Every time I move, I rediscover my possessions. Some of them hide forgotten in closets, waiting for me to remember to use them, like a spiral-bound sketch pad, 19″ x 24″, its first page still blank, just as on the day my mother got it for me, some dozen or more years ago.

After a particularly long and hard day of moving, I had this urge to put aside everything, to forget about all the boxes yet to be unpacked, and to sully the sketch pad’s pristine pages. I have an art case H.E. gave me some years ago, filled with color pencils, watercolor paints, and pastels. I’ve used the pencils and paints but never the pastels. I have a secret fear of pastels.

I decided to conquer this fear, and I simply started sketching and coloring, no clear vision in my head, just a subtle notion. A mermaid. Always a mermaid. I have this thing for mermaids for some reason, ever since I could remember.

I had no idea what I was doing, of course. I’d never worked with pastels. They’re a mite greasy and imprecise, too thick for detailed areas, too dull for sharp lines, like coloring with the wrong end of a crayon but with much less control.

Just creating a field of color can be frustrating; it never comes out solid and smooth. Too textured. Too many gaps of white paper showing through. Pretty soon I found myself rubbing my fingers on the surface, hoping to smear the color smooth. Rub, rub, rub. Color, color, color. Rub, rub, rub. My fingers were afire with color, the skin burning itself a callus made of blue or green or gray. If one finger got too hot, I used another, then another, then another, until all my fingers and both my thumbs were black. When I washed my hands later, the swirling water turned a dark gray.

It took two or three sessions, and eventually, I got smart and used a paper stump, and I outlined the fields of color with the pencils.

So here it is finally, shot with my camera, my first work in pastels ever, my first sketch in the new place, 19″ x 24″:

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