Posts Tagged ‘sketchbook’

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Yeah, I know. It’s a week before Christmas, and Hanukkah starts tomorrow. Our tree is up, and we even had our mega-huge holiday party last night (62 people—a new record!). But somehow, my mind is occupied with red-gold maples, not flocked evergreens. Maybe it’s the fact that everyone’s lawns are at their greenest at this time of year. Or maybe it’s the knowledge that once these Festivals of Light are over, there’s still a whole lot of actual winter darkness and that Northwestern silver-grey pall to overcome before the sun returns. Whatever it is, I’m not quite ready to let go of autumn yet. So in between the holiday records and the hall-decking, I find myself poring over my fall photos.

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Autumn is always my favorite time of year, and this was a particularly good one. We had far more sunny days than we have any right to expect in the Northwest, but that’s not the half of it. This was my thirtieth fall, so for me, there just seemed to be a hint of celebration in the air.

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And so to start our next decade off with a bang, Nicole (who also turned thirty this fall) and I spent three glorious days in Victoria, British Columbia.

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In order to catch the the morning ferry to Vancouver Island, we had to leave T-Town at oh-dark-thirty to reach Port Angeles at sunrise.

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With views like this as a reward, though, it was hard to complain about the pre-dawn slog. The tall cups of hot, strong coffee keeping our hands warm didn’t hurt, either.

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After a ninety-minute crossing over the Strait

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—and a tight squeeze through the snug Inner Harbour—there we were.

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We checked into our hotel,

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and then set out to see the sights—those just around the corner,

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and a few slightly farther afield.

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We couldn’t have asked for better weather for exploring the city,

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or better light for showing off its photogenic side.

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And whenever our overstimulated brains needed a break from all the grandeur, we could turn our attention to sights both quaint—

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and cute (as a button).

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My favorite thing about Victoria, though, was discovering a visual melting pot of Old-World and New-World,

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of East and West.

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When I think of the American West, what usually stands out in my mind are dramatic natural vistas with little or no human presence. So standing on the other side of the border, and seeing an English-style Parliament complex just a stone’s throw from rugged mountains and First-Nations totems was a little jarring at first glance. But then I realized that Victoria isn’t necessarily a city of contrasts, but something else altogether: a blend of all the best parts of the cultures and environments that have come together here. It was both comfortably routine and utterly foreign at the same time.

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And I remembered that all my experiences in Canada have been like that: an unexpected twist on something very familiar. Always at hand is the feeling of great adventure in a strange land—and the sense that home is just around the corner.

I probably should just stop telling people I’m a blogger, for crying out loud. Between being buried under deadlines since I came back from Asheville, and trying to dodge the media blitz lately, I’ve been avoiding the internet altogether for awhile. Sorry about that.

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All this week the radio, the blogs, the instant media, and I’m sure the television, too, have been blaring with recaps and riffs and reflections and rage, on repeat, about that day when we all learned a little more about the nature of fear. And it’s not that I’m avoiding thinking about it—it’s that I don’t need any help from the talking heads to process my thoughts. So while I’m mindful of that anniversary, there’s another, tangential one that’s closer to my heart. You see, it was ten years ago today that I moved to Rome.

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It was my third year of college, but it wasn’t your average study-abroad program. Because my school owned a (haunted!*) house in the middle of the city, I was able to experience true immersion in the culture and language.

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*Built around 1590, the place was home to Beatrice Cenci, who was infamously executed for the murder of her abusive father. I’m not the superstitious type, but all I’m sayin’ is … well, weird stuff happened in there.

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Even at the time, I was aware of just how dumb-lucky I was, not only to have arrived there safely from New York the day before the world turned upside-down—but to have nearly an entire year in which my only responsibility was to experience and absorb the world around me.

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That, and to get it down on paper—which proved to be the hard part.

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With flawless weather almost year-round, it was easy to spend every waking minute outside. And with cheap, frequent trains bound for nearly every town in the country, I had no shortage of freedom to roam (sorry). But I’m the obsessive type. I needed to see everything, and though I knew how impossible that was, it didn’t stop me from trying.

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It was maddening, in the best possible way.

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So I did my level best to commit as much of the place to memory as I could. For once, the camera went into storage (I think I shot a grand total of about three rolls of film in ten months), and the maps went in the trash. I stuck to paint-and-paper, and my own two feet—and as a result, my memories and mental map of the place are still the clearest, the most vivid of any other place or time in my life.

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Needless to say, it was awfully hard to leave. Instead of going home, it felt like I was leaving it. And when I arrived back in the States, thanks to the previous year’s tragedy, everything had changed.

