Lately, I’ve been sketching a bird model, an Indigo Bunting actually, as a way of practicing. I’ve always drawn from photographs so working with a model has been a wonderful way to grow and learn more about drawing birds. Not only can I have my subject very close (something that’s pretty much impossible to do with a live bird) but I can look at the bird from every conceivable angle. Even better, I can control the lighting. This still-life work is teaching me about form and volume in ways that I didn’t expect. Suddenly, I can see things that I was missing before, despite years of practice.

Rather than offering a set of instructions, I’d like to walk you through how I approach drawing this bird. These are the things I found myself noticing that I think might help you in your own sketching practice.

Settling In

First I sit with the model for several moments. By gazing at it with soft eyes and focusing on my breath, I can start to quiet my narrating, chattery mind.

Finding the First Shape

Next, I look for the simplest large shape. Here, the chest and belly can be described as one large, rounded oval. I allow my eyes to trace the edges of the silhouette of this large shape.

For this part of my drawing, I prefer an overhand grip and to draw with the side of the pencil rather than the point. I allow the stroke to go around and around, gently refining the overall shape as I go. In this way, the shape emerges from the movement of my hand as I gaze at the model. My eye might stray briefly to the page but I quickly bring it back to the model. The goal here is to allow my eyes and hands to communicate directly with each other without any interference from my thinking mind.

Adding the Head

Once I’ve gotten a loose outline in place for the chest and belly, I move on to the next big shape: the head. Ignoring the bill, I use a light stroke to define an oval shape. Once I have an oval that approximates the rounded shape of the head, I follow the silhouette and refine the entire shape very loosely. I rough in the silhouette of the bill that protrudes from the head shape. Often, my mind is getting quiet and I’m less aware of making decisions. This tells me that my eye and hand are having a nice chat without me.

Looking for Smaller Forms

At this point,I switch to a pencil grip and hold the pencil at about the halfway point of the barrel. This gives me a bit more control but keeps the touch light. I let my eye rove around the model and rough in the remaining big features — in this case, the tail and the legs. I ignore the feet for the time being.

I start looking for smaller shapes on the head like the ear patch, the eye, and places where the form of the head intersects the form of the chest. I lay down more defined lines that clarify all the other shapes. I can always tell that things are going well if the lines are more expressive and confident.

Following the Shadows

I go back to the overhand grip and map in the shadow shapes. This is where working with the model really pays off. Controlled lighting shows the form so much more distinctly than photos usually do. And when I’m uncertain about the form, I can peek around the side of the model to better understand the three-dimensional shape.

For a little study like this, I’m almost done. I shade in the shadow values but I don’t stress too much over these.

Conclusion

You may have noticed that I don’t do any measuring of proportions or angles. I have a very important reason why: measuring invites my analytical brain back in. That shift from seeing to thinking interrupts the conversation between my hand and my eyes. I tighten up and start second-guessing my choices. And almost inevitably, the life drains out of my drawing.

You don’t need a bird model to try an exercise like this. Slowing down, quieting your mind, and creating a setting for your hand and eye to chat are all important skills in their own right. Any small object with an interesting form can become a teacher and give you a new perspective. And being fully present with what’s in front of you is a gift all by itself.

🪶 One of the great advantages of working from a model is that you can study it from different viewpoints and discover new things each time you look. For Insiders, I’ve included additional photographs of the Indigo Bunting model along with several observation-based drawing prompts that build on the ideas explored in this essay.

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One morning two years ago, even before he’d finished the coffee, Douglas started packing his gear to go birding. His excitement was palpable as he showed me the map.

The conditions were perfect, he told me. The year before, he’d stumbled on an amazing phenomenon. Thousands of birds, passing over at treetop level, for hours on end. Could this surge of flight be occurring again? He kissed me goodbye and promised to send me a text as soon as the sky got light.

A little while later, my phone buzzed: “It’s happening!” I quickly got dressed, grabbed my sketching kit, and headed down to Finley Wildlife Refuge to join Douglas and his grad student at Muddy Creek Bridge.

When I arrived, the setting looked rather ordinary. Short scrubby forest on both sides of the road and a rather sluggish creek. But above, the sky was alive with a nearly constant stream of birds. Their soft chirps and tweets didn’t mean much to me but to Douglas, they were the familiar calls of warblers, tanagers, and many others.

I watched and sketched while Douglas and his student kept count. Over the course of nearly four hours, they estimated that over eight thousand birds had passed overhead (you can see his eBird checklist here).

Two springs have passed since that amazing morning. He’s gone back again and again but he’s never witnessed a flight day like that again.

Technology tells us that the birds are above us, winging their way through the night, but for the most part, their migration is invisible to the naked eye. Through attentiveness and chance, Douglas spotted a river of birds as they followed a crooked forest in the middle of an agricultural landscape. This otherwise hidden event, for a few hours, became visible. And we don’t know why, or if it will ever happen again.

Even so, Douglas watches the radar and the wind speed and visits the bridge whenever conditions seem right. And if there are no birds, he records his count as zero. Because showing up matters, even when there is nothing to see.

🪶 If you enjoy birds, sketchbooks, and small acts of noticing, you’re always welcome here at The Painted Redstart.

A couple of years ago, I was asked to do illustrations for a book. At first, the project sounded like a lot of fun. But then I overcomplicated it. I did too much research, made too many preliminary sketches, stressed over small stuff. And as my deadline got closer, the feelings of anxiety went out of control: insomnia paired with perfectionism yielded burnout.

Not that I hadn’t been through burnout before, but this time was different. I felt hollowed out creatively. Nothing inspired me anymore, least of all the illustrations that I was supposed to be producing. I got the project done but at a huge cost to myself interiorly. It took months and months before I began to feel anything close to whole again.

This spring, I revisited the illustrations that I’d made in that season of anxiety and dread. I had done them all in graphite but many needed color. At first, as I gazed as these pieces, I felt defeated. My mistakes and all the angst I’d experienced earlier seemed to rise up to greet me. But then, something shifted. I began to see the drawings as a way to write a different ending to the story of my experience of burnout.

