August 9 : : I can’t walk into a newsagent or art supply shop without buying a sketchbook, it seems. Never mind that there are ten, twelve, maybe 15 empty ones waiting at home…the new sketchbook, with its pristine cover, crisp-cornered pages and clean block profile, promises something: a fresh start, maybe? Absolution from ALL previous, crappy drawings and the unglamorous scuff marks from living at the bottom of a cluttered backpack?
Whatever it is, the giddy joy of possessing something that has the potential to become something else—a potential that is boundless and absolute until the paper receives its first impressions—seems too good to pass by, and so home I trot, a horizon of golden promise that stretches as far as the eye can see, tucked into my bag.
At any rate, I have a paper fetish. As the daughter of a printer, the smell of printing inks and the ambient light of a press room stacked high with glacial white peaks and walrus-ivory boulders of paper confers more feelings of peace and security than a kitchen full of warm bread and cinnamon.