Watch the Clock!

The Daily Life Text

As a student body, we’ve been thinking a lot about timing.

Why? Because every residency, we have something along the order of five readings. That’s five nights during which students spend another hour or so listening to valued fellow students and guest faculty read from their works. We do this at Whidbey for several reasons:

  1. Reading to a group is a professional skill, one which every student should have well under their belts.
  2. Reading your work out loud is yet another way of getting to know it, inside and out.
  3. Reading your work out loud is a gift to the audience: It’s rare that folks get to hear an author’s words from their own lips. It’s a gift that shouldn’t be taken lightly on either end.
  4. Getting to hear the pros gives us something to aspire to.

The flip, less-sexy-but-equally-important side to each of these reasons is time limits. Each reader is given an allotted amount of time, and each reader should stick to that allotted time, regardless of whether or not the readers feels the need to make a tremendously long explanation to his or her work. Here are the reasons why:

  1. It’s only fair to the other readers, that you each get the same allotment of time.
  2. If  you need to explain your work and the explanation takes up the bulk of your allotted time, then the piece needs more work.
  3. Readings are meant to whet the listener’s appetite for more from the writer, that’s all. Complete stories are nice, but hardly necessary.

At NILA, it’s students who run the readings. We’ve come up with several ideas, some of which were submitted by faculty, to encourage folks to stick to their time limits. They are:

  • Water pistols
  • Burp guns (both ping-pong and marshmallow)
  • Gigantic “Gong Show” type gong
  • Big hook, a la the old vaudeville shows
  • Swelling music that eventually drowns out the speaker, a la award shows

Hm. I like all of these. What’s your choice for encouraging folks to keep to time limits?


A writing prompt, after a fashion

The Daily Life Text

I saw someone very special the other day. It was someone I only see once every six or seven years, apparently. She is lovely and it never seems like any time has gone by when we do see each other, and I think this is part of the reason why:

Well. Not this exactly. But stuff like this.

After an awesome backwards dinner (we had dessert first), we strolled back to my car and spotted this, um, tableau in a shop window. We then proceeded to riff off of it for a good ten, fifteen minutes. It’s nice to find people like that with whom you can do such things.

We came up with a number of possibilities. (If you can’t really see it, the scary-looking devil-child is holding a set of antlers behind his–its?–back.) The horse is actually an old rocking horse, and it has a hole through its neck where, presumably, the reins used to go.

The various scenarios we came up with:

“Hello horsie. Would you like something sweet?”

“Well. I have these fine antlers. But I really would like it better if you were a unicorn, so…here.”

“Ah. I see. The hole in your neck. Here’s something to plug it with.”

“My Frankenhorse is almost complete. I have shed the barnacles of my childhood by making a mere plastic rocking horse into a carousel horse. Now it remains only to unicornize it. Oops. I did not mean to de-antler that buck on the way here.”

Now it’s your turn. What do you think is going on here? My totally subjective choice of winner gets a bag of Swedish fish mailed to them. I’ll try to make it the multi-colored ones, but you’ll get standard red if that’s all I can find.

“Submissions” close December 31.

Special thanks to Shey, my once-every-seven-years friend, for making this happen. Hopefully we’ll see more of each other now!


Fugue State

The Daily Life Text

I took half of Friday to recharge my batteries and see The Met’s annual collaboration with The Costume Institute, called “Impossible Conversations: Schiaparelli and Prada.”

A little background: Elsa Schiaparelli was a designer whose heyday was during the 1930s-60s. She had a playful sensitivity about her that belied fashion’s then-more utilitarian purpose; rather than using fashion as a reflection of the times, she used it to drive aesthetic sensitivity. It all makes sense when you consider that she collaborated multiple times with Salvador Dali, a visual artist who put his views to work for clients as varied as Alfred Hitchcock and Walt Disney.

Elsa Schiaparelli

Here’s Salvador Dali’s “Eye” painting, 1945

And here’s one of Schiaparelli’s hats, called the “Eyelash,” which is meant to evoke the idea of the whole head as an eye.

