I used to consider myself an artist. If I had at hand a pen, pencil, crayon, piece of chalk, or anything that could leave a mark, I would draw. A dusty table was always a joy. To my parents consternation, steamed up windows (in the car, in the kitchen) were a perfect medium. At those times, I drew for myself. I was never as relaxed as when I was doodling my stream-of-consciousness creations.
The first time I visited Florence, Italy, I was 19. I was tempted to stay, parking myself on the Ponte Vecchio with other hippy-type artists. But, as you know, I like to eat. And I don’t like to share a bathroom. And, even with the best diet I looked under-nourished, so starving young artist would have been extreme.
I worked as an illustrator at a few points in my early career. I could produce on-demand and per specifications. But I never enjoyed it.
My career evolved into graphic design and production, writing and editing, publications management, and a few other creative and non-creative businesses along the way. Since I haven’t been creating every hour of every day (or even one day of every month) for years, I feel like I’ve lost my mojo. I would try to simply doodle but found myself trying too hard.
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| A DOODLE FROM WAY BACK. |
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| CARRARA, ITALY. ALONE IN MY ROOM. |
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| ON A TRAIN TO FLORENCE, ITALY. MY FRIEND JOSEPHINE HAS THIS HANGING IN HER HOME IN SICILY. (YOU CAN SEE HER REFLECTED IN THE GLASS AS SHE SNAPPED THE PHOTO.) |
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| SITTING AT HOME IN BOSTON WITH NOTHING TO DO. |
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| CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS. PASSING SOME TIME WHILE WAITING FOR A FRIEND. |
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| SAN JUAN, PUERTO RICO, KILLING TIME BY THE POOL. SAN GERALDO’S BUTT SEEMED LIKE A GOOD SUBJECT. |
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| THE LATEST DOODLE. IT’S A START. |
Then I regretted it.
And that’s the story of my life. Maybe in another 10 (or 40) years I’ll look at my doodle and enjoy it. For now, at least I have something to give to Javier and I’m inspired to get back to creating on a daily basis.
