019.

It's 20 degrees outside right now, & my heater exploded & continues to spew brown liquid. This makes me sad. Sad & cold. My tears..turning..into...icicles. i wonder if breathing airborne pathogens consisting of paint debris & urine-smelling mold will cause early lung failure. Probably. & now i'm eating cereal. It's making me colder. Warm cereal should be invented for occasions such as this. Wait, i think that already exists. & i think it's called porridge &/or oatmeal. ...nevermind.

018.

5 min.



a set from November




2 min.


2 done in 10 min.


all in 20 ...


i've noticed lately that for some reason the longer the poses are, the worse my drawings get. workin' on fixing that.

015.

Lit. notes & sleepy classmates probably bored by Gregor Samsa.

014.

Some of October's drawings from the underground. When i was doing the blue one in pencil, a guy sitting next to me watched for a while, until he decided to let the woman across from me know that i was sketchin' her. It was kind of a weird encounter considering the woman didn't care to see the picture at all, & i can't say i did either, but the guy was so hyped about it. We all looked at each other for a minute with awkward smiles, until the train stopped at Union Square, where we all got off & proceeded to remain strangers.

012.

... some subway sketches of September

005.

More nekkidness. Did this for some watercolor practice- i wish i paid more attention to the drawing instead of sketching it really fast in order to get on with the painting.

002.

For the sake of a few lines [wrote Rilke] one must see many cities men and things. One must know the animals, one must feel how the birds fly and know the gesture with which the small flowers open in the morning. One must be able to think back to roads in unknown regions to unexpected meetings, and to partings which one had long seen coming; to days of childhood that are still unexplained, to parents that one had to hurt when they brought one some joy and one did not grasp it (it was a joy for someone else); to childhood illness that so strangely began with a number of profound and grave transformations to days in rooms withdrawn and quiet and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas to nights of travel that rushed along on high and flew with all the stars- and it is not yet enough if one may think of all this. One must have memories of many nights of love, none of which was like the others, of the screams of woman in labor, and of light, white, sleeping women in childbed, closing again. But one must also have been beside the dying, one must have sat beside the dead in the room with the open window and the fitful noises. And still it is not enough to have memories. One must be able to forget them when they are many, and one must have the great patience to wait until they come again. For it is not yet the memories themselves. Not until they have turned to blood within us, to glance, to gesture, nameless and no longer to be distinguished from ourselves- not until then can it happen that in a most rare hour the first word of a verse arises in their midst and goes forth from them.


[The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge, New York, W. W. Norton and Co., Inc., 1949]