My Favorite Room
The house I grew up in had radiant heat in all the floors on the first level. The living room cork floor and the kitchen tile floor were the most wonderful to lie on—especially in the winter. But the living room was sort of ruled by my father—a demanding, dictatorial man. The kitchen was my mother’s venue. Often I would lie there and daydream, feeling warm and safe.
I have sketched the kitchen and am posting it, not because it is a really good sketch, but because in this past year frequent sketching is my goal (I would eventually like to draw a sketch a day). I find that drawing something helps me see it differently. Both that I see more and that as I draw I discover my relationship to the other in unexpected ways. The goal is to feel good about my sketching because of what it teaches me in the process.