Miuccia Prada is one of our contemporary designers, of course. You’ve all seen her logo:

photo via

And some of her work:

image via

Here’s where it gets tricky. The exhibit is called “Impossible Conversations” because clearly it’s impossible for the living, breathing Prada to have a conversation with the long-gone Schiaparelli. But it’s also modeled after a Vanity Fair column that used to run in the 1930s called “Impossible Interviews,” which featured caricatures of unlikely conversationalists (John D. Rockfeller and Joseph Stalin, for instance). The caricatures, painted by Miguel Covarrubias, were accompanied by text by Corey Ford, a regular contributor to the magazine. (For more on the “Impossible Interviews” and a snippet of text, go to the Norman Rockwell Center’s great page on it.)

Okay, that was a lot of background.

It’s an interesting premise, even if the title of the thing–and its invited comparison to the Vanity Fair feature–encourages the underlying belief that Schiaparelli and Prada have deeply conflicting ideas on fashion. (They do, but they’re not as wide in scope as, say, communism and capitalism.) Also, the Vanity Fair column seemed to be entirely tongue-in-cheek, and totally absurdist, whereas this exhibit is entirely earnest.

But it was a disappointment. It starts off with a video of Prada and Schiaparelli sitting at a huge Italianate table having drinks. I thought we’d have recordings of Schiaparelli’s voice with maybe some still photographs at her end of the table (why else is that table so damned long?), but no, it’s Australian actress Judy Davis, giving it her all in an updo and a severe black dress.

Actress Judy Davis (photo via

Prada, for her part, is just Prada. And it was interesting to hear her talk about what it was like to labeled “minimalist,” and how, as a child, she hid behind things and eventually used fashion as a way to “out” herself. (She doesn’t mean outing as from the closet; she means she found a way to express herself.)

But here’s the thing: it IS possible for even a fine art exhibit to think too much of itself, and I think that’s what happened here. The whole thing is way too meta: Here’s an art exhibit riffing off a magazine column that riffed off of real life. And  snippets of the film play all the way through the exhibit, creating a fugue-like atmosphere that distracted entirely from the beauty of the work. All I could hear was Davis’ Italian-ate accent grinding its way through my brain.

So there you are, trying to see why it is these two designers have been paired together, but the clips play throughout, making it really hard to concentrate on some of the statements that Schiaparelli actually made about her work, which are printed at the foot of some of the items. (The script of the film varies just slightly from the actual text of Schiaparelli’s own commentary, whereas Prada’s commentary seems to be taken verbatim from the script, or vice-versa. The whole thing is just too much.)

So what was missing for me? Schiaparelli did some amazing work. She has her relatively tame lobster dress, which was a gorgeous piece of white organza that had a huge lobster printed on it; and her work was incredibly playful–check out these acrobat buttons:

But the exhibit didn’t have what I think is one of her most interesting works, the skeleton dress:

Skeleton Dress image via

And I’m pretty sure it didn’t even include the lobster dress, but instead included an image of it.

I think the most glaring omission of the exhibit was the express exclusion of any mention of the gorgeous masks, all created in the spirit of surrealism by British hairstylist Guido Palau. Here are a few snaps from

I would have loved to have seen an artist’s statement from Palau, at least, on these masks. (I think it’s a testimony to their awesomeness that, by the time I got to the Met mini-shop at the end of the exhibit, they’d sold out of the postcards that featured the masks. And it’s worth mentioning, too, that Palau did the masks for the Met’s exhibit on Alexander McQueen last year.)

In the end, I’m glad I went. But I was left with the impression that, rather than wanting to highlight the importance of these two designers to fashion, The Met went the route of highlighting its own importance to the world of fashion exhibits.

The whole exhibit ends with a snippet of film in which Schiaparelli/Davis questions whether she and Prada would have been friends or foes if they had lived during the same era. Prada laughs and says, “No, Schiap, no!”

In the end, I think it’s perhaps this false familiarity, the use of the diminutive where permission to use it most certainly hasn’t been granted,  that signifies everything that grates about this exhibit. Schiaparelli’s work perhaps deserves an exhibit of its own. She doesn’t need a backdrop for us to appreciate her designs and artistry. She certainly doesn’t need Baz Luhrman (I KNOW!!), Judy Davis, scriptwriters, and trick photos* to enthrall us.

It’s questionable that she even needs Miuccia Prada.

*If you go, take a close look at the black-and-white photos of Schiaparelli’s work. Just stand there awhile. Trust me.

