More random pages and sketches from an inspiration journal
I try to carry a journal with me everywhere I go… every day I go. I have a few different ones in which I scribe and scribble… mostly scribble. They are different sizes for different occasions (let’s be honest, by occasions, I mean purses). They are homes to ideas, notations, diagrams, sketches, misspellings, and the aforementioned coffee dribbles. The journals aren’t all that interesting, but they have helped me express and expel the wanderings of my mind.
If you know me, you’ll be surprised to hear I haven’t [permanently] misplaced a single journal. I manage to misplace my keys as soon as I walk in the door and my glasses as soon as they leave my face. My journals? Nope. Still have them all. Knock on wood.
So, yup. der she be. After going through all of this, it hit me: I am probably more attached to my art journals than my photographs. I only realized this today when contemplating the possibility of losing one of my messy, disorganized, random, beloved books of ideas. It’s weird; there are only a few (less than five) of my photographs I truly love — by love, I mean… if I were to lose them [because hard drives are my sworn enemies] it would mean total devastation. The rest of the photographs I have made are just meh. I make them for the memories, not just for the photograph. The journals I fold and roll and tear and carry with me daily… those are moments, concepts, creations, and communities I adore. the photographs allow me to express the what. the journals tell me the why and the how I got there. The why and the how are my voice. The what? That’s for you to interpret. After the what, it’s onto the next idea for me. So there it is / there they are. The ones that I feel comfortable revealing in public, anyhow.
If nothing more, these provide a place for friends to draw me dinosaurs who wear taco hats.
All the best and more,