I brought a notebook to Italy, along with a rather optimistic idea of how beautifully I would draw in it. My first line went wrong. I left it there, initially out of laziness, then out of curiosity. I wanted to see what else it might become.
Illustrated fiction inspired by original Travel2City photographs. Four moments in different places, rather than a one-day itinerary.
The gondola's golden upholstery was softer than I expected. I settled into the seat, smoothed my dress over my knees and opened the notebook. An arch rose in the brick wall ahead. All I had to do was put it on paper. Just then, the boat moved, and my pen moved with it. Instead of an arch, I produced a wavering line that seemed to want a ride of its own. I regarded it very seriously for a moment. Then I laughed. Reflected water flickered across my sleeve, and the end of my scarf hung over the seat. To fix the drawing, I would need a steadier boat. But I rather liked this one.
“The pen was mine. The gondola borrowed the handwriting.”
In Florence, I stopped before a doorway so elaborate that my notebook suddenly seemed very modest. Every arch held another, with small figures, ornaments and shadows tucked between them. I raised my pen into the air and tried to follow just one line. No paper this time. My hand managed it surprisingly well. Perhaps it helped that there was nothing to spoil. A strand of hair fell across my cheek; I left it there and finished the movement. Then I opened the notebook to the Venice page. My crooked little line looked a little less alone.
In Rome, I caught myself adding things to my drawing that weren't there at all. In my mind, I built walls behind the columns and laid a roof above them, as though I couldn't manage without a complete building. But there was sky between the stones. The clouds moved, and the whole picture slowly changed with them. I closed the notebook, walked a little farther along the path and glanced back over my shoulder. I liked it better this way. I had no idea what my perfect reconstruction would look like. This view was right in front of me.
At Garda, I found a place to sit without asking anything of the lake. I crossed my ankles, let the scarf rest loosely over one shoulder and laid the notebook on my knees. The mountains faded into the distance, one behind another. A tiny sailboat looked like a forgotten full stop. I opened my first drawing. The Venetian line was just as crooked, but now I could see the Florentine arch in it, a gap between the columns, and something of this water. My pen paused above the paper. I added nothing. I left the notebook open a little longer, this time because I liked what was already there.
“It didn't have to be straight. It was enough that it was mine.”
From notebook to book
The Map with No Last Page
The world of Travel2City continues between the covers of a book. Discover The Map with No Last Page and more illustrated journeys.
