©robin r kent
Mentally I stroke the grains on my antique boards. Always love the feel and texture of aged wood. Its pedigree used to mean the most to me. The most valuable wood I have are the boards from former barns. Even though they are not large enough for other uses now, the full dimension, hand sawn, vintage pieces add depth to my work, and are an art form in itself.
But I have a new love also. Its name is plywood. I love plywood because it allows my drawings to become art. Because its grain goes in both directions, I can cut circles and waves without worry of them breaking along the grain. Like a permissive parent, it lets me venture into the unknown to find my own (or its) limitations. I keep threatening to jump to the good ship 'Polymer', but plywood brings me back to the woodlands. I am now a former plywood snob.
The other unsung hero I find all around me whether in the studio or at the kitchen sink is the lowly rag, Like the barn boards, I always acknowledge its former life first. Some used to be my pajamas. Others were favorite beach towels. Recalling happy times as it scours the sink, cleans brushes. A useful second life in its retirement. We all should be so lucky.