Last September, I bought the perfect sketchbook.
Ever since I started keeping running sketchbooks encompassing both my work and personal lives, every time I buy a new sketch book, I resolve to fill it with ideas and sketches and poetry. I did one drawing and filled three pages with mixed media, watercolor and pen sketches of abstract jellyfish. Last week I forced myself to sit at my favorite park and sketch a tree. It is a capable sketch. The remaining ninety five pages are filled with work-related to-do lists and project notes. Nary a verse of poetry has touched this sketchbook.
I have been through numerous sketchbooks since then. From Moleskin notebooks to sketchbooks that were presents to whatever promotional, logoed sketchbook I got from a vender.
But, last September, I bought the perfect sketchbook.
The sketchbook is a handsome, black, hardcover volume, 9 x 12, with acid-free pages suitable for archiving. When I bought the sketchbook, I resolved that I had found the perfect vehicle for my work and art, but mostly for my art. I would buy only this sketchbook until I died (or until Binders stopped carrying it). The sketchbook cost me twenty seven dollars. It was worth it, because I would never have to think about what sketchbook to buy next.
Because, as I said before, last September, I bought the perfect sketchbook.
I went sketchbook shopping today. My next sketchbook is a softcover volume. Though the pages are acid free, the texture of the paper is completely different from my previous sketchbook. My next sketchbook is small, half the size of my perfect sketchbook.
Last September, I bought the perfect sketchbook. Today, I bought my next sketchbook.