April is the month of Nostalgia

The Daily Life Text

We were watching Objectified the other night. It’s a documentary about the everyday things we use in life, and the future of design. I really enjoyed it, in part for its focus on quotidian items and the thought that goes into them. It made me think of all the things that have gone obsolete recently that I truly miss. Here’s a curated listing:

Ma Bell phones


I so love these big clunkers. I love the heft of them, the way the base stayed put no matter how far you stretched the cord. I love the effort you had to put into dialing–really, really mean it–and the way you could dab the little twin buttons on the cradle to hang up. (Incidentally, this reminds me of one of my favorite writers, Lee Child, and the way he describes certain actions: car tires “patter” when they’re crossing train tracks; his hero “butts” papers into a neat stack; he “dabs” at the cradle to dial again. Verb choices. Critical.)

I also love the lack of caller ID, and here’s why. Every time the phone rang, you never knew who was calling. Picking up the phone was like opening a present, only you couldn’t even shake the box first to find out what might be in it. And so, the greeting: “Hello?” Tentatively, curiously: “Hellooo?” Or even better: “Hello!” “HI!” “HELLO!” I don’t know who you are yet, but “HELLO!!! HOW NICE TO HEAR FROM YOU!” No, it doesn’t matter who you are.

A close second for the reason I miss this phone: The angry hang up. Slam! Bang! Down goes the receiver, with an authoritative crash. You can’t do that anymore, with the cordless phones. You can push the END button, that angry little red crossed-out phone icon, as hard as you want to, jab at it, press it until your nailbed goes white…but no one will know you’re angry, and, worse, you won’t get the satisfaction of letting the other person know just how angry you were when you hocked that receiver into the cradle.

Train Boards

from @Triborough's Flickr Stream

When I first moved to New York in 1996, Grand Central still had its ticker board up. As the trains left the station, the numbers and letters on the board would turn: ticketyticketyticketyticketyflip! and then all would be quiet for a few minutes.

The tickers were mesmerizing. They were like magic. I never understood how they worked. I still don’t, and I don’t really want to know. They were part of the background noise that makes up a train station for me. Without them (Grand Central Terminal moved to digital ticker boards in ’98, I think), the station seems eerily quiet to me, somehow too efficient.

Philadelphia’s 30th Street Station still has a proper ticker board. Some European airports have them, too. I miss them like crazy, and when I pull into Philly I always take a minute to stare at them and wait for a train to pull in, if I have time, so I can watch the board move.

The board is linear, but those moving numbers and letters–they turn something hard-edged and linear into something fluid, sinuous. Gorgeous.

Answering Machines

This is very like the last answering machine I ever owned. I kept it through my move into  Manhattan, and I can’t actually remember if Jim and I had one in Croton Falls, but I pine for it every time I look at my sleek cordless handset.

Why? Because I love coming home and seeing the blinking red light. Someone’s left a message for you! Not only are you home–home!–but you have something extra! Quick, put down the groceries, press the big blue button, find out who it was!

Now it’s like, oh, hunh! Looks like I missed a call. Gotta dial into voicemail. Gotta listen to that annoying digital lady tell me how many messages I have. Gotta press three to delete–that person called my mobile line right after she tried my landline.

What a hassle. Voicemail. I hate it.

Road maps

Maps tell me everything has gone right. Maps tell me that some things are as they should be. Maps are backstops and works of human diligence and art. And orienteering, a sport that uses map-and-compass skills, is one of the reasons I trust myself as much as I do today. If you can read a map, you’re never really lost. And you have constant reminders that you are on the right track. And you have backstops: “If you cross this river, you’ve gone too far.”

I wish more people understood how great maps are.

Analog Clocks

When I was growing up I had one of these. I think my parents have it now. More important, it is still wearing the little orange cap my dad made for it that said something like:

“Good morning Yi Shun! I am your clock. Please do not forget to wind me up every night before you go to bed.”

Big Ben, Baby Ben. I can’t remember what model it was. I do remember the ringing it made. I do remember the ticking. And I remember my dad’s handwriting. I wish I had that clock now, only Mr. Gooddirt hates ticking clocks. Oh well.


This is my agenda from the year 2000. I wrote everything down in this book. Even today it’s fun to look back over it and see who was in my life back then. As you can see, I not only wrote down what I had to do, but reference notes and telephone numbers. Elsewhere in the book, I’ve clipped membership cards, notes on the backs of business cards, things like that. What a trip.

I still keep an agenda of sorts. But it’s only if I don’t want to screw up the nice lighting in a bar with my mobile phone while I plug in an appointment, or if I can’t be arsed to do so.

