This line from the Stephin Merritt episode of the 'She's A Talker' podcast (referring to Stephen Sondheim plot-lines) got my imagination ticking in overdrive
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.
"Whirlwind 20”, an original drawing. Micron pens on archival paper. Size: 4” x 6”. Title, signature, and date in the back of the drawing. This drawing is the 20th in a series of drawings posted over a period of 100 days. The original post date on this drawing was September 20, 2020.
“Whirlwind 9”, an original drawing. Micron pens on archival paper. Size: 4” x 6”. Title, signature, and date in the back of the drawing. This drawing is the 9th in a series of drawings posted over a period of 100 days. The original post date on this drawing was September 9, 2020.
I wanted to draw someone who is actually in my life. My moms friend Chanda was around and I just secretly took a photo of her, and traced her face outline because I am sucky at outlines.
"Whirlwind 21”, an original drawing. Micron pens on archival paper. Size: 5” x 7”. Title, signature, and date in the back of the drawing. This drawing is the 21st in a series of drawings posted over a period of 100 days. The original post date on this drawing was September 21, 2020.
The tables were covered in white paper. Crayons, pastels, and smooth sticks waited quietly. Then came Lucy’s glittery purse—her 8-year-old hands had filled it with stones to pass along, one by one, to the strangers around the table.
We traced them. Pushed them. Held them.
Then we let the colors lead:
-Red for emotion.
-Yellow for curiosity.
-Blue for memory.
Each color came with music, with story, with space.
At the Museum of Wisconsin Art, we made marks not for meaning but for presence.
Thank you to Ann Marie and MOWA for the invitation and trust. And thank you to the participants—some new friends, some old students—for showing up and making lines that listened before they spoke.
I had a time, when monkeys were featured very often in my artworks. Even now, they emerge in the story-lines. Amazing creatures! This sketchbook piece is done using graphic markers, posca and pen.
Llyn Mymbyr, Snowdonia. This view looking in the opposite direction to Snowdon. First time using a Uniball UB-150, but the paper allowed it to bleed somewhat so the lines were a little heavier than intended. I think it would benefit from better quality paper or a finer pen.
