My Sketchbook

The small pages are weathered and often covered in dirt. Unlucky mosquitos are squished in the creases. The little grey book is shoved in backpacks and hiked up mountains, it's brought down to the river in the evenings as the sun gets low in the sky, and my headlamp shines red across the pages as I lay in my sleeping bag. I let my pen move around the page as my eyes scan the landscape for shapes. Mistakes are inevitable, and the lines on the page are never identical to the landscape in front of me but something new entirely. What is left on the paper is a visual story of how my eyes journeyed around the topography and how my imagination filled in the rest.