I tend to think of drawing as a game. There is joy in that soupy marsh of marks and tangled lines, the joy of indulgence. Something emerges- I pull it out. The image asserts itself and pushes me into a reverie- memories, daydreams, mental flotsam rush in . A spontaneous narrative develops between myself and the drawing. I put it the image through the paces, and it struggles to find its own voice. Thanks to this tension, the drawing starts to get a bit of life to it. I push for greater specificity, more detail. That drawing fights to keep me guessing, keep me surprised. Perhaps we joke around. Perhaps the drawing pulls a sad or serious idea out of me, and we explore this dangerous terrain together. The key, always, is the sheer joy and playfulness of drawing itself. It's the thing that keeps me in the page. I love the mental quickness, the bravado, and the effortless focus which comes during drawing. The only other time one sees it is during play, that half-remembered daydream state of childhood, the old halcyon days, usually frowned upon by the seriousness of our adulthood and its frustrations and duties.