I have been working on what I call #tattooingThePage. I grab written books, and I draw lines & circles over their printed text and over their spines. I fold pages and I draw some more, finding never-ending ways of creating new associations and dialogues between old and new inks, printed-text-ink and hand-drawn-ink. It is a wonderful sensation that has allowed me to rediscover books, to read them differently and to enjoy their status as sensuous (often flamboyant) objects as much as their role as humble (and quiet) containers of stories .

Today I thought I’d hack into a catalogue dedicated to Ricardo Basbaum’s work. And I have been surprised by what has happened.

I have loved the paper textures immediately. And the size of the pages – so much larger than any of the novels & poetry collections I have defaced so far. I have started drawing over the credits… then over the introduction by the curator. But then… I have got to the actual works.

Black lines. Single words. Simplified drawings & schemes.

Impossible for me to add anything. I cannot draw black lines over someone else’s black ink drawings! No way.

Interesting feeling.

I wonder how I will feel if I try drawing over photographs.

For now it’s clear: the ink conversations and mergers I need are entirely over black printed text and paper angles.

It’s beyond my control. The hand, the pen (and the page) will keep ordering me around. They know what they want. I’m at their mercy.

To Be Continued