I had bought a little notebook and decided to draw Portugal in it. Not all of it, obviously. One branch, one street, a few lovely details. I imagined delicate lines and effortless elegance. My right hand apparently hadn't been told about the arrangement.
An imagined story inspired by original Travel2City photographs. These four scenes bring together separate stops, rather than a one-day itinerary. The character, incidents and lighting are an artistic interpretation.
Against the white palace wall, a tree spread its bare branches like large, slightly untidy handwriting. I sat down and chose the simplest one. On paper, it immediately became something between a fork and a startled spider. I looked at the tree. Then at my notebook. The tree seemed perfectly content. I tried to correct the line, which gave the spider another leg. Finally, I laughed. Everything around me looked so effortlessly beautiful that making one magnificent scribble in the middle of it felt rather liberating.
“The tree turned out well. It just has a few too many legs.”
In Óbidos, I chose a little street. White walls, a blue edge, flowerpots and cobbles underfoot: surely a few lines would do it this time. I stepped aside, opened my notebook, and a breeze lifted the end of my scarf. It curled through the air more beautifully than anything I had drawn so far. My pencil slipped, sending a curve across the new sketch. I was reaching for the eraser when I noticed that the lane bent much the same way. I left it there. The breeze clearly worked quickly, with no revisions.
“The breeze drew that line. It doesn't take complaints.”
Before the portal in Batalha, I raised my pencil out of habit. The arches branched, curled and disappeared into still smaller ornaments. Every detail offered ten more, while my notebook barely had room for a snack. For a while, I tried to decide where to begin. Then I closed it. Resting it against my waist, I tilted my head and simply looked. The stone didn't have to fit on my page. I didn't have to hand anything in, either. My pencil could take a break; my eyes had just been given the whole shift.
In Coimbra, a wall had come into bloom. Stems, little trees and ornaments curled across the tiles—details that would have sent me looking for a ruler back in Sintra. Now I held the end of my scarf beside the open notebook. The blue flowers on the fabric, the flowers on the wall and my unsuccessful branch suddenly seemed to understand one another. I added a few leaves. That settled it: the spider was now a plant. Instead of correcting it again, I signed beneath the drawing. It wasn't accurate, but it brought back warm stone, a breeze and my own laughter. Quite a lot for such a small piece of paper.
“It isn't an exact copy. It's my memory.”
From notebook to book
The Map with No Last Page
The world of Travel2City continues between the covers of a book. Discover The Map with No Last Page and more illustrated journeys.
