When I was but a small boy, I recall sitting on the floor of my bedroom, papers strewn about and doodling in pencil on the clean, snowy white blank pieces of paper. The act of marking down thoughts and images made me think a part of me could be put on paper and left for someone to see.

My Father was a good influence on me concerning drawing. One of my most favorite things he would draw were the doodles scribbled when talking on the telephone. They were incredibly ornate, meaningless pathways of impossible images, drawn aimlessly yet purposely almost as if dad were trying to decipher the contents of the conversation in which he was engaged. I would sit and study the drawings after he had finished the phone call and sometimes I’d take them to my room and try to discover the meaning behind the whimsical scribbles. Never did I come up with anything other than that they were automatic meandering designs of lovely nothingness.

One day, my father asked if I’d like to accompany him to the art store and I gladly accepted the invitation. As we drove to the shop, I sat and thought about all the many empty sheets of paper and the pencils of all sorts that I knew were there. Dear old dad went about his shopping for oil paints, brushes, and turpentine while I wandered around looking at the pencils and paper. When my father was checking out at the register, the art store owner leaned down and handed me a box with ‘Speedball’ written in big black letters on the cover. The man then opened the kit and showed me the pen handles, steel pen points, a bottle of ink and a printed instruction book. He said ‘This is a present for you, Speedball ink & pens.’ What exactly Speedball pens were, I didn’t know but smiling I accepted the box happily. Later at home, my father sat with me at the table and showed me how to hold the pen, dip it in the ink, and draw lines and shapes by holding the pen carefully at the proper angle. He would doodle for me cleverly drawn inked characters doing odd things, standing to wait for the trolley with a nickel in hand, another holding an umbrella overhead on a sunny day and other silly scenes. They always made me laugh and hoped one day I too could draw so well with as much confidence as had my father.

I still have those pens and holders and when drawing with them often think of that day.

And leave a little bit of myself behind with every drop of ink from the pen.