
I have always had a vague feeling of guilt because I do not maintain a proper sketchbook ( therefore I can’t be a real artist). Many have a favourite book of carefully chosen paper and shape that they carry around to record those fleeting thoughts and fragments of life that will prove to be so inspiring later on. Having seen Osi’s sketchbooks in his Llansteffan gallery, I dream of being able to fill a book with so much beauty.
Sadly, my mind doesn’t work that way. Instead, I realise now that everything I do is a sketchbook. The pile on the floor represents some of my work over the last 9 months: collage, prints, drawings in ink, charcoal, pencil, maquettes for books – on different substrates, different sizes, no real unifying factors, but all containing the possibility of development. It’s hard to critically evaluate them when they’re in a heap on the floor so the next stage is to record them in my journal and think where to go with them. So my sketchbook will continue to be whatever scraps of paper are lying around, and whatever implement is to hand and, if beauty arrives, it will sneak in through the back door.