An oblique gash ran across the upper face of the large boulder, where at some point an impact had occurred, splintering a piece off. I let my eye guide my hand, taking only furtive glances at where the pencil was going. The edge of the canoe cut in to me and was getting painful to sit on. In a race against dwindling endurance I tried not to waste a single mark. With the complexity of rocks on the shoreline, drawn, I moved on to the buildings and vegetation. I remembered how Pierre Bonnard had used a pencil in his small sketches to create textures that vibrated with light. As I struggled to find marks to describe the variety and intensity of the textures, I began to understand how drawing and painting crossed paths in the texture of marks, and how to render colour using just a pencil. I had discovered something, and though the lesson was complete the drawing was still far from finished. The buildings sat haphazardly within the undulating rhythm of the land; their silver-grey grass roofs: slanting, mismatched parallelograms, with the feeling they jostled for space amongst the vegetation. Gradually, the subtleties came into place, and the drawing achieved solidity and depth.
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