At book club this evening I drew a small portion of the plethora of things in E's livingroom. I could have sat there for a few more hours very happily drawing, but everyone else was leaving so I did, too. Clockwise from the left are a silky pillow in bright colors, a painted but chipped plaster face hanging high up on the wall, a planter or bowl made of what looks like marble but might be glazed ceramic faces, a little man statue sitting in front of a small vase of late zinnias, one of E's fuzzy sequined house shoes, and a cyclopian dog doll that was reclining on the floor.
Someone asked how I could draw and still be part of the conversation. No problem as long as I'm not thinking about the drawing as it arranges itself on the paper. If I were to start judging it (not a good start, bad proportions, etc) everything would freeze up, and then I would NOT be able to pay attention to the conversation. But that rarely happens these days, 3400 drawings along the path to 10,000. One of the good things about this practice is that it makes drawing flow without much (if any) mental interference. I'm always pleasantly surprised at how things come out.
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