I decided to learn to love these illustrations.

To begin this journey, I chose the Slender-billed Nuthatch as my companion. Slender-billed Nuthatches (Sitta carolinensis aculeata) are actually a subspecies of the more familiar White-breasted Nuthatch. Anytime you visit a grove of Garryana Oaks in the Willamette Valley of Oregon, you’re likely to hear their honking, comical voices. If I was going to add a species to the Shire in Hobbiton, it would be this one. I’m sure Bilbo would include them in his poetry!

I had a detailed drawing in hand but I needed a way to get reacquainted. The easiest point of entry was to make loose sketches. This is a wonderful way to get to know any species, by the way. Doing quick sketches allowed me to get over my awkwardness and start to feel that I had something to offer to this bird.

I realized that I needed to refresh my memory about the ecology of my nuthatch. Rather than read scientific reports, I asked my husband the ornithologist to tell me about them. The first thing he said was “they’re big tree specialists.” Immediately I felt my heart lift. I am enchanted by big trees! I always pat them on the trunk if they’re in reach and yes, I even give them hugs. And a big Garryana Oak is truly magical with a thick trunk, gnarly branches, and intriguing personality. No wonder these little nuthatches love to live among the oaks!

About this time, I was taking a class taught by Eliza Ivanova on developing style. I began experimenting with blending, lost edges, and abstraction. I depicted nuthatch forms that joined the trees as if they were a part of each other (which they are, in a sense). Looking back on it, this was when I started experiencing aesthetic ecstasy. I was in love!

With my confidence on the rise, I made the move to color. I still struggle to think of myself as a painter but I stepped out on trust and used watercolor for the base layers of my study (I’ve included more details below for Insiders). Here I encountered one of the obstacles that had tripped me up in my season of burnout: biological accuracy. I began to worry that my way of seeing was wrong somehow. Never mind that my efforts made my heart feel happy. My fretting brain was not convinced.

So how did I let go of this concern? I’d like to tell you that there was an easy answer but in truth, I don’t quite understand how I made the leap. I know that my meditation practice played a part, simply learning to sit long enough to let my chattering mind go quiet. Transferring that interior stillness to my work opened the door to new possibilities and brought me out of the mire of worry.

With that steadiness, I was able to return to my original illustration, the one made during distress, to heal it and me at the same time. I was able to take risks and apply a new aesthetic. There are things I wish I had done differently back then, but I have such compassion for the me that made this drawing.

What I see now is that returning to this project after the pain of burnout was a lot like befriending a wild bird. Patience, proximity, stillness all play their parts. Being more gentle with myself but also acquiring a sense of resolve, a kind of courage, was needed, too.

If you find yourself returning after a difficult season in your creativity, you don’t have to will or effort your way through it. Instead, you can approach it with the same tenderness and care you’d have if you were in the presence of a shy animal. Offer it a gentle beginning. Observe it with attentiveness. You may find that it comes nearer of its own accord.

✨ If this reflection resonated with you—especially if you’re finding it hard to begin again—I’ve shared the full process behind this piece for Insiders.

Behind the Paywall, you’ll find an on-location sketch of a Garryana oak, a digital value study, and detailed color notes for both the preliminary and final illustration, along with a swatch of the exact palette I used. It’s a quiet, practical companion to the story—something you can return to as you take your own small steps forward.

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Some arrive from tropical places to begin a season of building, tending, nurturing. Others begin a journey northward to the tundras. The ones that were here all along start their own season of singing and nesting. As the weather turns toward spring, here are four ways to celebrate the annual migrations, nesting, and returning of the birds.

Notice arrivals

Each day, I get the “what showed up today” report from my husband. The first Orange-crowned Warbler, the arrival of the Rufous Hummingbirds, a passing-through shorebird.

You may not have a resident birder (or be one) but you can still take a moment to notice the new arrivals to your area.

• Visit Birdcast. This amazing site gives you access to real-time migration information from dazzling maps to forecasts for your region of the U.S.

• Track local migrants using eBird. You can set up alerts for early arrivals or rarities, see what others are finding by searching for recently uploaded photos in your area, or explore Hotspots. (You can learn how to navigate eBird from this video.)

Listen to spring voices

Every morning, before the sun is even peeking over the horizon, I hear the American Robins caroling. They are exuberant and celebratory and loud. But there are many spring voices to be heard. Try opening a window or if you go outdoors, get out early and listen for little tweets, squeaks, and songs. If want to know who’s singing, you can try out Merlin, an app that offers identification help for bird songs that it “hears.”

No matter which birds you hear, let their voices speak to you. Like hearing a meditation bell, each song can be a reminder to center yourself more fully.

Do some noticing

American Crows are in the trees tugging on twigs and branches then carrying off their prizes to add to their nests. The Juncos are always in pairs. A White-crowned Sparrow has claimed a high perch to sing and survey his territory. Each one of these birds could be thought of as a messenger of presence, inviting me to savor the now-moment.

When you see a bird, pause for a moment and notice. This small feathered creature is your cue to let your shoulders relax, feel your feet on the ground, and breathe. Allowing yourself to recenter is another way to welcome spring and celebrate the birds.

Honor departures

Spring migration isn’t just about arrivals. Some species are departing and others are simply passing through. Whenever I see or hear geese winging their way north, I whisper a little blessing for their journey northward. Many neotropical migrants make their flights at night, miraculously winging their way under the stars.

To me, it feels important to celebrate these unseen visitors as they travel, some of them flying thousands of miles. There is something so precious and tender in knowing that they are there, making their way in this world of ours. Something to celebrate.

🪶 If you found a bit of rest here, that’s exactly what I hope to offer.

