The notebook is the place where you can work in the utmost privacy. The pages close, and the drawing escapes the light and hides behind perhaps a hundred veils. While you’re making the drawing, you have a little studio that sits in your lap. You can try out ideas, and no one needs to know. Or you have the option of not trying out ideas. Not trying can be a very fine way to spend time. You can draw the way the fish swim. And they do not try to swim so much as they just swim. Of course the fish know more about swimming than an artist usually knows about drawing. And the fish after a lifetime of swimming swim as effortlessly as upon the first fishy day. But trying to draw and not trying are very complicated manuevers that alter one into the other willy nilly. It’s hard work not controlling the not controlling.
In any case, it can all transpire in the deepest privacy: underneath the hundred veils hiding the depths of the water of the pond of the notebook of imagination held in the common backpack — there with the pencils of various sorts and all the other stuff you cart from place to place, a vagabond of longings.