I read a piece today about the beauty of field sketching: taking the time to sit down and draw details of something you see before you. It's a way of forcing yourself to notice the small details, to slow down in you observational goals, to take note. And you can do it even if you are not good at art.
I suppose I would include myself in the vast majority out there who can produce a decent drawing when forced by a grandchild to do so, but I haven't a particular talent for it and most of what I draw leaves me deeply dissatisfied. So why be intrigued by this article? I already use my camera and Ocean writing to "take note." And I do plenty of observational travel when I head out alone. (When you are with fellow travelers you always pay attention to your interaction with them and so you miss a huge amount of small stuff in your navigation, to say nothing of conversations that take place around you, among strangers.)
What this article did for me was to remind me that we always have a filter on, when we walk through a new or interesting place. And I have one too: I look at a Parisian street as if I were a camera, which is better than not looking at all, but it still places limits. Maybe I should take out a sketch pad next time and draw instead? Or, better yet, take field notes! Describe in words the lines that I cannot draw!
The article nudged me to get off my perch from behind a camera lens. Maybe I'll even remember to do that when next I am, say, in Paris.
This morning, it's rather cool, rather wet and rather Fall-ish. When I went out to feed the animals, I hadn't yet read anything yet and my camera was hanging down my side, as always. Nonetheless, I did pause to take in the purple and gold colors that are so much a part of our September.
Ed slept while I did Saturday stuff. A trip to the bakery for the breads and croissants, and to the market for the flowers and veggies. I note that the older vendors are already sporting woolen caps!
I'm not quite at that level of cold yet, but then, I'm not standing for six hours in that rather cool and rather wet air. I did a quick dash around half of the square...
... and hurried home.
Ed was still asleep and as between waking him or eating alone, I chose the latter. He needs his rest more than I needed him to munch a croissant across the table from me.
I read a lot this afternoon. With a candle burning next to me. Sometimes it felt like I was inside the story, right there among the characters, feeling their small joys in their very plain and unadorned settings. [For instance, in my latest novel -- it takes place in Brittany, France -- the protagonist loves and very much needs his wakeup coffee and croissant. His hunger for this is so palpable that it became my hunger. I swear, the next time I am in France, the very first thing I will do is find a scrappy neighborhood cafe and go in for that first morning coffee and croissant. In public, among others who are in need of the same.] Many people have said to me me many times that you don't have to travel far to accurately feel the mood of a distant place. Most of the times I push back on that argument. Today I came closer to agreeing with them.
An easy day. A breather before a whirlwind of a month! To reflect and take note, but from the comfort of our (heated!) living room. With a candle at my side.
