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LOGO — a fiction by ollie francis
Pen to paper, 120g per meter squared, Daler Rowney. Windsor and Newton ink, vermillion. Rotting pen, fine nib. Moleskin Sketch opened on its stand, first page defaced, as always, with a single pen stroke across the page as a reminder to value the ideas, not the presentation within. Coffee.
He doesn’t wait. Waiting stops you from moving. If you stop moving, you’re done for; you might as well pack up your set and leave now — apply for an office job and temp your way to retirement.
You have to keep moving. It doesn’t matter what you put on the page, just as long as you put something on the page. Trust your mind; trust your experience; trust your hand.
He spaces out the work first: measured edges; ruled outlines. It comes naturally. There is just a sense, sometimes, that you are doing the right thing. The collected notes and images in his Moleskine flow like energy from page to mind to paper. Weeks of sketching.
Never work with computers; they only slow you down.
There is a moment when you feel like you are doing nothing but tracing the lines that were already there. The image makes itself. It is birthed from the ether; it was meant to be this way. The larger form comes first. He knows the details will come later; he doesn’t need to think about them now. Wait and they will come. Prepare the ground first. Straight lines, Sans first, then Serif later — if it needs it. Just add them on. Sometimes you can’t tell until it is there in front of you.
Form decided, the details come next. Hatching doesn’t feel right. Block colour. Ink flows across the page. Keep it even. Keep it alive. This paper never bleeds.
He senses the air is electric with creation. He becomes a conduit, guiding it towards the page. The image emerges. New and familiar. Pride.
He curses, slams the page, falls to typing in the name. Image search results. Confirmed.
There is a moment when you know you are doing nothing but tracing the lines that were already there.
Originally published on Tumblr