The gift

When I was in college we had a small bookshop in the town centre. Whenever I visited I was always attracted to a book on the top shelf called "The Gift" by someone called Vladimir Nabakov. It was a 'Vintage Classic' - they always had beautiful covers and paper that felt so good in your hands. Every time I went there I always took the book down, flipped through it, and decided it didn't look interesting. It always attracted me all the same, and finally I bought it.

I read it, but I didn't understand it. Its characters were made up of great Russian writers I'd never heard of, like Pushkin and Lermontov, and it seemed to be split into 2 sections - older writers, and more modern writers.

One night, after I'd been reading the book, I woke myself up screaming "Turgenev! Turgenev!"

This book ended up changing my life. I still don't understand it though.

*******

I'm scanning old pictures from sketchbooks for the time being. I have a commissioned portrait, yipee, so I'm not drawing me, me, me. It's confusing to draw for someone else. You have to forget them and do it your own way, but then you need to remember it is for someone else. I like it, that beautiful balance of discipline and freedom.