I did this foal in a series of unicorns and fantasy horses.
Endless hours absorbed while sitting at my desk.
Head phones on. The Beatles singing to just me.
I loved the repetitive staccato rhythm of the pen.
The dance it did.
. . . . dip . . . . dip . . . . dip . . . .
cold black ink, contrasting the steel metal of the oh, so delicate nib . . . .
The slight scratch sound as the nib ever so gently was tugged at by the tiny strands on the thick art paper. . . . . dip . . . .
I day dreamed as I drew. Dreaming of framing these pictures and selling them for hundreds of dollars. Dreamed of being famous . . . dip . . . rich.
Your soul gets exposed in art work. Each brush stroke a truth about your life. The only ones who can decode it are those who happen upon your art and fall in love with it.
To the rest, its just color / ink on a canvas.