what now what now whatnow

I found XII in an art shop in Poitiers, ~c. Relative Youth. Few shops are more fantastic than art & craft shops; pure opportunity packaged in unlikely lurid plastic blisters. I bought some pencils, a rubber and two sketchbooks all for seven euros: the sister volume eventually went to my Browan. I brought them home in a paper bag with a bottle of wine as my bag was packed to splitting.


XII is scanned and done with in just over a year, now tetris’d away between I to XI on the top shelf: this means we get to exercise the grimly restrained sketchbook fetish, or would if we hadn’t been so well indulged. I have in the fortress of my family a tight packed compartment wherein lie all the still-blank and dormant sketchbooks I’ve been given by you. It will be oneofthese.


Why am I telling you this? Such questions. I’m excited, I suppose. There is a certain consciously overblown ritual that goes with a new sketchbook. Try and recall all the hinderences from previous volumes, select against them. Pick a venue to start the new book. Pick a design for the inner leaf. Up until here, the thing has been pristine and could have anything in it, it could be anyone’s book. First page will always be a haims, but so it goes. Can’t wait.