Not being an artist myself, I often wonder what it would have been like to be inside my father’s head.
Did he view absolutely everything he saw as potential inspiration for his next painting? Was he always thinking about his work, even when he wasn’t in his studio with paintbrush in hand? Was keeping a pen with him at all times as normal for him as my always having my keys in my pocket?
It must be that when the muse visited him, he needed to sketch – right then and there. I say this because, in the collection of odds and ends that were part of Jan’s estate, there was a grouping of six, very tiny sketches, created on the strangest array of papers and glued to a piece of cardboard. Three were on bitty pieces torn from a lined, yellow writing tablet; others were on paper so thin I am not sure what its original use was; yet another obviously quickly drawn sketch was on what appears to be the flap of an envelope.
He must have sketched these little snippets of his thoughts so that the ideas wouldn’t get lost in the steady sea of other inspirations that surrounded him every day. Whatever the case, I am glad I have these. This tiny grouping gives me some insight into my dad’s world. I guess art is made wherever the artist is.