December 9, 2002.
Letter Never Sent


Beware what lurks in those desk drawers whose contents have lain fallow for years. When I discovered my old college figure-drawing sketchbook last week, it was like opening a time capsule.

Besides dozens of sketches, I found a draft of an old letter that I intended to send to an old friend, but never got around to. It's a little bit sad to read the discarded letter. I can see things lurking inside the words that were hidden to me even when I was writing them. It makes me a little sad, too, because the person for whom I intended the letter has since left my life, and I am still painfully aware of the space he left behind:


I used to write letters on these enormous pieces of paper. This sheet folded in in the sketchbook was 18" x 24" (the whole thing wouldn't fit on the scanner).

I don't remember if I finished another version of the letter and sent it off to him eventually. What I do remember is how worried and weary I felt as I wrote the words, how I focused on trying to buoy my spirits against the wave of depression that was already coming on hard, like those scenes in the movies where the ship starts to sink, and we can see chilly water rising around the hero's ankles, then his calves, then his waist...

I did enjoy looking at the sketches in the book. I don't think they exactly belong in a museum, but they do seem to possess a certain quiet assurance that I like (images are clickable):


When I look at the sketches, I don't think, "Those sketches look nice. I'm glad I took that figure-drawing class," and then shut the book. Instead, I think, without hesitation, "Hmm. I wonder if I could dig up my old drawing pencils and get back into that..."

I'm always trying to ressurect my college days because it was the time when I felt most alive. And of course, in a setting like that, who wouldn't? I didn't have to work, except 10 hours a week at an easy on-campus job. I lived always among friends. I got credit for taking this figure-drawing class, the whole point of which was to sit, observe, and reflect.


That's what I miss the most — time with blurred edges. Time to just sit, and think, and sketch something blissfully imperfect.


A project at work blew up today because I had set up the file incorrectly. It was the file for a book cover, and I set it up just a little bit too small. Do you know how much it was off? 1/4". One quarter of an inch.

That kind of imprecision is a criminal offense when you make your living as a designer.

(Yeah. I miss the delightful imprecision of space, too. If I drew the model's legs 1/4" off one day, well, the model was just having a fat day. Big deal!)

Today I could only chuckle sadly when I discovered my error amidst the flying of paper and the client's frantic phone calls. I should've known what all this daydreaming would get me — a panicked client, a disgruntled boss, and rush fees to last from here to Salem and back.