These are the days when my fingers itch to pick up a black Sharpie and make squiggles, stipples, hatches, dots and dashes on a blank page of my sketchbook. This urge comes with the first sign of oxalis in February. I call up my girlfriends and ask them to bring their sketch pads or box camera. I’ll pack a sushi lunch and we’ll meet under the tree, by the water.

I love lines, black and white drawings, infinitely more than colorful paintings. (I know my paintings are explosive with raw colors but I prefer the elegance of black and white.) Perhaps this has a lot to do with growing up watching my father paint in sumi. If I were allowed to live with one piece of Van Gogh’s work, I’d choose one of his small drawings done in the sun or rain over his oils.

The sketch is the end in itself, or the act of making lines is the end. The drawing is not for future reference toward a painting. It may not be recognizable as much of anything. It is merely the way eyes and heart moved at a certain time on a certain day.

Here are plum blossoms of Chinese New Year, which my folks planted thirty years ago, outside my window. The double wind chimes twirling in the breeze.

So happy to be alive on this day. So very happy it hurts.