For those who want to go a little deeper, my Insider posts include tutorials, reference guides, and sketching practices to help you grow at your own pace.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement and before I could react, a Yellow-headed Caracara landed on the table! We made eye contact. I looked at it and it looked at me. Then it turned, loped down the table, and flew off.

I felt ecstatic. A wild bird had just paid me a visit! Magical! Amazing! I felt like dancing over what was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

I sat there for several minutes exulting in the adrenaline and delight. Then, still feeling elated and full of wonder, I went up stairs and made some breakfast. I’d no sooner sat back down at the table when the Caracara came back, landing in exactly the same spot as before.

I froze, afraid to move and frighten it away. I waited. It waited. Then slowly, I lowered my bowl to the table. It sauntered right over and peered inside, then daintily took a tiny bite of yogurt. That’s when I realized someone had been feeding this bird. After tasting the yogurt, it shook its head emphatically, flinging drops of yogurt in all directions. Its facial expression seemed unmistakable: Yuk. It looked at me again as if to say: Got anything else?

Now that I realized it was completely unbothered by me, I took lots of pictures but the novelty of having the Caracara around started to wear off. I stood up and told it, “It’s been nice meeting you. Go be a bird!” When I came back a while later, it was gone.

I thought our interaction was over. But I was wrong.

As I was preparing lunch a few hours later, I looked up to see the Caracara perched on the banister outside the wide open front door. Oh no! It’s going to come into house! I ran over and shut the door. Undeterred, it flew toward the open window and bounced off the screen. It stood on the banister screeching, sounding like a thwarted toddler in the cereal aisle. Eventually, though, it gave up and left.

I’d planned to sit on the porch to finish up a sketch I’d started earlier but now I felt wary and unsettled. What if it comes back again? I looked at my gear and came up with a plan. If the bird returned, I’d simply cover my supplies and use the opportunity to do some up-close field sketching. I felt so smug and well prepared, and was completely immersed in my sketch when my cheeky guest returned.

The Caracara marched over and without hesitation, deftly plucked a pencil. My Luminance 6901: Olive Yellow. Ack! One of my good ones! I screamed and it took off.

Fortunately, it was greedy to inspect its prize and landed on top of our rental car. I grabbed a small fallen twig and flung it at the thief. Startled by the harmless stick, the Caracara dropped my precious pencil. I turned around just in time to watch it go back, grab a Polychromos (Burnt Orange 187), and fly off with it.

To my relief, it perched on the banister at the back of the house. I grabbed the only thing handy, a papery dead Cecropia leaf, and lobbed it in the direction of the culprit. The Caracara released its loot and flew off in a huff. The Polychromos pencil seemed a little worse for wear, sporting several beak marks to show to my husband later.

As for me, I was completely electrified with indignation. That stinker! I stomped around for a while, burning off the upset and adrenaline. After a few hours, I concluded that I’d frightened it away, perhaps for good. I felt relieved and a little disappointed.

I’ve seen Yellow-headed Caracaras in Panama for years but until this one landed on my table, I’d never given them very much thought. Sure, I knew they have a penchant for exploration1, but I never considered what being close to one might feel like. In those first moments, I felt seen. As a long-time observer of birds, the tables were turned. I wasn’t watching this creature but it had been watching me! If there’s one thing I want to take home from Panama, it’s the wonder and awe of making eye contact with a wild bird. And that makes me feel like dancing with delight all over again.

🪶 If you’d like to linger a little longer with this unexpected visitor, I’ve included a small gallery of photos below including some very close-up moments with this bold bird.

Insiders also get access to my growing library of bird drawing lessons and reference materials. You’re warmly invited to join us.

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Here’s an example. A few years ago, I was sitting at my dining room table working on a drawing of a Rock Wren. As I carefully added the cast shadows of the bird’s feet on the stone it was perched on, I had what I can only describe as a jolt of intense joy. I remember grabbing my husband to come look at the shadows with me. I was gobsmacked with aesthetic ecstasy.

As it turns out, neuroscientists have a name for this feeling: septal resonance1. When you feel love, that’s your brain’s septum brimming with lots of oxytocin. Oxytocin is part of how dopamine is produced for other parts of the brain. In short, the experience of love has all sorts of positive effects that trickle down into motivation, purpose, drive, and attention.

If love and beauty really interact this way, then what we do as artists matters more than we might realize. Our own experiences of aesthetic ecstasy are more than just pleasant feelings; they’re sources of strength and persistence that help sustain our practice. But perhaps even more important is how our work can create opportunities for aesthetic ecstasy for others.

I see this as how we explore what matters most to us, express that meaning as honestly as we can, and then send our work into the world where it can be seen, enjoyed, and felt by someone else.

When you feel an affinity for someone’s work, I think that’s often a sign that this kind of resonance is happening. Your sense of aesthetic ecstasy is being stirred by what that person has made. When this happens to me, I find myself thinking, That makes me want to be a better artist, not out of envy, but out of admiration and delight in what they’re creating.

Here’s the takeaway I’d like to suggest: seek out your own experiences of aesthetic ecstasy in three ways.

One: Look for the art that makes your heart go pitter-pat. Drink that warmth and affinity in like a cup of hot tea on a cold day. Let it warm you from the inside. There’s no need to put words to it right away; just feel it and notice what it awakens in you.

Two: Pay attention to moments of aesthetic ecstasy in your own work. If you draw or paint, you’ll know what I mean when a particular line, color, or brushstroke suddenly fills you with happiness. Those moments are worth noticing and honoring.

Three: Listen carefully to what people share with you about your work. Some time ago, someone commented on a drawing I’d made and told me how it helped her imagine an entire beach scene. That feels like this resonance at work. I’m not suggesting that we turn this into a chase for likes or subscribers. But I do think it matters to notice when something that fills us with love and delight finds a home in someone else’s sense of beauty. Those moments, however rare or fleeting, are quiet markers that remind us we’re not on this path alone.

