There is something so peaceful and intimate about simply sitting and drawing. Giving yourself the time and finding the place or point in space where your presence is an observant guest. I don’t give enough time to this purity of moment. It could be months or even years afterwards, when flicking through my sketchbooks and drawings I realize how some small little aspect of a drawing or painting has re-emerged in either structural form or as a finishing texture. A linear edge of a leaf – curved protectively around a little bud or a shredded decaying weed lying on the footpath just catches my eye and transfixes me for a split second. For me, drawing and thinking with marks is my effort to try and make sense of where I am and allows me to question what on earth I am trying to do. Sometimes it is careful and pedantic in little sketchbooks. Other times it is wild and loose jumping back and forth like mind mapping. Stretching long rolls of paper off the ceiling, putting on music and allowing my outstretched arms move in arcs. It’s time for me.