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Drawing the ruffled leaf-edges of the rose-scented geranium whose limbs suddenly seemed so gracefully curved and stretched that I had to try and record them. The shapes are so delicate and complicated but general patterns show up as I go. Repeated proportions and curve-lines; each leaf is a fractal image. Paying so much attention to the tiniest lines, my concentration focuses even my usually-wandering imagination on the rocky green island-shores I’m drawing.

And it sounds silly, but the lines and shapes, the corners and curves start to take on meanings with rich depths, as if they’re words or bites of sandwich. I’m not just drawing, but conversing. This level of too-close-to-mysticism makes me feel self-conscious and I tie my thoughts back to reality. Those leaf-edge shapes do have meaning – what rules governed the way the leaf grew, the way the edges moved and split out along the veins? There are such important patterns below those of the superficial appearance of the plant.

I see diagrams of spinal-column development, cells dividing and rolling, veins pushing like tree-roots through tissue doubling over and across itself, fingers and toes splitting and stretching.

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