this sketch book starts in 2011and i just filled the last page yesterday. on the first page i ask myself: why do i draw? a simple question. yet often the simplest questions are the most difficult to answer. there's no one definite answer. it's a bit like loving someone. why do you love someone? there are a lot of answers. yet there is no answer on the bottom of all questions. the truth has no name.
on the last page of the sketch book i discovered theses two hearts which i must have put there during the time i carried the book around: i remember the heart shaped leaf was given to me by my daughter when we were walking to the beach one day. the other heart was stuck to my skin after a night of dancing in berlin. why do i dance? why do i hold my child's hand? why do i draw? it's not the outcome that's of my interest. it's the moment. the moment when the lines appear on the white paper, the concentration, the presence. simple as that.