Entry 002: The Weight of Black Ink

There's something about working in monochrome that strips away all pretense. No color to hide behind. No distractions. Just you, the ink, and the truth of what you can (or can't yet) do.

When I picked up my archival pens after losing my job, I was returning to something I'd always loved. Pencil drawings, pen sketching—they'd been my go-to for years. There's a reason for that, buried in an art class memory that still stings. I'd sketched this kudu, super detailed, every line deliberate and sure. I was in a phase of drawing birds, fish, wildlife—but this buck was the best thing I'd ever done to that point. I was really proud of it. Then my art teacher told me to paint over it. 

I knew my painting skills were rubbish. I knew what would happen. And it did—I totally ruined that sketch. The paint destroyed everything I'd carefully built with my pencil. I've been put off painting ever since.

(Some lessons stick with you in ways you never expect.)

So when I found myself starting over, reaching for pens felt like coming home. A practical choice for someone who couldn't afford a rainbow of supplies, sure. But also the truest choice. I love the weight and experience of pen on paper. The simplicity of it. 

What I didn't expect was how much weight a single line could carry. How much intention each mark demands when there's nowhere else for the eye to go. But more than that—I've fallen in love with how each line builds and forms and becomes something all its own. Just a black line or dot, then another, then another, forming into something quite lovely. There's magic in watching something emerge from nothing but accumulated marks.

The Undo Button Is Gone

In my previous life—the last few years in tech operations, the years before that in transcription, the hospitality and tourism roles, the marketing positions, the admin work, all those jobs where I tried to fit into boxes that weren't quite the right shape—everything had an undo button. Command+Z was my safety net. Mistakes could be erased, versions could be saved, everything could be optimized and perfected before anyone saw it.

We lived in iterations, in beta versions, in the comfortable knowledge that nothing was ever truly permanent.

But ink? 

Ink is a different kind of commitment.

That line you just drew? It's there. Forever. Even if you try to work it into something else, even if you build around it, that original mark remains. A record of a moment, a decision, a tremor in your hand you didn't expect.

(Terrifying? Yes. Liberating? Also yes.)

The Failed Pieces Archive

I've ruined more pieces than I can count:

• A confident stroke that went too far and threw off the entire balance
• A moment of hesitation that shows in a shaky line, broadcasting my uncertainty
• Ink that pooled where it shouldn't because I held the pen at the wrong angle
• Pieces I thought were working until that one fatal mark

My dining room table has seen it all. The crumpled attempts. The times I've had to walk away because I was trying too hard, gripping the pen like it might escape, forgetting that art needs breath too.

But here's what those "failed" pieces taught me: In a world where we can filter everything, where we can adjust and enhance and completely transform reality with a swipe, there's something radical about working in absolutes. 

Black or white. Mark or space. Commitment or hesitation.

The Honesty of Imperfection

The imperfect pieces—the ones with the wobbles, the unintended bleeds, the asymmetrical circles—they're more honest than anything I created in my professional life. They show:

• The exact moment my concentration wavered
• When someone called my name
• When doubt crept in
• When my hand trembled with excitement or fear

They're maps of my humanity.

(And honestly? Sometimes the "mistakes" become my favorite parts.)

Friends visit and suggest adding "just a touch of color." They mean well. They see my workspace with its archival pens and wonder if I'm limiting myself. 

But when I showed my work to my creative consultant at Orms, her excitement was palpable. She thinks my work is wonderful, genuinely excited by what I'm creating. That affirmation—that the language coming through me is not just okay but worth celebrating—means everything.

Every time I sit down with my pens, every time I feel that familiar weight in my hand, I know this is my language.

Learning from the Masters

I think about the artists who came before—not specific names I've studied, but the idea that throughout history, people have understood that monochrome isn't about limitation—it's about distillation. When you remove color, you're left with essence. Form. Movement. The conversation between presence and absence.

(Maybe that's why it speaks to me so deeply.)

Some days I catch myself browsing art supplies online, hovering over sets of colored inks. Imagining what it might be like to add just a hint of blue, a wash of gold. 

And here's the thing—I don't hate color. Not at all. I might even venture into it one day, sooner or later, who knows? But right now, monochrome is where my love lies. It feels like home. There's something about the simplicity, the starkness, the honesty of black on white that speaks to me in a way color doesn't. At least not yet.

So I return to my table, to my archival pens, and I remember why I'm here.

The constraint isn't a limitation—it's a doorway.

The Weight That Anchors

When you can only say things in black and white, you learn to say them with your whole chest. Every mark has to earn its place. Every line carries weight—not the burden kind, but the kind that anchors you. The kind that says: 

• This is real
• This was made by human hands
• This matters

Because in a world of infinite digital possibilities, in a time when AI can generate thousands of images in seconds, choosing to work with one color, one bottle of ink, one imperfect human hand feels like rebellion.

Or maybe it's just finding home.

I'm learning that monochrome isn't about what you can't do—it's about going deeper into what you can. It's about finding infinite variations in a single color, discovering that black isn't just black but a whole spectrum depending on:

• How much pressure you apply
• The speed of your hand
• The angle of the pen
• The texture of the paper beneath

My shiny object syndrome self—the one that spent years jumping between possibilities and getting distracted by all the things—sometimes panics at this simplicity. Surely there should be more tools, more options, more ways to hedge my bets. 

But my artist self, the one that's still emerging from the dining room table sessions, knows better.

She knows that when you strip everything else away, what remains is truth. 

And truth, it turns out, only needs one color.

To everyone questioning whether their chosen constraint is holding them back: maybe it's actually setting you free. Maybe the limitation is the liberation. Maybe choosing less is actually choosing more.

Because when you commit to one path, one medium, one color, you stop wondering what else you could be doing and start discovering how deep this particular well goes.

And let me tell you—it goes all the way down. 🖤