Colored pencils rest next to an unfinished drawing whose bottom left corner is the only portion visible, providing a mere peek into what the art is supposed to be of.
All is quiet save for the birdsong through the window and the sounds of colored pencils making marks on the paper beneath my hand. It is this paper that has most of my attention. Light layers of pigment are laid down in their designated spots. An image forms.
When I work in colored pencil, I render one section of the image at a time. Unlike my painting process, in which I can cover the whole paper or canvas with the first layer of paint and repeat, my drawing process is very targeted. I draw one petal at a time, one piece of tree bark at a time. Section by section, the drawing advances across the paper.
Such a process entertains contrast between the portions of the drawing that are largely finished and the stark blank paper yet to be touched. The blank part of the paper is terra incognita as far as the colored pencils are concerned. I, of course, have already mapped out what goes where in light lines of graphite. So I know what the land will look like. But I refuse to let others know.
I hardly ever show anyone a work in progress. Others are allowed to see the finished piece. But there is something undeniably special about seeing a piece of art unfinished, one that has yet to be fully realized. Should anyone catch a glimpse of a drawing in progress, they are privy to what I see all the time: the blank portions, the vague outlines mapping shapes and patterns, the early layers, the finished layers, the contrast between what is mostly done and what is not.
I sit at my desk in solitude, leading colored pencils around the paper. I blur the backgrounds and sharpen the areas of focus. When I leave the room and return, I see how far the drawing has come and also how much more work needs to be done. It will be a while before anyone sees this drawing in its finished state.