[I originally posted this image as early access for my Patreon patrons on 23 May 2021].
beers and bikes in belgium
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 19 May 2021].
Googling tonight to figure out where this was, and now having seen photos of the interior of this establishment, I'm gutted I didn't get to visit during opening hours in 2014.
Another reason to return to Belgium in the future.
wall of remembrance
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 16 May 2021].
The part of me that loves a good play on words and adores puntastic titles wanted to call this deadman's curve.
The sombre respectful part of me felt I probably shouldn't. So I didn't.
Though some drivers in this cemetery, two days after Christmas last year, did drive in a way that made me worry for pedestrians wandering along the roads between the sections...
memoirs of an invisible man
In his early 20s, before he'd typed the closing line of his first play, his agent arranged a photographer to visit his attic apartment. She was sent to photograph him for the publicity stills.
The photographer had carried an unwieldy medium format camera and a wooden tripod up the narrow, rickety staircase. He'd had to stay still for long minutes in the soft light cast through the dormer window. Gazing intently at the curious device in front of him. Feeling awkward and ungainly and wondering to himself if she was capturing the dirty dishes to his left. Dirty dishes that had been clogging up the kitchen sink for weeks now as he worked tirelessly on finishing his debut play.
As he forcefully typed "Curtain" - a cigarette dangling from his lips and the last vestiges of a glass of bourbon and dry on the dusty table to the right of the typewriter - he wondered about the portrait. How he would be perceived by theatre-goers, critics, the big names in the industry, and even the leading ladies in the play he'd just completed.
Months later, as he stood in front of the theatre on opening night, his visage gazing back at him at more than double his size, he knew his agent had sent the right photographer. She had captured him as the talented and sophisticated, though currently penniless, playwright he'd always imagined himself to be. He vowed then and there to strictly control his image. To always be portrayed a particular way and not be caught unawares by those around him out of character.
He was meticulous in this aim. As the years went on, he shunned family photographs, casual photos with friends. He found convenient excuses to leave the room whenever someone drew their camera from their pocketbooks. It became more difficult as the devices became smaller. But somehow, he stayed always a step ahead.
Despite his aversion to being captured by keen amateurs, he became a keen amateur photographer himself.
He employed the photographer who captured him that first time to show him how to use a more modern, more compact device. She patiently taught him all she knew, and soon he was capturing candid photographs of the cast as they rehearsed. As well as portraits of the backstage crew as they worked the curtains and lights.
When they both had time, he practised taking more formal portraiture with the photographer as his subject.
Through these lessons and portrait sittings, they became fast friends and then lovers. They traded jokes and flirted as he snapped away, capturing her beauty on film. She appeared as effortlessly beautiful in front of the camera as she was assuredly in command behind the camera. She was the only one he allowed to take his publicity portraits. But he wouldn't allow even her to photograph him at ease, unawares.
On one occasion, he realised she had captured a candid Polaroid of him as they honeymooned. He angrily snatched the still-developing print from between her fingers as she fanned it to speed its development. He swiftly drew his lighter from his pocket and touched the flame to the corner of the print. He watched it melt and burn before discarding the remnants in an ashtray on a table outside a nearby cafe.
He turned on her and reminded her his image was his, and his alone, to curate and control. In that moment, he watched her happiness and love for him also melt and burn away to ash, but he barely noticed through his fury.
She ceased working as a professional photographer to raise their children. She focussed her lens on them, and he sought out a new visionary to direct in his depiction of himself.
Many were competent, and he was able to cultivate the persona he wanted through their eyes. There was something different, though. The images were good but not up to his wife's standard.
Over the years, he and his wife both photographed their children extensively, and he still trained his lens on her. She never photographed him again.
During family reunions, they pored over the snapshots from their travels with their families. Both sets of parents commented on his conspicuous absence in the photos. Seeming to ask if he'd actually been with his family on this trip or that. If he had, he'd seemingly left no trace in the photographs. He shrugged it off and pointed out the photos he'd taken as proof of his presence.
As the decades went by, his plays gained new audiences. They opened in theatres all around the world to packed houses. And curtains closed to standing ovations.
Uncountable column inches were printed discussing the themes in his plays, the characters. How well written they were, how evocative the storylines, and how intense the dialogue.
