I went down to the local bowling lanes tonight to catch some old friends out playing. Two of them I’ve known since third grade. “A Blues Band” is what they go by. I ditched the new pen I got. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a hand full of various pens….none of them the right one. I went with a plain old ball point pen with black ink. Its always a challenge drawing musicians who usually look cool but are poor models who move around too much.  I start drawing somebody facing one way…in ink…then they suddenly turn and face the other way and I am left to try and guess what it should be. I rarely get a good resemblance in these cases. No exception here. But the guys were good sports about it and seemed to like the drawing enough.

I tried out a new pen today. It was a uniball pen, but not the same kind that used to be available…the kind I favored…the kind with waterproof ink. I step out into my friend’s porch on this chilly evening and did a quick sketch of the house across the street. I spit on my finger and rubbed it across the ink to see if was water proof. Nope. It smeared when it got wet. I continued wetting my finger and smearing the ink till it was filled in enough to complete the work. Still on the look out for a new pen to use that has a micro tip and waterproof ink.

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I attempted several drawings of my dog Woody tonight. Since I was drawing in ink, I would have to start a fresh drawing every time he move. This proved to be too frequent. Nothing to show except for some practice. I did find two rather delicate pencil drawings in a sketch book from 2011. They were drawn from life when I was visiting my artist friend Stacey Kirby. I had forgotten all about them. It’s like finding old friends.

Today I found the sketch that was missing. It was under the desk with coffee stains splashed across it. I made the sketch from life while traveling across the panhandle of Florida in a greyhound bus. The driver, an older black man exuded a steady calmness that instilled a confidence that assured me we were in safe hands. He was friendly and chatted with the passengers close to him…particularly the sweet talking black lady sitting behind him. She spoke of her husband who she said was killed 3 weeks ago. The driver mentions that his son was killed 3 years ago and he still wasn’t over it. As we neared the bus station the driver informed us that we all would be getting off there. Sensing her time with him was short she says, “I ain’t got nobody…and you ain’t got nobody. Lets get mushy!” The driver laughed and replied, “I’m not an Indian, but I know a war cry when I hear one!”

Source: The Door Knob

I left the makeshift studio I had set up in my brothers attic. I walked down the stairs armed with a sketchpad and drawing supplies and I was off to find something to draw. I walked and looked around. Walked some more…kept looking. I couldn’t find that perfect subject worthy of a drawing. I walked for hours seeing too much and yet not seeing anything. I climbed back up to the attic studio discouraged. I sat down determined that I was going to draw something then and there. I looked around and saw nothing in the bare room except for an old water radiator and the porcelain doorknob I turned to shut myself in the room. I got out some gray pastel paper and sketched the doorknob with black and white charcoal. I also did an ink drawing of the old radiator. I was a youngster then but I had learned a valuable lesson.  I didn’t need to go far and wide for subject matter. Just draw what is around me….in front of me. Everyday things…

There is a sacred place in Tennessee known as The Narrows. The Harpeth River makes a large loop as it crawls through Cheatam County and comes back to itself for a spell. This narrow strip of land between the river rises high above the surrounding landscape and for thousands of years has been a pilgrimage for many people…including myself. I went up there on a warm spring day to do some art. I chose the scene and then got out my pastels. I was making good progress on it when a young couple with their kids climbed up to where I was painting. When they saw what I was doing they both smiled. “It’s nice to have a hobby!” says the woman cheerfully. Then she frowned slightly and asks, “It is a hobby isn’t it?” She looked to her husband who was gently shaking his head no. “No, mam.” I answered. “I think of it more as a calling.”