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musings on art journaling... and making art...

WARNING: ADULT LANGUAGE BELOW My Aunt Syndea is an artist. My dad, her brother, refused that moniker. He said he doodled. "Those aren't art," he would say when we exclaimed excitedly over his myriad of characters drawn on napkins or pieces of paper or on the edges of mail he'd received. "My sister once drew a leaf on a piece of notebook paper with a pencil that was so realistic that I reached out to pick it up and didn't notice that it was shades of gray. That's art." I disagreed. I tried for a decade in different subtle and less than subtle ways to get him to save his art for us, as his kids and grandkids. Doodle pads made of napkins, little pads of paper and the pens he loved most with letters tucked in begging him to please fill them, one for each of us. Before he died from COVID two spring's ago he had developed really serious arthritis and it stole a lot of the doodling from him and so also from us. He never did ever fill those fucking noteb

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it's a jumping off point...