He was photographed by some of the most formidable talents in the industry to accompany the various articles, biographies, published scripts and programmes for his plays.
Over the years, he continued to maintain a close rein on his image. Even his children were forbidden from photographing him, writing about him or being interviewed about him. It was the one thing he enforced. Always.
As he reached his peak, he was invited to write his memoir by a prestigious publisher.
Writing the memoir was a walk in the park after all the dramatic plays he'd written over the years. He knew how he wanted to be seen, what he wanted to say. His memories were vivid and flowed easily from his heart and mind to the printed page.
But, as he worked with the art director and publisher on pulling together the images and quotes from others for the autobiography, a gap quickly appeared.
For someone otherwise so devoted to his family, there was no visual or written connection between him and this woman and children.
At his request, she had never uttered a word about him to the press in love or in anger. Nor had his children.
The family photographs appeared to be of a single mother with her two children, not of a loving, caring family of four. He was notably absent, even if not actually absent, out of frame or behind the camera.
He had pages upon pages of rave reviews from critics. Lengthy articles and interviews from all the major papers and theatre press. Publicity portraits from each of his plays.
But, as far as his family was concerned - the people he felt most important in his life - he was the invisible man. He simply didn't exist.
untitled #54
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 15 May 2021].
'Early birds' often swear by the hours of the morning before everyone else wakes as their most productive. Or maybe their self-improvement hours. Hours when they go for a run or participate in other forms of exercise. Or get in some quiet reading or meditation before the hustle and bustle of the day begins.
There's a false belief that night owls are somehow inferior. That we "waste" our day in bed.
Instead, many of us enjoy those same quiet, calm hours of productivity. We just prefer to experience them between 23:00 and 05:00, and they probably don't include physical exercise.
Yesterday I allowed myself a lie-in because I'd participated in two intensive two-day courses from Monday to Thursday and needed some recovery time.
Despite going to bed after 02:00, and initially waking before 09:00, I possibly allowed myself to linger longer in bed, dozing on and off, because of the vivid, emotional dreams I'd had before waking.
I was exploring a seaside town I've never been to. Wandering backstreets and footpaths and pubs and - as often happens for me in dreams - grappling with paths both inside and out that suddenly require me to wrestle with my fears of heights and falling.
Later, in one of the dreams, I found myself, barely clothed, in a customs office in Australia with Simon. I was begging for permission to enter the country despite all my identification and belongings having been stolen. I remember thinking of myself as an illegal alien.
In the afternoon, back in reality, I washed my mammoth pile of dishes. I won't tell you how long they'd been accumulating. You will judge me. However, they were all thoroughly rinsed, so there was nothing offensive about them beyond the quantity. While I washed them, I listened to a podcast about forensic science and then another about Einstein's theory of general relativity.
After a call with Simon, a shower, a supermarket run and dinner, I felt unsettled.
Nevertheless, at about 23:30, I settled in to edit photos for my long-overdue next instalment of my Love Letters to London series.
For the first time in what feels like months and probably is, I managed to edit photos without distraction for about 2.5 hours. It was bliss.
This photograph was taken at the location of some photos that may make it into my next 'Love Letter'. It fit my mood in these quiet hours, so I edited it to share with you this morning.
I paused at 02:00 mainly because I found myself thinking of a friend in Victoria who I knew was going under the knife this month. I wanted to check in on him while he was on my mind. In the calm, mellow hours of the morning, I got a positive update on his recovery, and we had a brief catch-up via Facebook Messenger.
While I was editing, I had the chance to catch up on new releases from St. Vincent, Juliana Hatfield, Paul Weller, and now Nicholas Britell. As well as singles from other artists.
The Underground Railroad soundtrack is particularly perfect for the frame of mind I'm currently in and seems a positive way to gradually wind myself down before heading to bed.
Many night owls don't sleep our lives away. We sleep about the same number - often less! - than early birds.
We just find our productive hours in a different part of the morning. Or in the afternoon or evening.
Are you an early bird or a night owl? When do you find are the most productive hours of your day?
Are you a vivid dreamer? Do you believe you don't dream? Or do you know you dream but never remember them upon waking?
