It was another cold morning in the coffee shop yesterday, with the door open to the elements. People didn’t stay, or if they did (mostly the stalwart regulars) it wasn’t for long. I struggled to motivate myself. I never work well in the cold, both brain and hands resisting thought and movement. Opting for a kind of shorthand (a necessity as people were flitting in and out and not sitting long enough for me to draw them sans mask (necessary I know, but a pain to have to negotiate)) I began to use colour. I’ve talked about it before and how it often feels like an afterthought. This time I tried to use it as an essential part of the visual description.
Sometimes it was just a touch showing a shock of red hair or the stripes of a cardigan (‘Like a cat’s been sick on it,’ my partner helpfully remarked).
I work better when I don’t really have time to think too much, and the limited palette of my pack of 10 crayons and 10 felt tips helps too. In the end it’s not about accuracy but about a sense, a feeling.
But nevertheless there are still so many decisions to make even in that short space of time. I like some of the really minimal ones – such as the man with the beard and shaved head with his red ears (from the cold no doubt) reining in his spaniel puppy, all silky fur and edginess. There’s also the placement of the drawings on the page. I favour the small books where there is only space for one and where the white, negative space is most potent. (They remind me of an illustrator working in the 80s, who’d draw punkish teenagers – I can’t remember her name now.)
