I have been busy the last few days, and I haven’t had much time for drawing. But while I talk to people on the phone, I can heedlessly draw in a little notebook. My eyes and fingers are not troubled by my preoccupation. Hardly caring how the lines fall, I draw as naturally as I would look at the things which I set up on the table for the still-life-in-progress that I haven’t time to do. I gaze, I draw. Scribbling lines wander around like ants at a picnic.
Mom and I talked about a half-hour this morning when she first woke. We talked and my absent-minded gaze produced pen lines without my full participation. And though I didn’t on this occasion, one could tell the other party “I’m looking at the blue compotier. The reflections are very fine! And the glass is so clear in this light.”
What fine light spreads over the earth daily from the nice star around which our planet revolves. I notice a peck of that light while I breathe the sweet air, drink my coffee and chat with Mom on the phone.
It is not exactly “art” in this case, just a bit of the time captured. And now in reflection I have not only the drawing to enjoy, but other pleasures added. Have you ever noticed the lovely sheen that comes off the pen from a ball point pen? And the color of my notebook’s paper is very golden in this night’s lamp-light. And the paper feels so smooth as your fingers pass over it.
These things are not “art” either, and yet drawing has such pleasures that far transcend even the great joys of art. I must tell Mom all about it tomorrow.