The beauty and elegance of how it gracefully elongates itself onto blank.white.paper. What can compare?
Add to that a drippy line, one made with pen and ink, one with a mind of its own that does not cooperate. So much bliss can come from the unexpected.
I know that by the time I am ninety, all of my work will probably return to black and white. I look at Mary Oliver, who’s work as an 80 year old poet is often simply about walking around a pond every day, and what she sees. And Peggy Freydberg, who lived to 107, and in the end was deeply moved by making her bed. Stripping everything down to nothing can be so graceful.
One black line says so much, if you allow it. It can be so vulnerable and so revealing. It can be bold, or frail. It can tell everything about you.