I have a dragon in my mind. I see its eye opening, and its nostrils twitch as it inhales softly - as though thinking.
But now it raises itself - up on its haunches, writhing around - as if finding the perfect pose. And for a minute the dragon is a line - patterning its squiggle around space - like an early piece of animation.
There now! The line stops, curling up and over, down and along - spreading limbs and wings as it goes. Geometry steps in - circles and triangles overlapping and intersecting, hewing bone and flesh from two dimensions - allowing light and perspective to carve a stance as I try to realise the creature in its entirety - understand how it exists in imagination and physics.
I look into the eyes - weighing up the emotions - juggling style and purpose - with finally the coin flip landing on the dark side of cartoon. Squinting again, I hear the rustle of leather of the wings, the build of flame in the stomach and feel the shimmer of the scales on the skin. I scribble down these hints, these half thoughts - refining lines and intention as I go.
I love the sketch lines - they're where I find I think most clearly, where I realise what I meant. The whisper of a line and the blott of pause are the grammar of my mind, and though this will not be a finished piece, it is where the first breath was taken.