I don't plan the drawings. I don't sketch with a purpose or a destination in mind. I simply take a soft pencil—a 4B, whose graphite smudges like a lie—and I let it touch the paper. The first line is always a mistake. Too long. Too curved. But mistakes, in drawings, are not erasures. They are ghosts. They are the history of the hand.
The Geometry of Afternoon Light
Outside, the sun shifts. The real shadow begins to crawl toward the wall. But the one I drew stays perfectly still. It will be three o'clock forever in that small rectangle of paper. desene