For the last few months, I’ve been engaged in exercises making relatively simple copies of my old sketches onto new small drawings with ink and pastel. It has allowed me to regain some technical facility, engage in quality time in a rough winter, and – lately – ponder philosophical questions .

First, of course, is what was the purpose of the original sketch? It is not a copy of what I see – a photograph does that much better. It is rather an active comment of my momentary existence, leaving a lot out, rearranging as I please, constrained by my abilities and completed in a reasonable amount of time. When doing it, I am almost in an enchanted trance state .

To copy THAT to another media is totally different. I categorize the activity as more “inspired by” than “reproduce”. I have more lingering choices of how to do it, what to accent, what to redo. And never slavish reproduction. More time to plan, more chance to react. Alas, still greatly constrained by ability. Less of a trance, more of artisanship .

Copies of art have always been artistically in style. Until recently, only a painter could give a true replication of a painting, although engravers could produce the essence. Patrons often paid, but artists probably enjoyed what they were doing .

Unlike “real art,” copies do not try to amaze, shock, or change the world. As pleasant as a good meal, with just as few long-term consequences .