I’d much rather write things down, anyway. Now I carry a blank notebook and my mobile phone. And sometimes a third notebook that is specifically pertinent to whatever meeting I’m going to. Obviously, I’ve become far less efficient that I used to be. Might be time to regress.

On another note, Christ, I looked like I was busy back then, didn’t I?

What are some favorite “obsolete” items of yours?


Random gorgeousness

The Daily Life Text

So. Paula Stanton, who made my wedding dress, also made this recently. I saw it and wanted to Pinterest it, but Pinterest is being cranky and won’t let me. So I’m posting it here. So I can pin it.


You can find Paula on Etsy at Very Tres Chic.

And front of dress:

Holy caca

The Daily Life Text

I have an incredible backlog of posts to write, but I’m at SeaTac now, and my brain is still buzzing buzzing with ideas and MFA stuff. I’m waiting for my usual lovely 11:36 PM flight to Dulles and then home to HPN, and I’m thankful for the extra time to just sit in a place with no emotions and personality whatsoever, so I can jot down some of the great people we met and the things we learned from them. We even got to have dinner together, Chels, Stefon, and I, before Stefon dropped me off at the airport in plenty of time to find a check in, get a brainless book at the bookstore, window shop a bit. Now I have about an hour to mellow out and process.

I love this flight for this reason. Red eyes are not my favorite, but this one gives me solid time to be alone for awhile, listen to some music (Coleman Hawkins at the moment), and try to make sense of it all.

It was by far the best residency ever. Not only do I feel settled in as a student, now (it’s my last full semester, if I can get my thesis pulled off), we had an incredible list of writers, editors, and agents come trooping through our doors to offer us lots of good nuggets of useful information that I can put to use in my work soon.

Among these were, in order of appearance:

Alan Rinzler. Alan is the editor of such writers as Joseph Hellerman, Norman Mailor, Toni Morrison, Claude Brown…eurgh. The list goes on. He is a gentle soul of infinite proportions and equal wisdom. I have a lot to learn from him, and I’m looking forward to continued correspondence, even if via such far-away venues as his ‘blog, on which he posts great editorial tips and tricks–and, occassionally weighs in on things like social marketing for writers. Lovely.

My colleague Charlotte Morganti spent an hour with Alan distilling some of what he taught us. Her interview is up at her blog.

Deb Lund. Deb is appearing early in this list even if she was one of our very last presenters. This is because Deb cared enough to show up early in the week and get to know us. It’s true, she does live on Whidbey Island, and so it was “easy” for her, but she was kind and lovely and she became a part of our campus very easily.

Deb is the author of some fun fun fun fun! picture books, but she is also the originator of some really effective writing tricks for writers, including those of us not working on picture books. The last day of residency is always a critical day because we have had nine days of lectures and we are up to the gills with information and learning. Still, she managed to keep us all excited and writing, and creating even when we thought it’d be impossible. Fantastic.

Lauri McLean. Laurie is an agent at Larsen-Pomada, San Francisco’s oldest literary agency. (I think.) More important, she truly understands writers. Even more important, she is of the same mind as me when we think of marketing. In fact, I asked Laurie within minutes of meeting her to sit in on the class I held at Whidbey this residency. What a treat. We have some upcoming things going on together, so I am assured I’ll get to see her again–this makes me very, very happy. It’s so nice to meet someone of like mind! I’ll never get tired of it.

Melissa Manlove. Melissa is a children’s book editor. I’ve yet to meet one I don’t like. But this one…this one…well. let’s put it this way: Randomly, Stefon and I broke out into the theme song from the Muppets over lunch. Melissa pitched right in. And she knew all the words. This was right after Stefon, Chels, Melissa and I finished drafting the storyboard for our soon-to-be-award-winning children’s picture book, Are You My Hostage? It is a charming coming-of-age story about a bumbling bank robber who must find his way in the complicated world of larceny. Along the way, he discovers his hostage’s favorite food; that he really mustn’t bring his laundry to a robbery, and other truths.

Hunh! Oh, and the editing thing: Melissa is a really, really good editor. She understands stories. She had good ways to get to the heart of them. She makes me want to get to know my characters better.

Cheston Knapp. It is so rare that one gets to invite the managing editor of a fine literary magazine over for Scotch. Rarer still that he stays until 1AM, talking about everything from floppy hair to glossy crackers that only look inedible. There is talk about books and work and general happiness and suddenly the entire bottle of Scotch is gone, and it is time for bed. Lovely, especially in the company of other smart writers, who also happen to be friends.

