Some of my favourite drawings are the ones drawn absent-mindedly. I love it that marks on a page can coalesce into a magic puppy under the influence of a polka-haired mage. The ones that make space for themselves between checklists, briefing notes, recommendations, and quotes by ones wiser than ‘i’.
Drawn under the pre-show cinema glow of Ryuichi Sakamoto: Coda—a documentary portrait of the titular artist directed by Stephen Schible.
Sakamoto is a living example and invitation to expand the boundaries that define our understanding of what ’music’ is, or what makes a sound useable for artful purposes. One of my favourite scenes is when it’s raining heavily outside his apartment and he is captured rushing about in search of everyday objects that could collaborate with the rain as a percussion instrument. His urgency oozes of possibility and naïveté. He crouches low, climbs ladders, re-angles his ears—whatever takes him closer to the sound. He eventually puts a plastic bucket on his head and stands there absolutely chuffed in the middle of his garden.
Coda was perceptual turning point for me, and I left the theatre with new ears now open to hearing sounds with greater granularity.
Clutching, looking down, posing, taking, checking, archiving to Outfits Folder. ✌🏼
This has turned into an unintended ritual, performed on the daily without any personal growth or end-goal in mind. It’s an infinite game between just myself and my ego—giving each other hat tips in unison. A quiet moment of appreciation, at least of ‘good enough’. Sometimes a final nod to solitude, before heading out into the world.
Mirrors and selfies are co-evolving and producing apparently ‘1000 selfies per 10 seconds’ at the time of writing. And still, it remains such a novel thing to see the shape of your own self in the mirror, presented as a single individual amidst the 1000 per 10. One version of a self, out of so many possible selves.
So, what did you miss about me?
Instead of answering the question, I drew this. Much of love in the modern day = attention. Does this kind of attention count as love? Even when you are objectifying your love and focusing on his line-work equivalents, nose deep in notebook, rather than attention on the actual-him? At the very least, my real-time neglect has meant that I can repeatedly return to this reminder of the moment and dwell on that kind of love.
The average between the core body temperatures of humans (37°) and domestic pigeons (41°) is:
And 39°C was today’s hotpocolyptic weather reality (every breeze a burn) (bare shoulders sizzling) (exposed toenails aching). The shade was where all warm bodied creatures wanted to be, and preferably in repose. Some of the pigeons seemed more strategic with their bodily placement than others and I respected their nonchalance as they exposed a whole preening head or a dome full of breast to the sun-gaps*.
I, on the other hand, took a fly-by photo of this scene and uncourageous of the heat drew it in the comfort of air-conditioned shade.
*木漏れ日 (komorebi)—the dappled light that filters through when sunlight shines through trees.
It appears to me that frolicking about in the privacy of your own home is exponentially more fun without pants on. At once humbling, and liberating.