule.
- From Daily Rituals: How Artists Work by Mason Currey
“I like to do things certain ways and I disagree with everybody but I don't even want to argue.”
― George Balanchine
#dailyrituals #inktober #balanchine @masoncurrey
I’ve been going through a bit of an art slump lately, but I finally got myself to pick up the pencil and finish this. My reference photo was a bit grainy so had some trouble with that, but overall I’m pretty pleased with how it turned out. Done in graphite, drawing itself is about 5x6 in
Hello again, Gale. I've mailed a photograph of the window with this letter. I hope both reach you safely on Par Tritus. Eclipse City thrives, contrary to Luncara's beliefs. Tell James that I've missed her. But the Jagged sets and my light is spread thin, so I must conclude this letter. Best wishes to you, James, and the king. Sincerely, Cyrus
I am an art teacher with a master’s degree—trained by brilliant professors who believed that art could do more than decorate walls. I offer safe spaces for teenagers to grow—nourishing soil where their imaginations can take root.
And yet… I am assigned to hallway duty.
This is compulsory education, after all.
So I sit—posted like a sentinel—watching young lives stream past.
“Get to class,” I say with a smile and a nudge.
The system wants attendance; I’m hungry for presence.
Armed not with a whistle or clipboard, but with a pen—
my scribble’s soft insurgency.
The hallway stretches out like a geometric hymn.
Columns and corners chant structure.
Teenagers swirl past—half-formed galaxies of limbs and laughter—
their orbits chaotic, their gravity pulling time forward.
I begin to draw.
Not their tardiness, but their motion.
A shoulder. A blur of sneakers.
A tilted head chasing freedom.
Feet flickering like seconds.
Each mark a pulse.
Each smudge a breath.
My paper becomes a seismograph of seeing—
trembling gently through the mundane.
This isn’t about making art for a frame or a feed.
It’s about refusing to leak away in the fluorescent hum of obligation.
It’s a quiet mutiny against the clock.
I do this on long car rides, too (passenger side, mind you).
Letting the lines grow wild, jagged, and unapologetic.
Not for polish—
but for presence.
This is how I remember I’m still alive.
Still growing.
Still watching.
Still choosing to see.
Because sometimes mental health looks like
a piece of scrap paper,
a moving pen,
and the simple, sacred act of
marking time with wonder.
Family planning is a basic human right. Couples should have agency when planning their lives and their families. No law, legislation, politician or religious leader can take that away from you. Personal Project, 2022, 9” x 12” Ballpoint Pen on Paper, Digital.
Here's a drawing I made of pinup model Lalla.I used black ink, color pencil (black and grey) graphite pencil on watercolor paper. Many thanks for looking.
