Notes from
the studio.

Started a new commission this week. Can't say who yet — the subject wants to keep it a surprise for the person receiving it. What I can say is that this one is in graphite, which I haven't worked in exclusively for about eight months. Coming back to it feels like putting on an old coat. Familiar weight.

The reference photos the client sent are good — natural light, no heavy filters, a mix of expressions. That matters more than people realize. I need to see how a face moves, not just how it looks in one frozen moment.

But I would notice. And I think, over time, the subject would too. There's something that accumulates in a piece made slowly — not just detail, but intention. Every mark is a decision. The more time you spend, the more decisions you make, and the more of yourself ends up in the work.

I'm not romanticizing slowness for its own sake. I'm just unwilling to trade quality for volume. For now, at least.

Spent most of the week reading. Biographies, mostly. I've been working through a stack I've been meaning to get to for years — people whose faces I'd love to paint someday. That's actually how a lot of my subjects find me: I read about someone, can't stop thinking about their face, and eventually I just start drawing.

Back in the studio next week. Already looking forward to it.

All of that is true. And I've tried digital — genuinely tried, not just dabbled. It's remarkable what you can do with it. But somewhere in the process I always feel like I'm working inside glass. Smooth, frictionless, and slightly removed from the thing I'm making.

Paper has grain. Pencil has drag. Watercolor does what it wants. That resistance is information. It tells me things about the drawing that a pressure-sensitive screen never has. And when the piece is done, it exists somewhere specific in the world — not on a server, not in a file, but on a sheet of paper that someone can hold.