Daedalus and the Lithographer’s Stone

May 5th, 2015

This was a failure. It looks like a Halloween picture a second-grader might do, but without the childlike charm. Still, there’s an element or two that struck my fancy and that I may try to pursue later.

The Soul of a Poet

May 3rd, 2015

Now joining the ranks of Dante, Milton, Poe, Whitman and Dickinson is
our very own Sarah Potter, who has published her debut collection of
poetry! You can find out more about her book via the link below.


Each in Its Proper Time

January 6th, 2015

There’s not much to this. It’s just your typical warm-weather backyard scene.

She Never Really Understood Him

December 20th, 2014

Thanks to Sarah Potter for the flowing ribbons suggestion.

Merry Christmas 2014 and Happy New Year 2015

December 13th, 2014

All of us at Potter’s Sketchbook hope you and your family have a happy holiday season. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Elegy for a Dream

November 8th, 2014

Kitsch as kitsch can.

Sometimes you laugh so you do not cry and sometimes you cry so you do not laugh. Sometimes things survive and sometimes they dissolve into the shadows. And sometimes you wonder if they ever mattered at all.

Goblin in G Flat (Haydn in Plain Sight)

October 13th, 2014

There’s not much behind this. I read a small chapter on goblins in a book on legends from the Rhine and then turned on Dayton’s only twenty-four hour classical music radio station. The pencil went for an amble while I was thinking of goblins and listening to Bach. This is the result. It’s nothing, really. It’s only A Minor sketch. Sorry.

The Way of All Flesh

September 27th, 2014

It’s not hard watching a dream being born. It is hard watching it die.

The Wrestler Past His Prime

September 13th, 2014

His life was filled with battles, most of which he lost. He’d console himself by thinking they were unimportant. But then, if they were insignificant, what did that make his life?

A Boyhood Friend

August 31st, 2014

There was a terrible storm that night. I found him the next day, more dead than alive, and half-carried, half-dragged him home. It didn’t take long to nurse him back to health and we wound up as inseparable companions. After all these years I still recall every detail of the night he died. Nature provided only a slight, soothing drizzle that time. I was the one who supplied the deluge. I never wept so long or so hard. And it wasn’t really for him, I knew that even then, since he was now so old and diseased that each day was only a misery and, for him, death was a mercy. No, I cried my boyish tears only for myself, for I knew I would never, ever find another dog like old Shep.