A series of drawings made with my infant son while he breastfed. My pencil’s end to his shoulder, sometimes thigh, but mostly pencil end to shoulder. The same pencil used for many, for most of the belly drawings before he was born. An ordinary wooden pencil, cracked in half one evening while pregnant, exasperated — the full length much too long and unwieldy — the broken off end then wrapped and wrapped in purple floral washi tape until soft enough for tender stretched-thin belly skin or tiny shirted shoulder.

These drawings made together because I missed the belly drawings; I hadn’t yet finished with them. The magic of watching his movements appear, whirl and wind and wander along the page. Because I was desperate to do something with all that time. Because his wigglings and writhings felt familiar and I wanted to know: would they look the same here on the outside, under all this gravity?

And the thing is: sometimes they did. Sometimes they were something new entirely. The lines growing thicker and darker and more intricate with time; forceful, deliberate, movements of intention and control. His growing up here in each circling line.

Graphite on paper.

Massachusetts, 2021-2022