My freshman year at New World High School, my professor handed out our first assignment of the year — not a drawing, just a sketchbook.

"If I ever see you outside of school," he said, "I will ask you where your sketchbook is. And if you don't have it, I will give you an F."

He was serious. And I never forgot it.

That's when I understood: the sketchbook isn't something you keep at home for when inspiration strikes. It goes with you. Everywhere. It's not precious but it's lived-in. These are the pages where I doodle, write, collage, rip things out, paste in photos, do whatever I want. No rules, no pressure to make something "finished." Just the practice of paying attention.

The sketchbook is the bones, the skeletal support underneath everything else I make. A lot of my finished work started somewhere in these pages.