There is something about little boys and socks. The way the socks always tend to slouch or get holes in the heels or come unravelled at the top or find themselves balled up and wedged in odd places (inside the vent, behind the faucet, on my bookshelf).
There is something about drawing. The way an eloquent line can make me swoon and render me speechless or make me want to write (badly) so I can capture even a fraction of a drawing’s feeling.
I love books and good writing and sometimes I fool myself into thinking that writing when done well can actually be described as a kind of visual art. But then I see a sketch like this one by Isabelle Arsenault (my wonderful collaborator) and I just feel awe.
A boy with socks and a book.
