when i sketch i dont notice time going by. its just the stub of my pencil and the bluntness of the lead that takes all the attention. theres a sadistic pleasure in dirtying the paper. in darkening the lines repeatedly. in little straight strokes that eventually take the shape of curves or are let be. i feel a surge of energy, of anxiety and a heightened concentration. sometimes zzzzzzzzzzzzing helps steady the brutality of the pencil. theres no time for the eraser. misdrawn lines are covered up with yet more bold greying of the paper. till i've spilled beyond the frame and yes then i do give in.
after its done i just keep staring at it for some time. very often for quite a lot of time. its that jubilant sense of ownership (unless its so bad i tear it up then n there in my urgency to disown). im not claiming they are so good. its just that i fall in love with what has come into being out of the pencil in my hand. though the resembalnce to the originals is what matters most in a way, its the grey strokes that im obsessive about. very often i'll trace darkness over them after months or years.

the human body is the most amazing to outline. i tried a difficult one after years - lately i'd been copying pencil strokes from a book. today this was a photograph from a mag. will post it after i stop feeling insecure about it and i can manage to click it well.