And that doesn’t even include my regular faculty, or any of the other fantastic writers studying with me.

Often when I return I am incapable of much of anything. Tomorrow I will return home to an empty apartment, and I will be lonely, at least until Jim comes home at 5 or so, but I will snap on the TV and watch some classic films and talk myself off the ledge of wanting to dedicate my entire life to being a crazed solitary writer, if only because a girl must eat and a girl likes to be social.

But sitting here, alone but not alone, it is easy to think that I can take what I learned from this past residency and eat from it and only it until I pop, and I’d probably have some fine, fine work when I was done, and that that would be enough to sustain me for a very, very long time.

*Yawn.* I’m going to read something new now.

In Which I Prove I am a Crafty B**ch

The Daily Life Text

Well, not really.

It’s just that this week has been alarmingly stressful. Between the jetlag (an average of four hours of sleep a night does not make for a happy girl), a burgeoning cold, very little exercise, and one very cranky, mostly former client, this person was pissy beyond belief.

Fortunately, everything has sort of ironed itself out now, although I’m still dealing with one or two things. They should resolve themselves soon.

Anyway, the whole point of this is: I wrap presents when I am feeling frazzled. It makes me feel organized, mostly because of this little section of the cabinet above my desk:

This is the place in which I store the most recent stash of gift bags, ribbon, and paper. The other thing about this shelf is, almost everything in here in re-purposed. In fact, I don’t think I’ve purchased gift wrap or gift bags for years. Lara once gave me a present wrapped in gorgeous textured silver-stars-on-navy-background paper, and I used that for five years, in bits and bobs and scraps. On the top shelf is everything from Mylar from balloons to the pink paper that the dry-cleaners stuff my shirt-sleeves and cover their hangars with to some of the packing paper that the movers moved us with back in 2009.

Likewise, there is some of this paper:

We did a race in Crystal Lake, IL called the Wooly Mammoth. It was 2007, and I was still running ARFE, and we had recruited several new friends to adventure racing to do the race. (Mr. Gooddirt was working for Gatorade at the time, too, so we also dragged some Gatorade friends out to race with us.) At the end of the race (race report here), the race director had course maps left over (4 feet x 5 feet), so he gave all five remaining maps to me, in the spirit of staying green. Over the years, I’ve used this paper to make stationery and bookmarks, and I’ve wrapped presents with it too. These are the scraps of a stationery project.

So. The gift-wrapping. What is it about gift-wrapping? Is it the sharp corners, the creasing? Is it the sense of getting the most out of whatever materials you have at hand? For me, gift-wrapping is specifically associated with two times in my life:

1. It was 1994. I was an intern at The Atlantic Monthly. Their fiction internship was an unpaid internship at the time (I don’t know if it is still), so I supplemented the money my parents gave me with a job at the Copley Square Brookstone. I made a lot of sales and wrapped a lot of presents, and in general, discovered an affinity for sales and marketing and retail. The wrapping at Brookstone, by the way, involves thick, coated, luxurious, totally un-recyclable paper. We used extra of it, too, folding the ends over so that no raw edges showed. Yum. And never again.

2. In 2007 and 8, I worked for a children’s bookstore just down the street from us, in Chicago. I loved it there. People walked in, we made smart suggestions about what they should buy, they walked out happy. I’ll never forget one early morning, jingling the keys in my hand, relishing the cool spring weather, unlocking the bookstore door, turning the sign over to read “Open,” flipping the lights, thinking to myself, “I could do this forever.” Of course, I couldn’t. Some day, I might own my own bookstore. Some day. But it won’t be the only thing I do. Anyway, we wrapped a lot of presents there, too.

I suspect this is part of the reason I like to wrap when I’m stressed. Also, it’s nice to think about someone else.

Anyway, here’s this morning’s finished product, a gift for tonight’s gift exchange with some girlfriends.

Bonus: The purple present above the red one is for my sister-in-law, a belated birthday present. The purple wrapping is Mylar, from a grocery-store plant. So is the accompanying bow. But the navy ribbon is from a wedding gift a friend of ours gave us.

God, what a lame post. Sorry. What is the point of this? I don’t know. Anyway. It’s too late. *Presses “post.”*

A New Way of Seeing

The Daily Life Text

Wow, am I cranky. Peeps, I am so cranky I can hardly believe it. I think I would be lying if I said I don’t know why, so I’ll just try to talk you through it.

