Studio Notes: Snow on the Screen, Ink on the Page

The Olympics have taken over my evenings for the last few weeks. Snow flying. Skates carving ice. Curling! Snoop Dog! I loved all of it.

I was talking with my wife, and I think the origin of my love of the Olympics is rooted in a memory from my childhood. I can still see the small, hand-me-down, black-and-white TV that sat on a dresser in my bedroom. The screen was fuzzy. The signal wasn’t great. But I remember lying there, completely locked in. It felt like something important and exotic was happening somewhere far away.

It’s strange how vivid those memories still are. I’m not sure why they stuck. Maybe because the Olympics felt larger than life. Maybe because it was one of the few things that held my full attention as a child. Maybe I just liked all the beauty of the landscapes, even though it was all in black and white. That’s a big part of it even now.

I’ve realized that part of what I love now isn’t just the events. It’s the memory of how it felt back then. The feeling of being young and captivated. The feeling of possibility. The feeling of winter stretching out in front of you. We spend a lot of our adult lives chasing that feeling without realizing it.

Because I’ve been watching every night, I haven’t worked in my studio at all. Normally, that would bother me. But over the last few weeks, instead of forcing it, I’ve been doodling on the couch. Just a pen. Bristol paper. No plan.

I start by moving my hand. One line. Then another. Sometimes it turns into nothing recognizable. Pure abstraction. Other times, a horizon appears, waves, a face. Or, once it’s colorized, it becomes something that feels like a seascape without trying to be one.

It always begins the same way. Motion first. Meaning later.

When I work in the studio, there’s often a subtle pressure. Make something good. Make something shareable. Make something that fits the larger body of work. Even if I don’t say those words out loud, they hover.

On the couch, while half-watching a game of curling, that pressure disappears. I’m not trying to create a finished piece. I’m not trying to accomplish anything really. I’m just there. Ink moving across paper. Crowd noise in the background. Family nearby. Just working to see what happens.

The funny thing is, the resulting drawings aren’t bad. I think they’re at least interesting. I’m very surprised that when I post these simple doodle drawings online, people seem to really enjoy them.

Not overthinking is harder than it sounds. We’re wired to evaluate, compare, and optimize. Especially if we care about what we make. But sometimes the best thing we can do is stop trying to control the outcome and just be in the moment.

Sometimes this is when you find success. Just like athletes, at some point, preparation gives way to instinct. They trust their training and let their bodies move.

In a small way, doodling like this feels similar. I trust the years of making. I trust my eye. I trust my hand. And I let it move. It moves me and my work to new places.

It reminds me that creativity doesn’t only live in a dedicated room with good lighting and a stretched canvas. It can live on a coffee table while the Olympics are on. It can live in a quiet ten minutes before bed. It can live in the margins.

And maybe that’s the deeper point.

We don’t always need to carve out more time. Sometimes we just need to lower the stakes. To let ourselves create without the weight of expectation. To chase the feeling instead of the finished product. It’s about the journey, and we arrive where we arrive.

This week has been about that for me. Snow on the screen. Ink on the page. Old memories mixing with new ones. Not forcing anything. Just showing up in small ways.

More doodles below… Enjoy!