(continued from Part 1; images are my father's sketches.)
Sketching was always a part of my father’s life. But as I was growing up, it was not in any formalized, structured, or intentional way. He never “planned” to sketch on any given day; it was always done at the spur of the moment. He never carried a sketchbook around -- often on a napkin or the back of an envelope (the kind that utility bills came in) most of the sketches that he left were done with whatever ballpoint pen or pencil he happened to find at the kitchen table, and usually while nursing a glass of scotch on the rocks. His choice subject matter was his family or familiar objects that, again, happened to be on the dining table. In some ways, all this seemed to make sketching a more natural activity so intimately tied into daily life, inspired by some impulse of endearment as opposed to artistic discipline or exercise.
(to be continued…)
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