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But then again, so had I. And that made all the difference.

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This might seem a little strange, coming from me, but the New Year’s resolution at the top of my “art” category is to draw more.

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I mean that I’d like to spend more time with my sketchbooks—with everything else that happened last year, there just didn’t seem to be a spare second for observing the moment and jotting it down.

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The daily book was about the only thing that received any attention, and even it spent the entire year on the back-back-back burner.

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I still have quite a bit of catching up to do there, though—

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so that’s where I’m going to start.

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It’s a daunting prospect; even just filling in half-finished sketches (maybe I should have shown you those instead!) amounts to a huge time investment, and a mountain of work.

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But I’ll get there. And besides, it’s those last two blank slots on every page that interest me the most.

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They stand for the future that’s unwritten, and I find I can’t imagine what could possibly complete the picture—nor could I ever have predicted what has ended up here thus far.

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When I first started this project, it seemed like a painfully slow undertaking.

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But now I’m surprised at how quickly the book is filling up,

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and I’m anxious to find out what will fill out this page—and the next, and the next.

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Well, today I flip the book back to the beginning, pencil in hand—and so I’ll find out soon enough.

Happy New Year!

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I was afraid I wasn’t going to have any holiday photos to show you—when I was in Portland the other week, my camera took a nosedive after being bumped off my shoulder in a crowded room.

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Snippets from my daily journal

So I shipped the lens off to the good folks at Canon for repair, and switched to paper for awhile.

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One of Maurice Sendak’s eye-candy stage sets for the Pacific NW Ballet’s Nutcracker

My favorite thing about sketchbooks is that I can take them anywhere—including places where cameras, functioning or not, are strictly verboten.

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More Nutcracker scenery, plus Christmas on Pine Street in Seattle

The downside, though, is that it takes me a lot longer to draw a picture than to shoot one—so my output is always smaller than I’d like.

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But then the Fedex guy showed up with my lens, good as new and just in time for Christmas.

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I managed to refrain from hugging him, and then hopped around the house in manic glee, documenting the holiday the Tailor and I have spent all week creating.

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(We finally broke down and bought twinkle lights for the tree; which provided the perfect inspiration for this year’s card!)

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Wherever today finds you, have a warm, cozy, abundant, and very merry Christmas.

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Since I posted this drawing and some others this summer, people have been asking me what’s with the stamps in my sketchbook. I guess the short answer is that each one is a little piece of personal tradition.

But you know I don’t really do short answers.

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The long one, then.

I grew up in a nomadic family. Between the moves required by Dad’s job in the Air Force and a fierce wanderlust that runs in all the O’Leary veins, we had a lot of reasons to travel. Dad and I, especially, would spend hours poring over our dog-eared Rand McNally road atlas, plotting routes over the back-est of back roads (the squigglier the line on the map, the more scenic it could be depended upon to be) and stops at as many points of interests as we could cram into a journey from A to B.

When I was ten, we made a circuit of our then home state of Colorado, and devoted our time to exploring every national park and monument we could reach along the loop. At each park’s visitor center, we noticed a rubber stamp and ink pad stationed at the front desk. When we finally asked a ranger what they were for, she handed us a small blue notebook and proceeded to explain about the National Park Service’s Passport program.

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A stamp to collect at every NPS property in the country, and a tidy little book to hold them all? I was hooked.

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Dad and I found ways to sneak a national monument or two into every road trip and relocation—and even took impromptu vacations just to add a new park to the list. My favorite memory is when I was in high school, and Dad popped his head into my room:

“Have any plans this weekend?”

“Uh, no…”

“Wanna go to Montana?”

So we jumped in the car and drove 600 miles just to flip General Custer the bird at his place of death (I had just read Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, so he wasn’t exactly stirring me to patriotism). I mean, if you’re going to do it, you might as well go all out, after all. And we had the stamp to commemorate the moment.

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The Passport program also includes collectible paper stamps, which can be purchased from afar (as opposed to the ink cancellations, which are free but can only be obtained in person). I’m pretty lukewarm about these, though; by the time I jumped on the bandwagon they had already phased out the super-cool  two-piece design pictured in the lower left corner above, in favor of the cheaper, lower-quality one-piece stamp in the upper right. Since those have been revamped yet again into a pressure-adhesive sticker—and who knows what heinously non-archival chemicals might be in the glue—I’m even less of a completist about them now.

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Anyway, I’ve burned through most of the regional sections in my Passport,

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and every inch of overflow space.

