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.

to lisbon

This has felt like the fastest year of my life. I really cannot believe it was a year ago that Pedro and I packed up our belongings and looked toward our new life in Morocco with such optimism and excitement, unaware of the challenges that were awaiting us. As I have previously and so briefly mentioned, it was a difficult year— one that had me fighting hard against giving up and quitting my job. In the end however, my efforts seem to have paid off, as the feedback I received from many of my students was some of the most touching and rewarding in my teaching career.

When the last bell finally rang, I locked up the class room I had transformed from a drab, dusty, and cluttered mess into a bright, orderly space with colourful murals (which I hope will inspire my students' creativity). I walked home, and packed my bags for Lisbon.



Lisbon, the city that glows even on the greyest of days, where white limestone-cobbled pavements and tiled facades play catch with the Atlantic light— where I can indulge in the most exquisite of greasy pork sandwiches or fine seafood and beautiful wines— where I can wear what I want, walk where I want, and look at whomever I want in the eye.



I can chomp on a pork steak and sip green wine while sketching a man on a paper table cloth. I can hold my husband's hand and give him a kiss in public.



I can be me.

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?

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.

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:

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.

follow your nose

As we were studying the gulls at the marina in Vila Nova de Gaia, I suddenly became distracted by the scent of something delicious on the breeze. It was charcoal and fish, and my stomach began to nag me. While Pedro furiously photographed a gull that intrigued him, I began to search the sky above the nearby houses for any trace of smoke. I tried dropping some subtle hints about lunch, but the gull was far too interesting, and all Pedro gave me was an unenthusiastic "mm-hmm".

The idea of barbecued seafood got stuck in my brain, and eventually I declared it was time to eat. The scent had now found its way to Pedro's nose, and off we went in search of its origin.



Though I have a keen sense of smell, it was the smoke that brought us to an unassuming street corner tavern with a grill on the sidewalk and a line of people waiting to get in. With a nod of acknowledgement from a waiter who flew in and out of the building with plates and chilled bottles of wine, we took our place with the other hopefuls, leaning against a pole on the opposite side of the street. It was not long before a table for two opened up inside, and we were crammed in between a jovial group of thirty-somethings and a couple of intimidated Spaniards.

Would we like a salad? Of course. And some wine? Yes please. Yes to the cuttlefish, and yes to the skewers of assorted seafood.



I toyed with the idea of posting an unflattering photo from a series that Pedro took of my happy grin all coated in cuttlefish ink, but I will spare you the horror. It is pretty awesome though, and needless to say, the meal was incredible.



And we weren't done! There was dessert, coffee, and a mysterious xiripiti that the waiter was gleefully pouring into tiny glasses from a three legged can with a spout...



We joyfully swaggered out of the tasca, leaving behind a speedy portrait of the girl at the register, and Pedro's cartoon drawing of me with ink-stained teeth (which you can see in the above photo of the cake). The light was changing, and there were more birds to see.

dinner and a doodle

Portugal's paper placemats and tablecloths were meant for restless hands and their pens!