Do you love hearing about others' dreams and sharing yours, or do you find it tedious to hear about others' dreams?
a cunning linguist
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 12 May 2021].
I'm thankful for the critical thinking and media literacy training I gained in high school.
Being the age I am, I can't thank my schooling for my digital literacy. The internet became "a thing" after I finished high school.
This is a perfect example of where I might have ended up looking like a fool if I'd believed the first link I found online.
Not that the internet was trying to mislead me, but it would have led me to provide at least a title or caption that would have been factually incorrect.
Instead, I thankfully learned more about and wrote more about this fellow, which (as I might have mentioned before) is one of the reasons I love photography.
If you Google "szarvas gabor" - as I did - the first result that appears is a Wikipedia entry for a Hungarian middleweight weightlifter. And while he may be worthy of a statue - I don't know - I mentally questioned whether this was the depiction of a weightlifter, looking at how he was presented.
If the man in this statue was a sportsman, it seemed much more likely he was a toreador (despite being Hungarian) than a weightlifter.
Even ignoring the slightness of the bust, you would imagine a weightlifter would be commemorated in some sort of full-length statue showing off his physique? Or, at least, shirtless displaying his pecs? And um, maybe it shouldn't be armless if he's a weightlifter? Or is that just me?
Thankfully, I didn't take Google's first search result as gospel.
In a new browser tab, I Googled "szarvas gabor statue". A Trip Advisor entry signposted me to another fellow who happened to have the same name.
I returned to my original search results and clicked the next link.
Though in Hungarian, Chrome's translation option (and photos on the page) allowed me to confirm this was the Szarvas Gábor I was seeking.
It did, however, poorly translate the first sentence of the entry to tell me he was not only a linguist but the creator of Hungarian agriculture. Not having been born until 1832, I found that slightly questionable...
It turns out the translation should read "a linguist, the creator of Hungarian language education", which makes far more sense.
The translation of the Wikipedia entry also tells me "he published humorous writings under the pseudonym Pap Rika" and paints him a little like a grammar nazi.
He sounds like my kinda guy!
Even if (or especially because) he's well-known enough for a statue but not enough to be the first result in a Google search.
You win some, you lose some, eh?
glistening waters
[I originally posted this image as early access for my Patreon patrons on 4 May 2021].
100 self-portrait
Day one hundred of The 100 Day Project for 2021.
Fuck. Yes.
My second project completed; two years in a row.
And my first attempt at the project, postcards from another's life, which started in 2018, is still in progress. I'm edging close to a quarter of the way done on that one.
I'll save the analysis of this year's project for a separate post. Once I've had a chance to get my own thoughts in order about this year's experience and to work out rankings of the most popular sketches on Patreon and social media.
My final sketch is still far from perfect. (Spoiler alert: I didn't become a flawless illustrator after 100 days). But I don't think I'd have even considered attempting this self-portrait at the beginning of the project, so I guess that's progress...
As with so many of my sketches, this one started with a 4H pencil. I then overdrew and shaded with a mix of 6B, 2B, HB and H pencils.
099 hair grip
Day ninety-nine of The 100 Day Project for 2021.
Okay, I changed my mind. I'm getting this posted before I indulge in brie and crackers and then sleep.
You may recall that on 2 May, I broke my own rule and let myself start my daily sketch over. Not only that, but when the redraw was equally as bad, I allowed myself to draw something else for the day's sketch.
Not one to give up that easily, I gave the subject from that day another shot yesterday.
And while it's far from perfect, it's a hell of a lot better than my two previous attempts. (One I could show you, the other I erased to allow space for my electric toothbrush sketch. I didn't want to waste a whole journal page).
I know I'd already drawn a different angle of this hair grip (with more visible dust). But I actually prefer this photograph from an aesthetic point of view, and I had always intended to attempt to sketch it.
The sketch was initially drawn with a 4H pencil and then overdrawn with an HB pencil.
098 pumpkins
Day ninety-eight of The 100 Day Project for 2021.
Once again, I've not missed a day. Never fear.
However, I started drawing these pumpkins about 10 minutes to midnight on Saturday night and finished about 10 mins after midnight.
I decided soon after that eating camembert and crackers and getting some downtime in front of the TV was a higher priority than getting this online...for better or worse.
