The next sketchbook I bought was beautiful. I spent about 45 minutes choosing it, waffling between the utilitarian ones with scratchy paper that I knew I could fill and the exquisite one that I wanted to fill. I brought the New Book home and felt its quiet pages. I fiddled with the ribbon that tied it shut and wondered if I had made a mistake.
What I wanted to see when I opened up the New Book was this:
|Three Studies of a Dancer by Edgar Degas|
so I left that first page blank. A blank page doesn't aspire to be a Degas sketch, afterall. Before I knew it, I was pages deep in food label musings, lists of imaginary places, sketches of my dream chair, you name it.
Sometimes a grocery list even sneaks in, because, you know, you should never work on an empty stomach.