Outdoor sketching

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I am grateful to have fallen in love with painting from childhood. I was somewhat obsessed back then. Whether alone or with friends, in sunshine, wind, frost, rain or snow, we children would merge into the landscape. With nothing more than pencils and paints, such simple materials, we derived immense satisfaction. Looking back, I still feel fortunate.

Sketching lets you set aside certain worries and lose track of time all at once. Within a short span, the sketcher must decide how to interpret what they see, pondering form, linework and colour. Though working on flat paper, the true magic lies within those hours spent alone. The finished work becomes an extension of memory, utterly unlike a photograph — a curious distinction. A photographer merely assists the camera in capturing an image, whereas the sketcher reconstructs the reality witnessed by their eyes. In the end, the resulting picture is hardly factual at all; it is merely a distorted record, full of crooked strokes and dappled marks.

More often than not, sketchers do not draw purely for outward beauty. What unfolds before them resonates with an inner landscape already dwelling within. Vertical and horizontal lines, rich hues and strange light all become footnotes to the sketcher’s inner world. It is then that one may let loose with unruly lines, and let time slip away.