There are some buildings that scream to be drawn. Buildings, structures, views, and environments that say, “I must be drawn.” They shake to get your attention, catch your eye, and urge you to get their form in ink on paper. These structures which you have never seen before, or the likes of which you’ll never see again, or the same way in a specific moment because you’ve had a wonderful lunch, or the weather is just right, so you must commit them to memory not just in your mind, but also in your sketchbook. There’s a permanence to a finished drawing.
There are also things that do not scream loudly. Alleys, objects, houses, and structures patiently wait for the trained and subtle eye to notice them. They do not vie for your attention.
I zig-zag my way towards a view. I don’t walk towards something I wish to draw, plant my feet in the ground, and then start. No. What I’m about to put to paper is a three-dimensional being. Something with an infinite number of viewing points. I can’t just approach something say to myself, “Yes, I am going to draw now” and then begin.
Drawing begins before you put your pen to paper, even before you’ve taken your sketchbook out of your bag. A drawing begins the moment you step out the door.