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So I’ve branched out a bit.

What I didn’t know as a kid was that my Passport helped me develop my interest in nearly everything I love most: traveling, design, archiving, printmaking, history, typography, bookmaking, and so on.

At some point along the way, I realized that what I really mattered to me (beyond the travel itself) was the act of adding to an ongoing work—and then looking back to see what I had accomplished. That what I had been doing all along, by compiling this little individual history, is creating some form of artist book. And that my frustrations over an imperfect format were really a desire to create my own.

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So now all of my sketchbooks are Passports, each custom-tailored—

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each infinitely flexible, ready for whatever adventures wait to be documented.

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Here it is, nearly twenty years later, and I’m as eager as ever. Moreover, it’s my goal to collect every last cancellation within the entire National Park System before I stamp the big passport book in the sky. I’m about a quarter of the way there.

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And I’ll probably have to build a library for all the sketchbooks I’ll fill between now and then.

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One of the things I used to do with Bampa is visit the colonial graveyards tucked away in every corner of New England. On this trip I only had time to visit a couple, so I picked my two favorites: the Old York Burial Ground in York, Maine;

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and the Granary Burying Ground in Boston.

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I’m quite a bit obsessed with these places; beyond my usual souvenir sketches and snapshots, these cemeteries keep popping in and out of my body of work. This is an excerpt from an artist book I made seven years ago. That’s not snow—it’s shot with infrared film. I used a lens filter that blocked nearly all of the visible spectrum, so that the film was exposed mostly by ambient infrared radiation. The effect is that inanimate objects like stones read as deepest black,

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and living things turn to bright white.

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Despite the near-constant crowds (in Boston, at least) and the challenge they present to photographing, each is an oasis, a tranquil island within the bustling town or city.

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That’s not what draws me to them, though. Nor is it the haphazard scatter of wonky stones,

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nor the romance of crumbling ruins.

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(infrared film again)

It’s the art of it all. You can probably guess what my headstone might look like one day, because I’m completely fascinated with the design, the illustration, the typography displayed on colonial headstones. The “Death’s Head” or winged skull motif seems to be the most common,

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with many variations within the theme—

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Quadruple grave, dated 1666-1671, of children who lived only “dayes” or months apiece

from refined,

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grave for a member of the Goose family, founders of the Mother Goose tradition

to folksy,

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to somewhat disturbingly lifelike deathlike.

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Another popular design is the “Winged Cherub,” which seems to be a more idealized alternative to the bones-n’-feathers motif.

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The carvers seemed to take even more artistic license with this theme; I lost count of all the different angel designs.

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Skulls and cherubs aside, just as fun for the modern visitor is the engraved text. Typophiles will love all the script faces and lettering conventions (my favorite, below, is a mention of “November” set with “br” as superscript above a larger “Nov”),

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but I’m partial to the language—the poetic phrasings, the archaic spellings. Some excerpts, verbatim:

• “Here lyes interred ye body of Mrs. Hannah Sweet, confort of Mr. Joseph Sweet, who died Nov’br ye 15th 1761 in ye 74th year of her age.”
• “On His unfailing promises rely / and all the horrors of the Grave defy”
• “… Jotham Bush of Shrewƒbury, who departed this life with the Small-Pox”
• “In memory of Mrs. Elizabeth Hurd, amiable & virtuous confort of John Hurd, Esq.”

• “Farervell Vain World, I have Enough of thee / and now I’m Careles what thou Say’st of me”

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My little artist book has developed an unexpected conceptual element. I created the images by first coating the paper with liquid emulsion, then processing them in a darkroom with the usual chemicals. By doing that, I was veering away from the traditional darkroom process, and adding some interesting variables, risks and imperfections into the mix. Most noticeably, the fixer reacted a little oddly with the emulsion/paper—a fact that irked me greatly at the time.

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Over the years, however, the splotches have darkened, creating the illusion of old age and mirroring the weathering, decay and moss growth of the graves themselves.

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So despite my perfectionist nature and my usual complex over making everything as archival as possible—I like the book so much better this way.

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After all, it’s all the same in four hundred years anyway, isn’t it?

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The second part of my little holiday was a little more ambitious: a four-night camping trip with the Tailor in southern Oregon. It was just what the doctor ordered—the perfect prescription for recharging the soul.

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We camped in the Rogue River National Forest, in a grove of hemlocks and blooming dogwoods—

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just downstream from this.

