a quick sketch on the tram

Quick and messy on the back of my tram ticket...

nine

Nine years... where have they all gone? Little did I know when I started this blog that I would find the love of my life, leave the other love of my life— Istanbul— and end up in Morocco with a baby. In the wee hours of the morning while feeding the little one, I was reflecting on how much I have loved sharing my journeys with all of you, and how little of it I have been doing since moving here. It feels like time is just slipping away— and there's never enough of it. Sketching and any kind of artwork seems out of the question, and this has plunged me into a sort of loneliness. Drawing and painting is such an integral part of my identity, that without it I am left with an emptiness.

So I managed to do three small sketches in the past month. It's hardly anything, but it's a start. I've been playing around with some pigment powders that I bought in the medina of Tangier:



Just above is Hamide, a Gnaoua musician who zipped across our path on a bike, down one of Asilah's narrow alleyways, sintir on his back. It was so quick that at first I wasn't sure what I saw— a hunched figure in a striped djellabah with what looked like a guitar— but after turning a few corners, we ran right into him. Hamide was laying out a few items on striped and tie-dyed cloths when he greeted us, which involved placing hats on our heads.



Sensing that I was eager to sketch Hamide, Pedro asked if he would pose for a portrait. With a wide grin he pulled out the sintir, a low, banjo-like instrument of stretched camel skin with three goat gut strings.

Je joue pour le bébé.



A deep, trance-like melody filled the alley, lulling Baby to sleep. Seizing the moment, I drew. At some point during the song, a young man popped out of a door with a plate of couscous for Hamide, which he shared with us.

Nous sommes une grande famille. He explained.

So here we are, nine years later. I've really got to start drawing again. Make the time, get over my new nervousness when approaching people. It goes by too quickly.

a little moment

While finishing my coffee after breakfast this morning, I was given a moment to do a 7-minute-or-so sketch while my little bunting was entertained by the visiting buntings outside the window.

part one: belly

I thought I'd share with you some of the drawings I drew during the last few months. Stay tuned—more on the way...

portrait of a salesman

This gentleman bullied Pedro and I into buying a beautiful cactus-silk carpet in Meknès that we didn't need. I figured he owed me something in return...

It really is a pretty carpet!

new watercolours

I've got to say, painting with Schmincke watercolours is a dream...
Thanks Mom!

sketches from a canary island

a sketch on the road

Somewhere along the road between Meknès and Rabat, we stopped to grab a quick bite. With the utmost discretion, I pulled out my watercolours and sketchbook to draw a man in a djellaba who was enjoying a lively conversation with his friends. I don't think he noticed.

I've been so bad at keeping current with my blog, you'll have to forgive me for sharing the sketch over a month late! In the next few posts, I'll be taking you back even further to November, when I took a quick little trip to one of the Canary Islands. Are you ready?

friday's sketch

Bad weather and a bad leg make for a great combination when all you really want to do is wrap yourself up in a blanket, pour some tea, play some good music, and draw. I had this little vial of shiny black powder that I bought at the medina a while ago, which the herbalist swore was kohl for the eyes, but I have my doubts. I thought I could use it for drawing, and while it gave me some nice warm greys, it left behind rough glittery particles that would not go away no matter what I did. In came the 8B graphite stick to punch up the value and save the day!

a midnight-ish self-portrait

I started drawing this sometime last night before midnight and finished the majority of the drawing around two in the morning. The orange background took a good part of today, as the book is pretty large (the portrait is a wee bit less than life-size)— a great way to spend a rainy Monday! It has been a wonderful thing rediscovering Caran D'Ache's Neocolor I wax pastels, something I loved playing with in college and had forgotten about until recently rummaging through Pedro's cache of art materials in Lisbon.

saturday

that feeling

happy places

There are places that one finds in life that somehow have a centering, calming, and joyous effect on the soul. The memory of my Grandparents' buttered toast and pipe-scented house in California, the balcony in Boudha where I taught my dear After School Artists during the monsoons, the breakfast table with Pedro— I have a lot of these happy places. One of them happens to be the Museu Calouste Gulbenkian in Lisbon, where I never tire of wandering through the galleries, though I have been there several times. Familiar brush strokes, colour palettes I know too well, and creamy marble that feels like home. It's like visiting a beautiful house full of old friends, who never seem to age though I do.

This holiday, I spent five hours at the museum one day— just me and Sargent, Monet, Manet, Turner. I went to Ancient Egypt, to Medieval and Renaissance Europe, the Ottoman Empire, and beyond. With the new sketchbook that my Grandma sent me for Christmas in hand, I sketched a few of my favourite pieces. Most of all, I just looked.

then, they came

Since it was my first time exhibiting at the Rendez-vous, I had no idea of what to expect, and judging by the queue of visitors that had already formed at the entrance to the Polydôme on Friday morning, I knew this experience was going to exceed anything I could have imagined. After sliding my sketchbooks into their case and making some last minute adjustments to the display, I swung by Solune's stand to say hello, and headed to the coffee bar for a cup.