1. I am scheduled to do a half-marathon on trail October 2. That’s this weekend, and I have been looking forward to it for a long time now.

2. I have been plagued by injury.

3. Now we are less than a week before the race, and although I know I won’t have a problem completing the race, I’m now in a position where I don’t feel like I can log in anymore miles because I’m terrified of hurting myself before the race. (This is because the last injury was two weeks ago, when I pulled a heretofore-unknown muscle in my pelvis during a routine speed workout.)

4. Therefore, although I’ve been undertaking normal activities, and some not so normal, like tottering around in 3.5-inch heels to and from dinner and a Baptism and walking around Manhattan in a pair of not-smart sandals that obviously hve lost their cushioning, I have not been working out, and my body is PISSED.

5. Therefore, I am pissed. But still cautious about hurting myself before the race.

This is a ridiculous, self-fulfilling prophecy. So I am ignoring it, and trying to alleviate The Cranky.

Today I want to talk to you about art. This past weekend we had some friends in town from Chicago, and we visited both the Neue Galerie and The Met, and the following day we walked over the Hudson River on the Walkway and then went to the FDR Presidential Home and Library. Then we had dinner at the Culinary Institute of America, from which Jim’s father graduated.  If that seems like a lot of culture, it was, but it was also full of art in all its aspects: natural, historical, visual, and culinary.

I did not have my camera with me, and my Blackberry has decided it Does Not Want to Take Photos anymore, so I had to rely on others for those. (This, incidentally, is another reason for The Cranky.) But this is a good opportunity for me to share with you my latest endeavor, which is to be a better recorder of life through not only words and type, but also visual arts.

Some of you may remember that I took some art lessons awhile back. This is me and my art instructor, Jan Cianflone:

We are on her porch, the last day of my art lesson, just before I went to Whidbey. Towards the end our lessons took place en plein air.

Jan ran me through several different media. We started with pencil and charcoal and spherical objects. Here’s a photo of some eggs:

And here’s the chiaroscuro charcoal I did of those same eggs:

We also did some gesture drawings, which I really enjoyed, from magazine pages. Fashion magazines are good for these, since the models tend to be lanky and long and the shoots tend to be of exaggerated poses. I wish I still had the actual page this came from. This is a 3-minute gesture drawing.

From there we moved into pencil washes. I really enjoyed working with the more suggestive lines of these, as opposed to the more definitive lines of plain pencil.

and then we moved into pen-and-ink, which I really loved, but only in this one case, because, as it turns out, you can’t mix color as well in these big markers as you can in something like watercolor. Although, I did love the broad stroke of the pens…

We did some drawing from life of my favorite hairy subject. (I call this the Grandma-Moses Sprocket.)

And from there, I was on my own. It was a remarkable six weeks, and although I’m still experimenting and learning, here are some of the results:

The Whidbey dock. I’m not happy with this drawing. I love the loose evocation of the trees at the top of the drawing, but I’ve really done a hack job on the dock, which looks cartoony and stiff. I know a lot of this is me learning my own style, but it’s definitely frustrating to see something like this.

I drew it from life, but, for comparison, at an obviously different time of day, here’s a photo.

Later on in the week, I did this drawing, which is of a house that sits on the lagoon near where we had our afternoon classes. I got really lost in the grasses near the bottom of the drawing and just didn’t have the energies or the know-how or the artistic balls to try and complete the suggestion of river that ran along the lawn of the house.

On my way home from Whidbey, I tried to do a marker-and-ink drawing of an airplane at its gate. When I looked up again, the airplane had disappeared. Sigh.

Here’s my most recent drawing:

Personally, it’s my favorite. For comparison, here’s the photo:

I want to get to a point where I can suggest things better and allow the viewer to make their own interpretations. But i guess a girl has to start someplace.

There are many more drawings I want to do. I still haven’t covered my beloved city, or the lovely impressionistic photos of Seattle I took at night, when the iPad camera will only suggest light and glimmer. I think those will be next.

Ultimately, I hope the drawing will inform my writing. It’s only just now occurred to me, actually, that the protagonist in the novel I’m writing for my thesis is an artist. Lately, she and I haven’t been communicating very well, and my adviser has suggested that I spend the day in her shoes, so I’m doubly glad that I took lessons with Jan.

It’s always nice to have another way of seeing things.