I have a love / hate relationship with a brand new sketchbook.
Each new book is perfectly shaped and clean, and contains not a single error of placement, pigment, or judgement. It’s potentially a bookshelf gallery of joyous art. Potentially.
And before I begin, I imagine it finished and filled with faultless works that tell a story as each page is turned.
But the book doesn’t invite optimism. In fact it seems aloof, vacuous flaunting its unblemished perfection in my face, each page daring me to make a single mark worthy of its immaculate frame.
An expensive one is the worst. Each arctic page leers coldly at me with blank disdain and makes me feel like a goalkeeper expecting an “own goal”, before losing his clean sheet.
So I pretend not to care. Put down the 0.1 Inkliner and pick up a fat graphite stick sideways instead. And maybe doodle loosely in a cheaper sketchbook, while the Moleskine remains pristine and gloats across the desk at me.