Consequently, I'm sharing this now.
And, though yesterday's sketch was drawn in plenty of time, I may decide that brie and crackers take priority over getting that one online before this afternoon.
Especially as I have to be up and presentable for an online course at 10:00 tomorrow (and the next four days).
I promise I'll do my best to get my penultimate and last sketch online on the final day of the project. Which is today! :o
I have a plan for my final sketch but let's see if I can manage it...
The reason I was drawing this sketch so close to the line on Saturday night: I became distracted by a What's App chat with a former neighbour covering such weighty topics as pregnancy, fertility, IVF, parenting, gender, sexuality, relationships, open relationships, and so on.
I'm not sure we answered any of life's big questions. But it was like having a chat with an old friend, and helpful and amusing in equal quantities for me.
These pumpkins were sketched with a 4H pencil then overdrawn with an HB pencil. The shadows were filled in with a 6B pencil.
untitled #149
[I originally posted this image as early access for my Patreon patrons on 2 May 2021].
097 one of these things is not like the others
...or do you wanna screw?
Day ninety-seven of The 100 Day Project for 2021.
It's no masterpiece and still amateurish (because I am an amateur), but this is a return to a better form after Thursday's leaning tower of honey.
Here's hoping the last three days of the project are more at this standard than Thursday's standard.
The initial sketch was drawn with a 4H pencil and then overdrawn with an HB pencil.
096 hunny
Day ninety-six of The 100 Day Project for 2021.
Yes, I'm aware that if that bee flaps its wings, the building will collapse.
But, after almost 100 days, I've confirmed something I suspected. But possibly wasn't quite as blatant before as it is in yesterday's sketch.
The first line I drew of this sketch was along the underside of the front of the honey shop's roof.
It's actually pretty accurately horizontal.
But then, do you know what I must have done, on auto-pilot, and not corrected for as I was drawing most of the horizontal lines of the shop's walls?
In other sketches, it would be less jarring, but in this one, it's glaring. I mean, the slant of the corrugated roof isn't terrible. Even the slanted-vertical corners of the shop aren't that bad.
What's throwing everything out is the (not) horizontal lines of the weatherboard.
So, I'm right-handed (I know. How boring...) And when I write almost anything, I don't have my writing material square to the desk. I'm going to guess you don't either.
I tilt my writing material probably about 45 degrees so that the top of the page leans quite heavily to the left.
Clearly, this is such an unconscious thing for me to do. And, given I'm using a hardback visual diary to draw in, which has certain constraints versus a flat piece of paper, I'm not really thinking about it. And obviously not correcting for it.
So then you think the honey shop in Wombat Creek has narrowly stood up to a tornado.
Except, in reality, you'd know that wasn't likely because Australia doesn't have tornadoes.
But a little under two months after we drove through here, one of the numerous vicious bushfires that razed rural Australia before, during and after our visit hit the surrounding areas. Thankfully the honey shop survived unscathed.
It definitely fared better in the bushfires than in my wonky drawing.
Maybe if you squint, you can pretend the horizontal lines are actually horizontal on the front of the building. And the correct angle for the perspective on the side of the building has been achieved.
Or maybe just get drunk, and it will all look perfectly aligned?
Despite the poor result, at 70 minutes, this came in as one of - if not the - lengthiest sketch sessions for this year's project. I'm not entirely sure it was time well spent.
The original sketch was drawn with a 4H pencil and then variously overdrawn and shaded with a 6B, 2B, B, HB and heavier weight 4H pencil.
095 acorn
Day ninety-five of The 100 Day Project for 2021.
So, none of this sketch is perfect. Strangely, I think I rendered Simon's index finger most accurately. And, arguably, the acorn is the worst-proportioned of all the elements in it. Go figure...
I drew the initial sketch with a 4H pencil then overdrew it with a mixture of 2B, B, HB and H pencils.
Editing the source photo for yesterday's sketch inspired a bunch of thoughts. At some point, they may become an instalment of one of my "extended play" 100 Day Project projects: postcard from another's life. I would need to find an appropriate photo in my archive or take the right image to accompany the piece of writing. I'm sure it will happen, though.
I'm looking forward to getting back to other ongoing projects after this one ends.
