For a long time, this beautiful handmade sketchbook from @nomadcraftsco sat on a shelf in my studio. I’d open it once in a while, add a mark or two, then close it again. The paper is soft and luxurious—almost too beautiful to mess up. It felt like it needed important work inside it, and I wasn’t sure I was up to the task.
But in truth, I did use it—especially in quiet moments of solitude. When my mum was ill, and I was spending long hours at the hospital with her, I’d often pull it out. That was when the sketchbook was new. I used alcohol ink markers on pages I had primed with acrylic gesso. I left the delicate edges of the handmade paper bare, letting their raw softness show through around the crisp white gesso. The contrast made my colours pop, and those soft edges reminded me to slow down and take in the care that went into making each sheet.
After my mum passed away, I put the book away. It felt too tender, too connected to a time that was both painful and precious.
Now, after some distance, I’ve recently rediscovered it—and I love using it again. These days, back in my studio, I’m working differently: painting more intimate pieces that aren’t for show or sale, just for myself. And this sketchbook has become the perfect space for that. I’ve been making gel plate prints on its pages—quiet, layered experiments that feel soft and slow. The process is meditative, and it makes me happy.
Inside, there are a few pages drawn by others: one by my late mum, and another by my niece @michelleeed, from a visit to Vancouver. I cherish them. The whole book has started to feel less like a sketchbook and more like a personal archive—one filled with memories, passing thoughts, and gentle moments.
Of course, keeping the supple leather cover free from paint is impossible in my studio. I’ve given up trying. The marks tell their own story now.
I’m grateful this sketchbook waited patiently. It found me again, at just the right time.