The Rogue River is so beautiful that we could have spent the whole trip exploring its banks. Well, if we hadn’t had another destination in mind, that is:

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Crater Lake National Park. One of the deepest, clearest lakes in the world, Crater Lake was formed 7,700 years ago by the collapse of Mt. Mazama, after an explosion more than forty times the size of the 1980 eruption of Mt. St. Helens.

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When a group of prospectors stumbled upon it in 1853, and thus became the first white folks to lay eyes on it, they named it Deep Blue Lake. Heh. Imaginative. Well, at least it’s descriptive.

And accurate. The lake is so impossibly blue because of its depth; when the sun’s rays refract upon hitting the water, red and green light are absorbed in the depths, while only the blue light (which has a shorter wavelength) reflects back to the surface. So the lake is blue even on a cloudy day—as you can see.

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We were a week too early for the boat tours to open for the season, but we hiked down to the water anyway. The rangers like to say that the trail is “one mile down, ten miles back  up” (it’s funny because it’s true. Oy.), but the experience is well worth the huffing and puffing. Next time I’ll bring bug spray, though. Note to self.

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Did I mention that it’s blue? And deep? Maybe those prospectors were onto something.

The photo above doesn’t come close to doing it justice (none of my photos do), but the sheer depth and clarity of Crater Lake was mind-boggling. It’s impossible to tell how deep the rocks in the upper left corner of the photo are, but according to the topo map in front of me, it’s quite a ways down. Because there are no streams in or out of Crater Lake, there’s nothing to muddy or disturb the water—objects are visible nearly 150 feet down. Deep Blue indeed.

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The thing that really got to me was the fact that the lake was both a bottomless pit and a perfectly-flat mirror, depending on which way you looked at it. That’s probably why this is my favorite photo of the trip—somehow the camera managed to look at things both ways.

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I think I must have been trying for the same kind of perspective with this drawing—and with far less success, I’m afraid. My brain broke when I tried to analyze the thing graphically. Ah, well. (The ground squirrels were fun, though.)

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This one worked out a lot better—and it didn’t hurt that the figure and desert drawings were already there to help things along.

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Speaking of deserts, we also saw a whole lot of barren landscapes to balance out all this snow and water. For one thing, we drove down and back on the eastern (the arid leeward) side of the Cascades. For another, there are places where all this ancient volcanic destruction still looks like it happened last year. This is the Pumice Desert, on the north side of the National Park.

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And this is something else again. Now, I loved everything we’d seen at the Park, but my absolute favorite part of the trip was this place, which made for a side trip on the way home. This is just south of the Newberry Caldera, another collapsed volcano formed in precisely the same way as Crater Lake, but on a much smaller scale. A trail winds up and through the rock-pile hills—a landscape that seems plucked from the surface of the Moon.

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If you step closer, however, you’ll see the light glinting off of each rock and pooling in every crevice. In full sunlight the entire hillside sparkles like a gigantic, blinding treasure hoard.

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The rocks shine because they’re not rocks—they’re glass. This is obsidian, a natural glass formed when lava cools rapidly without crystallizing. Besides being gorgeous and just about the coolest thing ever, obsidian is extremely useful as a surgical tool. Obsidian scalpels can be sharpened to a near-microscopic edge (because of the not-forming-crystals thing), and the incisions they make produce narrower scars than steel scalpels do. Neat, huh? Anyway, obsidian flows of this size are quite rare, so if you get the chance to walk through one—take it.

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I could have stayed all day with the obsidian (which, by the way, is called the Big Obsidian Flow, a name that gives Deep Blue Lake a run for its money), but we were still several hours from home (we figured we’d have to spend the first hour stepping carefully around all the ground squirrels that had appeared at our feet), and we still had one more stop to make:

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Lava Butte, from which it was possible to see pretty much every darn volcano in Oregon, and even Mt. Adams in Washington. I won’t bore you with the 200 other photos I shot from up there, but let’s just say I was in suitable awe.

Oh, and for the record? All of these volcanoes are still active. How freaky is that? Or maybe it isn’t, and I just have volcanoes on the brain, but I think it’s freaky.

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I lost count of all the volcanoes we spied, but the rest of the numbers were easy to tally:

Five glorious days.

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Five breathtaking sunsets.

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Five thousand smiles.

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The other night I went to Art Spiegelman’s “What the %@&*! Happened to Comics?” talk in Puyallup, and as usual, brought one of my trusty sketchbooks with me. Since comics and I go way back, and I’m a big Spiegelman fan, I think I got a little carried away with the doodles accompanying my lecture notes. I was a little abashed when the people next to me noticed and commented; all I could say was, “I do this a lot—it helps me remember.”