I think I've reconciled myself to the fact the next instalment of my Love Letters to London won't make it online until this project is finished.
I'm planning to try to get back on track as soon as this project is done. So that it becomes a monthly treat for you (and me!) in the latter half of the year.
Similarly, I have plenty of inspiration and impetus for more digital collages.
I have a series I've previously mentioned to start that's just waiting for me to do some manual labour and some fresh photography in between everything else.
My mind has also returned to a medium that's intrigued me for over 16 years. One I've been meaning to learn and master. I need to work that into my schedule this year.
And, hilariously, my mind has already started jumping to ideas for next year's 100 Day Project. No spoilers! Especially as I may not wait until next year to start on at least sporadic experiments in those areas.
But this year just has a way of throwing those curveballs. Just when you think it's done with all that and going to calm the fuck down.
So, you know, I'm not going to turn into George R. R. Martin and take a gazillion years to write the next instalment. But I'll be honest and tell you I'm doing what I can to keep on top of things and get back up to date with things like my Love Letters, but life has a way of getting in the way.
I hope you understand xx
094 anya potato
Day ninety-four of The 100 Day Project for 2021.
No. I did not draw a turd.
It's a small (but one of the biggest we grew last year) Anya potato. Prematurely cut in half before I had a chance to photograph it post-microwaving.
Simon and I each enjoyed half of our first "harvest".
Our harvest of those we grew in a plant pot outdoors equated to an appetiser for one (but we shared them).
We planted some more in the garden, but I don't think they've survived the winter. I should take a look soon. Maybe we'll be surprised.
I don't think our leek survived.
And while the coriander was valiantly battling on, I think it's past saving now. Ironically because of the sun, not the cold.
Our parsley seems to have made a comeback, though!
Not going to lie: I'm particularly partial to all sorts of potatoes. Especially if they're accompanied by butter, cheese or other baked potato toppings. But, even naked, they're delicious.
Now I'm hungry!
Sketched initially with a 4H pencil, then overdrawn with an HB pencil.
093 electric toothbrush
Day ninety-three of The 100 Day Project for 2021.
So, yesterday was a bit calmer personally. I feel like I've got some equilibrium back, at least for now.
My day wasn't as productive as I'd planned. It also "started" later than planned, after some upsetting dreams about family.
But I got the urgent stuff done and had a bit of downtime.
And I was able to be there for a friend going through a tough time. A friend I'd been meaning to contact for months but hadn't, because life. I'm hoping our talk helped and that we'll get the chance to catch up in person this coming weekend.
I won't say this subject was a special request from Simon, but he suggested I draw my electric toothbrush.
I started sketching higher on the page to ensure I wouldn't run out of space for the bottom of the handle. Then, for the first time, I think, I drew on a smaller scale than expected. Consequently, the drawing isn't well-aligned on the page.
But at least it looks like a toothbrush!
I didn't really attempt to get the font right. I just wrote the words trying to make it look more like print rather than cursive.
I drew the original sketch with a 4H pencil. I then overdrew and shaded with a 5B, a 3B and an HB pencil.
092 leaves
Day ninety-two of The 100 Day Project for 2021.
I was looking for a word to describe how I've felt for parts of the past 48 hours.
The word my mind curled around was melancholia, but it's not quite right in that it's a longer-term, more pervasive form of depression.
From my understanding, it's a more extreme version of the anhedonia I was diagnosed as suffering from in 2007.
But the origin of the word still kind of fits with yesterday's sketch.
My attempt to delineate the leaves from the background to better define them (in my mind, at least) makes it look like a bird (or bird skeleton) bursting at the beak and "seams" with black bile.
If you can see two leaves curled into each other in this sketch, then all I can say is that you're in a better place than me.
curling into you was the title I used on Instagram in September 2020 when I shared the source photograph for this sketch and a similar one. The only "bad" thing about that day - apart from the pandemic (though we were able to "eat out to help out" then) - was that I decided not to take my DSLR with me.
And that's why I know I'm not suffering from anhedonia or melancholia right now. Even though I feel exceedingly flat and teary.
Because these thoughts trigger feelings of nostalgia. An urge to return. Thoughts of wandering through Hampstead Heath Extension; exploring the area; discovering a never-opened Tube station; and eating one of our first pub meals after the first lockdown. It still brings back feelings of pleasure.
