The sketch hunter has delightful days of drifting about among people, in and out of the city, going anywhere, everywhere, stopping as long as he likes- no need to reach any point, moving in any direction following the xall of interests. He moves through life as he finds it, not passing negligently the things he loves, but stopping to know them, and to note them down in the shorthand of his sketchbook, a box of oils with a few small panes, the fit of his pocket, or his drawing pad. Like any hunter he hits or misses. He is looking for what he loves, he tries to capture it. It's found anywhere, everywhere. Those who are not hunters do not see these things. The hunter is learning to see and to understand- to enjoy.
There are memories of days of this sort, of woderful driftings in and out of the crowd, of seeing and thinking. Where aret the sketches that were...