Making art can be a profoundly lonely experience. Most of us work in solitude. While we can’t control how someone might feel when they encounter our work, we can choose to infuse our practice with love. The more care we bring to how we live, the more joy we allow ourselves in the act of creating, and the more intentionally we pursue moments of delight, the more these efforts matter in ways we can’t always anticipate.

When you create art you love, from a place of love, it makes a difference. I know it may sound improbable, but that love can be felt by someone else when they encounter your work. Bringing that possibility into the world—now more than ever—feels vitally important.

✨ If this resonated with your own experience of making or noticing beauty, I’m glad you’re here. You’re in good company.

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Not having a live bird handy to photograph from close range, I grabbed the next best thing: a wood carving that some friends gave us. Look what happens when you look at the carving from a distance, through zoom (left), and then how the bill and body proportions change with close proximity (right).

For me, this was an ah-hah moment. And once I saw the difference between zoom and proximity, I couldn’t unsee it.

What follows in this post moves from reflection into something closer to a lesson. It draws on access, resources, and experiments that took time to arrange and a lot of careful looking to understand. I’ve chosen to share that part of the work with my paying subscribers, where I can teach it more fully and thoughtfully.

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A couple of weeks ago, I got sick of feeling afraid. I sketched a Towhee and applied color to it. I had no feelings of confidence or competence. I didn’t make a plan or watch a video. I used the colored pencils I had nearby. I wasn’t very happy with the results but I wasn’t disappointed either.

Next, I sketched a Collared Aracari. I focused not on details or accuracy but on being present, relaxing my grip, enjoying the explorations. I tried markers, added pencil, applied some color pencils. Something inside me started to shift. Warmth, enjoyment, anticipation.

While I was traveling over Christmas, I had even fewer art supplies than before. A new watercolor brush pen, a few markers, a couple of colored pencils. I turned my attention to shapes and abstraction. I allowed myself to navigate by curiosity. What if I used a marker to soften the edges of the brush pen? What if I let the toes merge into one shape? What if I gently blocked in the background?

Looking back on it, I see that I started living “I’m not really a painter” as an artistic identity. The illustration job was not the problem. The problem was that I had lost confidence and didn’t know how to rebuild it. I couldn’t see my situation as an opportunity for growth. I only saw myself as skill-inadequate.

In the process of working anyway, a few things became clear.

• Start before being ready. Movement has power in it. Beginning has a magic all its own. You can always start over.

• Be open to frustration and not-knowing-how. Instead of trying to solve and plan, open your heart to experiencing a little discomfort. Feel the feelings of frustration. Allow yourself to be in the stage of not-knowing-how while you’re putting down brushstrokes. Doing something gives you a place to push off from.

• Welcome your mistakes as guides to the future. See a mark you’d do differently? Do it differently next time. Feel a color could have been mixed a little better? Mix it better now; take notes. A line that went off course? Direct it more expressively in the next sketch.

🕊️ Many of us are learning how to move forward without certainty. If this met you where you are, you’re very welcome here.

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I began to notice that certain tools were quietly shaping my way of working. A simple pencil that allowed for greater expression and ease. The same sketchbooks traveling with me from place to place. Over time, I realized I hadn’t just developed preferences — I had developed relationships. These items became the contexts in which I create: deceptively simple, sweetly ordinary, and deeply personal.

In this post, I’ll be sharing a handful of favorite art supplies. This isn’t a shopping guide or a roundup of recommendations. Rather, it’s an introduction to the relationships I’ve formed with the tools of my craft. Think of it as an opportunity to consider your own faithful tools, the ones you return to again and again, and how they quietly shape your creativity.

Mitsu-Bishi 9852EW HB “Master Writing”

• An humble, beautifully made pencil that feels at home in the hand.

I bought a dozen of these pencils when I was preparing to teach a drawing class. I wanted a simple drawing tool for my students but something a little different from an ordinary pencil. Since Blackwings are so expensive, I chose these Mitsu-Bishi pencils. When they arrived, I was immediately attracted to the look and feel of them: natural wood, crisp green lettering, copper-toned ferrule and black eraser. I quickly discovered that this pencil formed a quiet partnership with my hand. The simplicity and pleasurable handling of this “writing” instrument has become a treasured source of expressive lines and buttery shading.

Noodler’s Ink “Charlie” fountain pen

• A simple fountain pen that makes room for awkwardness and warmth.

I don’t remember which artist first mentioned Noodler’s Ink but shortly after I bought my first bottle, I dropped it, sending glass and ink in all directions. The spectacular mess lead to another purchase, this time with a “free pen.” I keep “Charlie” filled with Noodler’s Polar Brown ink, which produces warm, earthy lines. Sketching with this pen has taught me to be patient with mistakes and less self-conscious with awkward drawings. Some people complain about the scent of these pens but after hours of drawing, I find it comforting.

Pentel RSVP fine ballpoint in black

• A dependable ballpoint that says yes to playful mark-making.

Back when I did lots of handwritten journaling, I used Pentel R.S.V.P. pens because their rubber grip felt stable and solid. When I started sketching in ballpoint, I rediscovered these pens and fell in love with the reliable flow and variable lines. R.S.V.P. is short for respondez, s’il vous plaît, a formal request for a reply to an invitation. This pen invites me to sketch with freedom and joy. My reply: avec plaisir!

Moleskine Cahier

• More of a collaborator than a sketchbook.

When I started trying to learn how to draw birds, I used plain copy paper. After a few weeks, I got tired of keeping up with loose sheets and started looking for a sketchbook. The Moleskine Cahier was just right: nicely sized, smooth surface, but not so precious as to feel intimidating. The saddle-stitched binding gives a touch of elegance to the unassuming kraft-paper cover. But this is not a sketchbook for sketchbook tours. It’s where the hidden work of growth happens.

Pentalic Traveler

• Where individual drawings journey toward a whole.

About halfway through my first Pentalic Traveler sketchbook, my work was accepted for a show. With a short deadline, I cut my drawings out of the sketchbook and put the unfinished volume on a shelf. Years later, I rediscovered it and found the silky smooth pages were just right for ink. Where the Cahier sketchbooks shine for experimentation, the Traveler holds more carefully rendered drawings. This is where my body of work forms.

