Swatch your colors. All of them. Test your pens, your markers, whatever you have. Set a timer for ten minutes and make blobs of color. That’s it. The point isn’t the blobs; it’s that your hand is moving without asking why.

When I’m in the wheel, I open my sketchbook the way other people open their refrigerators. There’s no ceremony to it, no moment of becoming ready. It’s reptile-brain instinct: a hand reaching for paper the way an animal returns to water.

But THEN there are other times...when I’ve somehow wheeled myself into a ditch without noticing the shoulder... See more

The only way back is through the practice of doing unglamorously . Doing things that don’t photograph well, refuse narrative, and would put anyone to sleep. I have to look at my cactus every day. I simply look at it; without the promise of transformation, without the goal of insight. Has it grown? No. Will it grow? Eventually. Agnes Martin spent... See more