Then they came.



I don't know how many people I met, or how many portraits I drew on the fly— something that initially made me nervous to have so many eyes on me as I scribbled on sketchbooks and loose leafs of paper. My throat was dry, my cheeks hurt from all the smiling, and I became acutely aware of the different muscles used around the lips when speaking French— or at least trying to. Thank you to all you kind souls who patiently put up with my mangled version of your language!

If any of you happen read this, know that I had such a good time talking to each and every one of you. I enjoyed hearing about your trips to Turkey, your thoughts on art, and I loved drawing you. To the two girls whom I did not manage to capture in pencil so well, if you see this, write to me, and I will replace that sketch with a better one. To the young man pictured on the right below, I realise now that you were waiting to be drawn, and that you were too polite to tell those teenage girls that you were first. Write me, and I will draw you that portrait.

What fun!

setting up

I don't want to talk about Paris. I don't want to talk about Beirut. I don't want to talk about terrible things and terrible people, and death and pain and fear—the media does a great job of that already. What I want to talk about is life and love, and all the wonderful things that exist in the world— kindness, friendship, empathy. I firmly believe that in spite of all the horrors, the world is still a beautiful place, and that the vast majority of people are good. We have to be louder than the anger and the violence, we have to remind ourselves and the people around us that this world is ours, and we will carry on.

So I'm going to talk about the 16th Rendez-vous du Carnet de Voyage in Clermont-Ferrand, one of the most incredible experiences in my life. I didn't know what to expect when I arrived at the Polydôme on Thursday evening to set up my stand— the place was already abuzz with activity as the carnettistes were unwrapping framed art, hanging their colourful backdrops and posters, and searching for hooks.



These are the things I learned from the lead-up to the event:

• Air France charges for all checked bags, but are supportive of artists with long tubes of drawings
• you can do a lot with a few chains, S-hooks, and binder clips
• burlap is amazing
• carnettistes have the best stories!

my first moroccan sketch

Over my first tajine and taste of pickled lemons (which are my new favourite things— oh, and prickly pears, which are sold all over the streets at the moment), I sketched this man:

dots of ink

from one of my nepali sketchbooks

sketching ram prasad

On a pleasant February afternoon, Pedro and I were having coffee in Thamel when I spied a magnificent moustache out of the corner of my eye. This was a moustache I needed to draw. I tried my best to sketch the owner of the fine facial hair, a security guard for a nearby hotel, as he moved about quickly between guests and friends, but eventually realised this was a ridiculous tactic if I wanted to draw a portrait. Fuelled by caffeine and Pedro's encouragement, I gathered the guts to approach the man for a sit-down. Lucky for me, Ram Prasad was more than happy to oblige.



I think I drew him a little chubbier than he is, but still, his is one of my favourite portraits that I've drawn. When I finished pencilling him in, I ran off to a photocopier and made a copy to give him. Upon receiving it, his pale green eyes sparkled, and his moustache rose with the big smile beneath it. I thanked him, and shook his hand. I wonder how he is now, after the earthquake... how his family is... I hope they are all safe. 

now, sit real still

I was sketching the gate at Shechen Monastery while Pedro was chasing warblers in the nearby trees, when a group of young monks heaving cases of soda paused to watch me draw. Most peeked, smiled bashfully, and carried on with lugging the soda, but I was eventually left with two boys who decided to sit with me.

After some silence and more smiles, the boys began to whisper at each other fiercely. Suddenly, one of them cheekily blurted out: "He wants you to draw him!"

This earned him a little punch in the arm from his blushing friend. I abandoned my lousy sketch for a fresh white page, selected a suitable pencil and told the blusher to sit real still. His name was Jamyang Tashi, and he was from Mustang.



Jamyang sat with such dignity for a young lad, though there was mischief in his sideways glance as he peered at the lines that were adding up to become his face. An older monk passed by and gave his approval— a grin, and a "same same". The boys were pleased with this, and Jamyang lit up when I showed him his finished portrait. I told him I would photocopy the drawing and bring it back to him, but I wasn't sure if he fully understood what I meant. The next day I returned with the copy and tracked him down to the classrooms at the back of the monastery. He appeared in the window of a very dark room— I could barely see him, except for a set of gleaming white teeth behind the window grate. I passed him the photocopy, which he received with both hands, thanked me, and skipped off.