When I consider these five items, I see how they’ve shaped me as an artist. Each one, in its own way, has gently carried me forward. There’s nothing special about them. Perhaps that’s their secret. Through simplicity and familiarity, they make room for ease and over time, that ease has grown into loyalty.

If there’s an invitation here, it’s not to acquire anything new, but to notice what has already stayed with you. The tools you return to again and again may be doing quiet, faithful work — forming your hand, your eye, and your patience — even when the progress feels unseen.

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In this post, I’d like to share some ideas for how to encounter your own sketchbook pages in a similar way, strike up a conversation, and learn something new about yourself or your work in the process.

Start conversations

Find a sketch that feels unsuccessful or better yet, one that feels disastrous.

Make an appointment to return to the sketch, a coffee date perhaps. Put it in your calendar. Treat your commitment like you would a real visit with a friend.

Honor your appointment.

This is one of the most important steps. Blowing off a date with a friend is something you’re unlikely to do. Show up, be presentable, arrive on time, smile (even if you don’t feel like smiling).

Start with “Hello!”

Gaze at the sketch with interest and curiosity. If it helps, pretend the drawing belongs to someone else, someone you want to encourage in their efforts.

Give the page a chance to speak back to you. Focus on your breath and less on any discomfort.

When you find something to compliment, do so.

Look for a moment that feels more true to what you were drawing. Make a notation right there in your sketchbook. Say “yes,” or “more of this,” something positive.

Ask for advice.

Try simple questions like: Where did I get off track with this bird’s proportions? Or What do you think I can do better next time? And then simply wait, looking for the soft suggestion to rise up in your mind and your heart. Warmth or softness are good guides. Those are voices of true friends.

Make a note of what comes it.

Whatever you learn, remember: This is a practice seed, not a judgement. It’s the simple suggestion of a friend.

End your conversation with gratitude.

Tell your sketch, preferably out loud: “Thank you.” Messy sketchbook pages aren’t evidence of failure, they are teachers in disguise.

Maybe that’s the gentle reminder we all need: when your sketching practice feels off kilter, try meeting it as you would a friend. Show up, share honestly, and trust that the act of being present is what moves you forward.

🪶 If this reflection resonates, my Insider lessons go even deeper into sketchbook practice — from bird anatomy studies to building confident drawing habits.

👉 Need more encouragement? This earlier post might help.

It turned into a simple exercise — nothing fancy — but one that opened a door onto essence. I’ll show you the steps I used so you can try it too.

I’ll show you how to use mental snapshots, gesture, and drawing from memory to tap into the living energy of the bird and turn a webcam into a bird field-sketching practice.

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What I discovered is that my sketchbooks don’t just record practice. They hold emotion, identity, vocation, and grace. They form a context — a way of knowing — and a path of discovery.

In the images that spoke to my heart, I kept noticing the same seven qualities appearing again and again, little touchstones of what matters most to me when I draw: delight, discipline, wonder, flow, imagination, essence, and tenderness.

These weren’t planned. They emerged on their own, like the quiet grammar of my artistic life. You’ll see those qualities woven through these ten highlights, because they’ve been shaping me all along.

The Sketches

White-breasted Waterhen — Dec 2021

Four poses of the same bird, all on one page. Preening, walking, studying the face and the back of the head. I remember the joy of drawing these, the pleasure of simply observing, of staying with one bird long enough to know it.

Touchstone: Delight.

Foot Studies — Sept 2022

Seven small studies of bird feet, cross-contour lines wrapping around the forms. I lingered over these shapes, learning by looking longer.

Touchstone: Discipline.

A Turtle in Maine — Aug 2023

Drawn from a photo my husband took while we were kayaking on Horseshoe Pond. I had been in months of anxiety and burnout. That day, I felt more relaxed than I had in a long time. When I drew the turtle, I touched a quiet part of myself still alive beneath the exhaustion. This drawing was a lifeline.

Touchstone: Wonder.

Owl Thumbnails — Dec 2023

Six tiny sketches exploring value and the branching patterns of the trees behind each owl. I remember how much fun these were and the joy of noticing the world that holds the bird.

Touchstone: Delight.

Spotted Sandpiper — Jan 2024

A sandpiper drawn in a rare burst of artistic lightning, where every line felt alive. One of those fleeting moments where the hand moves freely and you wish you could bottle whatever grace visited you.

Touchstone: Flow.

Common Mynah — April 2024

Seven studies made while preparing for a commission. The central sketch — expressive, abstracted, essential — became the center of gravity of the whole page. A moment where practice became devotion, and devotion became clarity.

Touchstone: Essence.

Story Beginnings — May 2024

A planning page for an autobiographical comic: birds, birding, my marriage, and art. This sketch mapped the shape of my vocation as it had gently unfolded without me even realizing it.

Touchstone: Imagination

Birthday Card Comic — June 2024

The preliminary sketch of a comic panel for my husband’s birthday card. He’s carrying his sound recording equipment (which he calls his “big ear”) with some whimsical birds perched on him. A small piece of our life together, full of warmth and story. A reminder that my sketchbooks hold my heart as much as my hand.

Touchstone: Tenderness

Chevy Apache Pickup — July 2025

Drawn during a season of deep effort and aspiration. This page reveals my longing to grow, not from harshness but from a sense that something in me wants expression.

Touchstone: Discipline.

Javan Green-Magpie — Oct 2025

A ballpoint rendering that felt like a step in the right direction. A moment where all seven touchstones became one: clarity. A glimpse of the artist I’m becoming.

A Few Things I’m Carrying Forward

Gathering these highlights revealed something deeper. My sketchbooks have been quietly speaking to me, page after page.

Delight.

Discipline.

Wonder.

Flow.

Imagination.

Tenderness.

Essence.