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I’ve always been an obsessive note-taker, but I discovered in college that adding sketches to my notes went a long way towards my good grades in art history (this must have been the “Naked Ladies of the 15th and 16th Centuries” lecture).

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Then when I fell in with the book arts, drawn diagrams were a godsend for remembering complicated equipment and technical processes.

By the time I graduated, the habit was ingrained. I found not only that drawing was an excellent memory trigger, but also helped me focus on the moment at hand.

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The comments on my Spiegelman doodle reminded me that I had a funny habit of drawing comic artists and writers (from the left, Marjane Satrapi, Harvey Pekar, David Mazzucchelli)—and often portraying them as comic-book characters themselves. As I dug through something on the order of fifteen sketchbooks to find my grumpy Pekar sketches, I unearthed scores of these things, from all manner of locations and events:

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classes, performances and lectures (my favorites are the Mt. St. Helens interpreter on the bottom left, and my steam locomotive class teacher—yes, you read that right—on the far right);

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public transit and airports;

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family gatherings (yes, I quoted the above verbatim; I love the Tailor’s Uncle Sam!);

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work meetings;

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wedding receptions, restaurants, coffee shops;

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and even my own mirror, when I’m working alone.

I draw when I’m trying to document an event, when I’m nervous, when I encounter a particularly unusual face, when I’m telling a story of an odd person I saw that day, when I want to preserve a loved one, and even when I’m not really aware of it—I found plenty of sketches that I had no memory of making.

Maybe there’s some psychological disorder that lists obsessive and semi-conscious sketching as a symptom, but this is one compulsion I’d like to hold on to. I know I spend more time drawing the speaker than taking actual notes, but if I remember the content just as well, I suppose it all comes out in the wash. Besides, I can’t possibly be the only one who does this, right?

Right?

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Allison of Igloo Letterpress and I have been doing some more cross-country collaboration lately. This time we’re working on a Bookshelf Series of handmade journals. This first set is called “Brownstones”—one of my favorite types of houses, and a recurring theme in my drawings.

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I’m so lucky to work with Allison—despite the distance, and the fact that we haven’t seen each other for two years, I feel like I we’re on the same wavelength. I love the fact that we can trust each other to make independent creative decisions, and have faith that they’ll come together into a harmonious whole. But my part of the project is finished when I send her black-and-white illustrations for printing—since I can’t exactly pop into her shop whenever I want, I really have no idea how the finished product will look until she sends it to me.

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So imagine my delight when a package arrived containing four beautifully-bound hardcover books, with my illustration splashed on the cover in gorgeous color—

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—and printed right onto the book cloth, no less!

I did a little hopping dance around the living room after that.

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Here’s the best part, and a flash of Allison’s brilliance: not only do the books fit together thematically, but when they stand together on a bookshelf, the spines line up to complete the picture!

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Since these are so labor-intensive to make, I think Allison is binding them in very small batches, and only offering them for sale as they are ordered. But they’ve already been a big hit in Ohio, so I’m sure there will be more in the future. If you’re interested in ordering a set, drop her a line here.

The past couple of weeks have been an absolute whirlwind, and when I look in the mirror I see a walking, talking to-do list. The notes-to-self strewn all over the studio (among half-finished boxes, reference materials, pencil layouts, proof prints, watercolor pans, etc.) aren’t enough, so now I’ve taken to muttering little reminders under my breath—call this client, mail this order, drop off this pile of prints, invoice this subscriber, edit this illustration, proof these plates, cut this book cloth, list these cards, upload these photos, schedule these blog posts.

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As you can see, the latter has moved to the back burner while I line up the other ducks. Oh, there’s plenty to show and tell, but the new Broadside and tonight’s talk have completely taken over my brain (and my calendar). So instead of buckling down yesterday to sketch out the numerous future posts waiting in the queue, I bolted to Seattle to clear my head.

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Turns out one of my absolute favorite hobbies is wandering around the Market alone, especially on weekdays when it’s relatively empty. Losing myself among the fruit stalls and neon is as therapeutic as meditation.

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I wasn’t in the drawing mood this time, but the Market is also on my short list of all-time favorite sketching haunts. This is one from a year ago or so, on a completely packed, sunny Saturday, when I flattened myself against poles and ducked down onto the curb to draw without being trampled by tourists.

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I love it for the people-watching when it’s crowded, but there’s something special about having the place to myself. There is a downside, however (besides being heckled by bored fishmongers): it’s awfully hard not to splurge on sampling from the unbelievable smorgasbord of fresh goodies.

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Now how could I say no to that?