Memories Etched in Sketches
starts my wife Noelle. “I bet you can’t sketch that view before I finish this glass of wine.” She gives me that mischievous grin of hers as she takes a sip. It’s June in Paris, and beads of condensation drip down the stem of the glass. I look at my unopened sketch bag. The odds aren’t good. I begin to stammer some excuse — but then I stop and grab my gear. “You’re on, babe.” Seven minutes later, and just before the last half-ounce of chardonnay makes its final journey, I say “done,” and order myself a beer in triumph. It’s not my best work but, as it turns out, it’s one of my favorites. (See , on page 39.) Every time I see it, I’m transported to that exact moment in time and place, sharing a