I found the pillars of my voice. Not something I invented, but something I earned through thousands of quiet, faithful moments.

My sketchbook practice has become a trusted guide: a compass, a companion, and a source of quiet purpose.

And I hope, in some small way, these sketches offer you a bit of courage for your own practice — whatever form it takes — and a reminder that every page, even the quiet ones, carries grace.

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🪶 If this reflection helped you, I’d love to welcome you as an Insider. That’s where I share deeper lessons on drawing birds, building confidence, and growing a sketchbook practice with gentleness.

Lesson One: Learn to See Beyond the Photo

There is no perfect photo. Often, bird photos are taken at a low F-stop and some portion of the bird will always be out of focus. In addition, photos are often taken in flat light, so the shadows that would give hints to volume are minimal or absent. And, naturally, parts of the bird are sometimes hidden or blurry that they can’t be used as reference at all.

The more I’ve learned about birds, especially bill, feathers, and feet, the less these problems bother me. By studying hundreds of species, I know what I’m looking for and what should be there. Whether it’s the position of a toe or the direction of feather growth, experience will help you make stronger choices in your bird art. You’ll recognize what you can trust and what you need to reconstruct.

Lesson Two: Build a Reference Library, Not a Single Photo

Feet are especially tricky. It’s rare to find one photo that shows all the toes clearly, so I often mix references — one for the pose, another for feet, and a third for lighting. This mosaic approach gives far better results than forcing one imperfect image to do all the work.

Understanding anatomy helps: if you know how toes are arranged (The Foot) or the way the jaw hinges on the skull (The Bill), you can confidently rebuild what the photo hides.

✏️ Drawing Tip: Choose a poor-quality photo and list what’s missing. Then find supplementary images of the same species to fill those gaps. You’ll be amazed at how much you learn by comparing them side by side.

Lesson Three: Interpret with Confidence

Once you’ve built a solid foundation of artistic skill and bird knowledge, you can begin stepping away from the photo reference to add (or omit) details. For example, I like to show the pupil in a bird’s eye. In many species, the iris is so dark that the pupil isn’t visible but I know it’s there, and I prefer to give an indication of its presence.

Other ways to improvise: add or subtract shadows, use lost-and-found edges, or push the values to create interesting contrasts for clarity or mood.

What begins as improvisation soon becomes interpretation. The goal isn’t to copy what the camera caught but to translate what you understand into expressive bird art. Every choice, from shape design to edges, is a small act of creative seeing.

✨ Insider Bonus — Practical Training Routine Ahead

The section below walks you through a short exercise for training your eye beyond the photo.

If you’ve enjoyed this lesson, upgrade to become an Insider and get full access to my in-depth tutorials, anatomy series, and exercises like this one.

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Recently, Drew published a piece about how he writes stories and then turns them into comics. As I looked at his work, I started to feel wistful and maybe even a little sorry for myself.

Because I specialize in drawing birds and nature subjects, I’m in the habit of drawing from photo reference. When I’m working on comics, that means using photos for people, places, and everything in between. Because I rely so much on this kind of observational drawing, completing a comic can take me a long time. I have to hunt down photo reference for every scene.

Whenever I searched for advice about drawing from imagination, I was told to master forms. But for some reason, that’s not how my brain works. As I studied Drew’s comics, I realized I’d been telling myself that if I just understood better how things look, I’d be able to draw like he does.

But I do know how things look. I can draw lots of subjects accurately. I can even picture an image in my mind without looking at it. So there had to be something else holding me back.

A few days after our exchange about his post, Drew uploaded a new video called “How I Draw from Imagination.” He even started by drawing birds! I felt so touched and moved that he’d take the time to record such a detailed lesson to answer my question. I immediately tracked down the photo reference he used and tried his advice for myself.

I studied the reference photo for several minutes before I started drawing. The species was somewhat familiar — a Eurasian Blue Tit, found in Europe and the UK. Then I put the photo away and began sketching.

In my first try, I was shaking off the nerves a little. I called on my experience of years of bird art practice and my memory of the image I’d just seen. When I compared my sketch to the photo, it wasn’t bad but I could see details I’d missed.

For the second drawing, I felt more relaxed. My confidence grew and I took note of areas where I still felt unsure, like the position of the feet.

By the third sketch, my lines were more expressive and I loved the feeling of creating without the strain of matching the photo.

What This Experience Taught Me

I spend a lot of time in “not-good-enough” land. But sketching from memory showed me that I don’t give my experience and know-how enough credit. My hands and eyes knew what to do even when my mind wasn’t convinced.

I’m beginning to see that drawing from memory is a path toward drawing from imagination. It’s a kind of scaffold that lets me trust what I already know and build from there.

🪶 Do you draw from imagination? What’s helped you learn and grow in confidence? Share your thoughts in the comments.

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👉 If you enjoyed this reflection, you’ll love the Insider lessons where I teach practical ways to draw birds with confidence — from anatomy studies to creative exercises like this one. Upgrade to get the full experience.

I thought about those swimming lessons as I tried to make sense of what stalled me during October and how quickly a lack of clear guidance can turn enthusiasm into inertia.

This was my first dive into Birdtober since 2022 and as a more experienced bird artist, I was looking forward to seeing what the daily practice would bring. As soon as I began to dig into the prompts, I realized that my usual ballpoint sketching wouldn’t do. I needed color.

I had the idea that I could combine the challenge with my need to improve my skills in digital painting. My sketches would outpace my coloring abilities but so what? I’d just do the prompts that really excited me.

This went well, at first.

I found some videos by an instructor I admired. The first few lessons were great and I enjoyed the thrill of seeing new possibilities for my art practice. Even the first demo didn’t dampen my enthusiasm. Sure, he was going fast but I saw progress in my goal to paint birds in Procreate.