I guess that's one reason to be thankful. Even if my psyche is a mess of emotions now and on and off for the past 48 hours.
Yesterday was the first time in this year's project that I let myself start again because my first attempt was incredibly off. Not only that but, after the second attempt - starting from a different point - was clearly not going to work, I allowed myself to choose a new source image.
I "wasted" a page (both sides), but it just wouldn't come to me. Not even in an amateur way, like the tuxedo cat.
Maybe it was because I was tired, emotionally distracted or slightly tipsy. (Though that hasn't been an issue in the past. From the point of view of correct perspective, sure, but not to the extent I just can't). Or maybe I just wasn't actually able to process the specifics of the source image.
Maybe I'll try it again before I finish the project. We'll see.
This sketch was drawn with a 4H pencil then overdrawn with an H pencil, a 2B and an HB. The darker shading was done with the 2B pencil.
091 hair grip
Day ninety-one of The 100 Day Project for 2021.
A quick sketch yesterday as I left it to the last minute and had to sneak it in quickly before the live stream of my friend Jane's wedding started at 23:00 BST.
She and her husband, Shawn, had all the luck with a gorgeous May day in Virginia. The live stream didn't show much of their surroundings, but it seemed like a lovely spot. I was pleased to attend virtually, though physically being there would have been a treat, I'm sure.
My mind was occupied for most of the day today. But, now that I've settled into that quiet post-midnight space, I'm finding it hard to focus and feeling an uneasy restlessness I've (thankfully) not felt in a while.
I'm listening to Bonnie 'Prince' Billy and Matt Sweeney's new collaboration, Superwolves, to try to unwind and slow my restless mind.
Today's sketch was drawn with a 4H then overdrawn in parts with an HB pencil.
I bought this hair grip when my hair was all the way down my back last time. It's seen very little use, though. So that's dust, not dandruff you're seeing resting on its plastic surface. I really should have cleaned it before photographing it...
Just nine more sketches left of this year's project!
090 beer
Day ninety of The 100 Day Project for 2021.
The home stretch!
I raise a toast to celebrate.
Or rather, Scott did, last Tuesday, as we sat by the Thames. As if I'd drink beer...
It was chilly enough that we were in coats while we ate and drank, but we were comfortable enough in said coats.
We'd wavered about which day to meet but, in the end, chose the best day of the week. The next day, which was initially suggested, was windy and drizzly and altogether horrid. At least we got a bit of blue sky through the haze that lurked about.
It was my first visit to a pub since visiting three in one day on 4 December 2020. And it was the first time Scott and I had been able to catch up in person since 17 December 2019.
While Scott is fully vaccinated, I'm yet to have my first dose, so we settled for clinking glasses instead of our usual hug on greeting and departing.
Scott asked how I decide what to draw each day and proposed I draw his pint of beer. Funnily enough, I'd paused numerous times over this photo of Simon's beer I'd taken at the Harringay Arms in August last year. I'd contemplated drawing it but thought I would leave it until my drawing skills had improved. Primarily, my ability to render the head on the beer. I'm not convinced I'm any closer to that goal, 90 days into the project.
Though I suspected I may not actually be game to draw Scott's beer either, I did photograph it as we sat by the river. I took extra care to obscure the bollard behind the pint (with Scott manoeuvring it to avoid me touching his glass). And lining the shot up to capture St Paul's Cathedral in the background.
Yesterday, in the last 45 minutes of the day, I decided to take my chances. I knew I wouldn't be able to render the foam even vaguely, so I let myself skip that.
I managed to misjudge the width of the glass versus the typeface, so I had to fix that once I had drawn 'beer'.
It's not even vaguely photorealistic. And I'm almost certain, if that pint was placed on that table, in reality, it would slide straight off toward the bottom-right of the frame...
But, for all that, it's a sketch I feel is kind of satisfying. Even if it's beer and not cider. I drew it; I don't have to drink it.
The initial sketch was drawn with a 4H pencil. Overdrawn and shaded with a mix of 6B, 3B and HB pencils.
Want me to attempt to sketch a subject of your choosing? There's still a little time. I can't promise anything, but my suggestion box is open. #NotAEuphemism