First, I want to thank you readers for your generous contributions to the scholarship fund. You have made it possible for someone to join a class who otherwise would not be able to.

*This morning my assignment is pleasure* | © Laurie Doctor Sketchbook

“This morning my assignment is pleasure,” I wrote this in my sketchbook today as a remedy for the many hours I have spent agonizing over a painting, or a piece of writing, or one letter. The struggle is, in part, “the nature of the beast” — the uncertainty and self-doubt involved in the decision to be a maker, the conflict of leaping ahead instead of listening to what the work wants. The shift to plowing through any conceptual road blocks and doing something is a key. But the real guide for me is to work with some tool or surface or color that gives pleasure — even if what you are looking at, as I am now, is an immense pile of imperfect paintings or a tall stack of (mostly) unpublished writing.

Piles of writing and painting in my studio

Over and again I'm reminded of what I know, of what you know. I mean the most important kind of knowing, the kind that gets lost when I'm busy or distracted — for example, today, remembering when I take my small sketchbook with me, when I mark something down, even one small thing in a day — how this keeps me as a plant watered, rather than wilted. How this one mark can baptize everything that happens in a day.

Being a maker is both a noun and a verb: you are the maker and the making. I often say in class, don’t be afraid of using lots of paper. Quality paper is not made from trees, it has already been recycled from cotton or linen or flax. Both paper and canvas can be used and re-used, and gain character along the way. Make a big pile of something. Add to it each day.

I chose my new glass pipette to write this in my book:

*An immense pile of imperfect paintings |* sumi ink & glass pipette | © Laurie Doctor Sketchbook

Mary Oliver carried a little notebook with her on all her walks; a noticing book. Some phrases found their way back into a poem, others to a grocery list. And so today I'm taking out my small notebook — because writing in my book is a distinctively different experience than writing on a scrap of paper — and instead of any pen, I chose something lush to write with. This brings me pleasure. Today it matters what tool I choose. It matters that I love the tool, or at least am curious about what kind of mark it will make. Joy is embedded in the discovery, the drip, the imperfect ink on paper.

This shift from the over-serious artist to the maker, and then the maker and the making joining together, forms a steadying force. It is a way to feel your way through this world, and everything that happens.

I have a few paintings that are beginning to take shape:

*(No title yet, in process)* | Oil, wax and mixed media on canvas 18” x 18” | © Laurie Doctor

A poem of mine (below) has just been published in the Triggerfish Critical Review. For all of you writers out there, this is an excellent publication to submit to.

Evidence
I am the unbroken field
with outbreaks of blue,
the grasses bending and bowing
to wind, calligraphy in the sand.
I am the sudden burst of blue,
chasing avocets on their long skinny legs
that skitter-skatter along the shore
while water fills tiny crab holes.
I am the crest of sound-water
that crashes and vanishes, erasing
footprints: crab, plover, avocet,
and the barefoot old man in the Bahama-hat.
All evidence of touch and communion
under the rising moon shining on water fades
and returns, pales and brightens, saying
what are you waiting for?
You already know how to see in the dark.
© Laurie Doctor