In the last few weeks, I spent quite a bit of money on art supplies. My hobbies are cyclical. The interest fades, but it always returns. This time feels different. Sketching and painting have a cathartic effect on me. It feels necessary, not just fun.

Normally, perfectionism makes me quit quickly. Frustration comes fast when your artwork looks nothing like what you expected. I have been working on that, but lately, I find myself loving the imperfection itself.

Maybe that shift is connected to AI.

Sure, it is neat to generate a Studio Ghibli version of an image. But as someone who knows he could create something unique by hand, it feels hollow.

Every line of ink on paper carries more tactile character, more direct connection to the body and emotions, than anything made on a screen. That was always true. AI just made it more obvious.

I want to harvest that truth for my otherwise very digital life. I feel like it will be essential for my wellbeing going forward.

Something about a sketchbook as a daily companion for life has always fascinated me. Sitting somewhere and sketching what’s around you feels like the purest form of mindfulness.

Pages and pages full of visualized memories. What could be cooler than that?

Here’s a small sketch I did yesterday while sitting on a bench at the Alster, talking to an older woman about her allergies.