What I didn’t realize was that I’d floated into the deep end of the pool, so to speak. Instead of instructing as he worked, the teacher started talking to fill the space. While he chatted with himself, he zipped from brush to brush with lightning agility. To compensate, I slowed the video to a painful speed. I couldn’t turn the sound off because he might say something important so I was stuck listening to a voice that sounded like someone who was very, very stoned.

My enthusiasm evaporated. I wasn’t just stuck technically. I felt small, foolish, and alone in the learning. Looking back on it now, I see why this experience reminded me of that miserable summer camp. No one grows in competence when they’re left to master an uncomfortable skill with little support or else be relegated to the side of the pool.

It wasn’t that I lost interest; I lost my footing. Without clear steps, the work felt impossible, and I started to believe I was the problem.

Fortunately, the term “scaffolding” had recently entered my vocabulary. In case you’re not familiar with it, scaffolding is a teaching approach that gives learners temporary supports while on the way to mastering more advanced skills. One way to visualize a “scaffold” is to place a grid over a photo as a way of learning proportions. The grid helps the student learn to see proportional differences and once that ability is in place, the scaffold is no longer necessary.

Rather than give up on the digital painting course1, I resolved to do some self-scaffolding. I looked at the art instruction I was getting with softer eyes and tried to find the bigger principles he was imparting to me.

Birdtober didn’t unfold the way I had hoped, but it gave me a new clarity about how I want to teach art.

Part of the reason I’m on Substack is to share what I’ve learned about how to draw birds — techniques, references, and insights to help others grow in their own bird art practice. This kind of contribution feels important because I’ve grown through the generosity of so many artists who teach and share their craft online. For my teaching to matter, it has to come with care: a framework that welcomes learners at any stage and helps them grow in confidence.

If I could go back to six year old me sitting on the edge of the pool, I’d invite her into the water and ask her to take the tiniest action toward putting her face in. We all have our own edges like that, the places we hover just outside of courage. The smallest motion toward the water can be enough.

🪶 If you’ve enjoyed my posts and sketches, becoming an Insider is a simple way to support my work and it helps me dedicate more time to creating the tutorials, references, and behind-the-scenes content you love. Every paid subscription makes it possible to keep sharing more with you.

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There’s extraordinary variety across species—from the webbed paddles of a duck to the diminutive toes of a hummingbird—but in this lesson, we’ll focus on the most common arrangement: three toes forward and one back. This is the perching foot seen in songbirds, doves, hawks, and many others. Learning this structure will help you draw any bird’s feet convincingly.

🪶 This is the second in my series: Avian Anatomy for Artists. Read the first lesson on understanding and drawing the bill here.

The Basics of Structure

Birds use their feet to walk, capture food, swim, and even attract a mate. Even though there is huge diversity in toe arrangement, the feet and legs of birds share one basic plan.

What we often call the “leg” is really the tarsus1. The joint you can see on most birds isn’t the knee (that’s usually hidden by feathers), it’s more like an ankle.

The toes are attached to the front and back of the tarsus. The back toe, the hallux, acts like a thumb, supplying balance and stability. Note that the front toes differ in length: the middle one is longest. Getting those proportions right makes a big difference in realism. Each toe ends with a claw or nail that grows (more or less) from the upper surface of the toe, curving out and down.

Finally, the surface of the foot is covered with scutes and scales—these overlapping plates add both texture and protection. (You won’t need to draw every one of these; it’s enough to hint at their shapes to show the form.)

Why Feet Are So Tricky

Even for an experienced bird artist like me, feet can be deceptively hard to render. They might be small but still full of subtle perspective shifts, and each toe bends at several joints.

• Foreshortening: When toes are turned toward or away from you, the shifts in perspective get challenging.

• Angle confusion: Feet are surprisingly flexible and getting the angles worked out can be a chore.

• Texture overload: Scales, pads, nails—it’s easy to get lost in details.

• Poor reference: Photographs often show the feet blurred, obscured, or in poor lighting.

Don’t let these challenges discourage you. The good news is that a little anatomical knowledge, combined with patient observation, solves most of them. The goal isn’t to memorize every part but to see shapes and how angles, balance, and gesture work together.

✨ If this kind of mindful study of birds inspires you, consider joining as an Insider.

You’ll receive a video lesson, a full tutorial, and photo gallery—plus access to the complete Avian Anatomy for Artists series and other resources designed to help you see and draw birds with confidence and joy.

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Since there were no wild references available, I leaned on a handful of zoo photos and chose the one that best showed the bird’s striking black mask and oversized bill1. The overall pose wasn’t especially dynamic, but it gave me strong, clear forms to work with—perfect for focusing on shape design.

With fluorescent green plumage and a gaudy red bill, this bird demanded color. Even so, I began in my usual sketchbook with a black ballpoint, thinking I might later explore coloring it digitally. I was surprised at how confident I felt during the sketching. Even drawing the feet felt like a joy—they almost drew themselves.

In the past, I’ve found digital painting intimidating because it’s so difficult to create an image that doesn’t look artificial or cartoony. Despite many online tutorials, I’d never found a method that yielded a result that felt natural. Still, I owed it to this rare bird to create something that truly honored its existence. No pressure.

Enter Marco Bucci. I’d run across one of his videos on color theory a while back and returned to watch one of his painting tutorials. As I listened to Marco explain how he uses digital methods to mimic traditional media, I felt a sense of excitement.

One of Marco’s ideas that changed everything for me was his approach to color. Instead of reaching for a single “perfect” green, he talked about moving around that hue—nudging it warmer or cooler, lighter or darker, more or less saturated—to create harmony and life within a limited palette. His confident application of brushwork felt almost contagious. It looked more like play than effort. Filled with hope and optimism, I decided to give his method a try.

When I began adding color to my digitized ballpoint sketch2, I felt a growing delight. The plumage looked rich and expressive.

When I completed the sketch, I experienced a quiet, genuine sense of accomplishment. I’d broken through a barrier and a limiting mindset that had been holding me back for months.

