Sketchbook pages can be as fragmented as bizarre dreams, shifting kaleidoscopically from one impression to another.
I felt as if I had the room to myself, a private performance of musicians who came through the snow to play for me. A bit surreal. My mind wandered.
Red metallic hearts hung from the ceiling, spiraling in the occasional draft of air that made its way through the door and around the corner. I traded sheets of paper for my sketchbook, needing a connection between my wandering mind and my hand. Memories of writing poetry forty years ago in the dim-lit bars of Boston crept like ghosts into the room, filling the empty chairs. I needed live music then and I still need it now. In place of words I draw lines, filling them with colors. Am I addicted to the music or to making marks on paper? ….. I wonder.
Images: Top – pencil portraits of Arne Englund and Don Plowman, ink drawing of piano in the corner.
Bottom – drums and empty chair, sketch of Doc Z, Valentine Decorations, ink and watercolors