Looking back on the whole experience, painting this bird felt like a quiet prayer for its survival. The color lesson stayed with me as more than a technique—it became a reminder that growth often begins where we’re most unsure. To me, that feels like the most important result of all: connecting compassion to creativity and overcoming reluctance and fear in the process.

👉 Your turn

Have you ever pushed past hesitation with a new medium or technique? I encourage you to reflect on what helped you through it.

🪶 Insiders Bonus: Watch the time-lapse below and see each brushstroke come together, from underpainting to the burst of luminous green.

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This post is your home base for all the extra photo resources I share through The Painted Redstart. Here you’ll find curated Google Photos galleries to use as drawing and painting reference. I’ll keep this post updated as new collections are added with each future post or project.

👉 If you’re not yet an Insider, upgrade to go paid and unlock access. Your support makes these resources possible — thank you for helping me continue to create art education, stories, and beauty for our community.

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I have always had trouble learning linear perspective but these sketches pointed to an additional woe: estimating proportions. I wondered if there was something wrong with me that after much study and many years, I was still struggling with the same difficulties. In despair, I thought: Are these problems worth solving? Maybe I should just give up.

But the truth was, I didn’t want to give up. I wanted to grow and improve as an artist. Then I got the idea to look for what was working in my sketches as a path to improving what was giving me so much grief.

Today I’m sharing a gentle tool for exploration of your drawings. Please know that this isn’t about hard self-judgment but about mindful reflection and observation. You don’t have to answer every question for every drawing. Sometimes you may choose to be more attentive to the whole piece and other times not. You decide.

The questions are grouped into four categories. Some categories may not apply to your work. Remember, this is a menu, not a checklist.

Drawing Exploration: A Tool for Learning

Before you dive into the tool, take a moment to connect with your breath and simply gaze at your drawing. When you’re ready, start with the first set of questions.

Overall Impact

Step back and ask what the drawing communicates and how it feels.

• Does the drawing feel successful? Does it convey what I want it to convey?

• What were my hopes for it? What got in the way?

• Does the drawing feel expressive and spontaneous or tight and overworked?

✨ If you’re finding these prompts helpful so far, there’s more waiting for you inside. As an Insider, you’ll get the full exploration tool—expanded into clear categories, with guiding reflections you can return to again and again.

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Here are some of the things I’ve learned that help me to make the most of this surprisingly forgiving tool.

I’ll admit, I’m not a master of ballpoint—but I love working with it. Ballpoint is the unsung magic weapon of the drawing world: capable of delicate textures, bold lines, and subtle shading. It’s inexpensive, easy to find, and forgiving enough for beginners while still challenging enough to reward practice.

Because ballpoint ink is oil-based, it becomes waterproof once dry—a surprising bonus. There are trade-offs, though. The ink can sometimes blob at the tip, which you can fix by keeping a scrap of paper or a napkin handy to wipe it. And since many pens are disposable, they do create plastic waste. If that bothers you, look for refillable models (though even those eventually end up in the trash).

Personally, I reach for black ink most often, though ballpoints come in every color imaginable. My go-to pens are the Bic Cristal and the Pentel R.S.V.P., which each have their own quirks and advantages.

Once you’ve got your pen in hand, the real fun begins: learning how to control the lines it makes. A good place to start is with line weight.

Line Weight

Line weight refers to the thickness of a stroke, and ballpoint pens can surprise you with their range. The Pentel R.S.V.P., in particular, allows for fine, varied lines. You can also reinforce strokes to give them more emphasis. Play with pressure and repetition until you find the balance that feels expressive.

Line Quality

Good line quality is about confidence. A few decisive, purposeful strokes will almost always look better than hesitant, scratchy ones. Ballpoints make it easy to fall into a tangle of short, searching marks—but resist that temptation. Practice tapering your lines, aiming for accuracy, and letting each stroke have intention. (For a deeper dive, check out this video: Proko on Line Quality).

A quick note for those who want to go a little deeper:

If you’ve enjoyed my posts and sketches, becoming an Insider is a simple way to support my work—and it helps me dedicate more time to creating the tutorials, references, and behind-the-scenes content you love. Every paid subscription makes it possible to keep sharing more with you.

Shading and Edges

Ballpoints shine when it comes to shading. They can move from the softest gray to deep black with just a shift in pressure. Early on, I pressed too hard and ended up with blotchy patches. Now I build up values slowly, layering with a light touch. Try practicing both hard edges and soft transitions; each gives a different kind of depth and mood.

Mark-Making

Hatching, cross-hatching, parallel lines, scribbles—every kind of mark tells a different story. One of my favorite artists, Dave Mottram, uses what looks like chaotic scribbling to create depth and value. But on closer inspection, his strokes follow cross-contours and deliberate directions. It’s a reminder that even “messy” marks can hold intention.

Learning from Mentors

Keep an eye on how other artists use ballpoint or other inks. Instead of copying their work, ask: What do I like about their strokes? Their shading? Their texture? Then, experiment with those qualities in your own sketches.

Searching Lines

One of the best things about ink is that you can’t erase it. That sounds scary, but it also frees you. You can still use light, searching lines to find your shapes—just don’t overdo it. Once you’ve found the right contour, reinforce it with a stronger stroke. This dance between loose and deliberate lines is what gives ballpoint sketches their life.

Don’t Correct Mistakes

And above all: don’t hide your mistakes. They’re part of the drawing’s honesty. Crossing out, overworking, or “fixing” often makes things worse. Instead, let the wrong line live alongside the right one. With time, you’ll get more decisive, but you’ll also grow more tolerant of imperfection. Ballpoint sketching is as much about practicing courage as it is about practicing skill.

Sketching in ballpoint began as an attempt to imitate another artist—born from comparison. But it has grown into a practice that brings me spontaneity, expression, and confidence. Ballpoint taught me that showing up, making marks, and embracing imperfection can be more rewarding than trying to be like someone else.

If you give ballpoint a try this month, I’d love to see what you create—feel free to share your sketches in a Note and tag me.

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