becoming through the page

You're in the middle of changing. Not before the change, not after it, but in the unstable space between. The body knows it first—you feel different, move differently, notice shifts that haven't yet organized into language. And if you draw in that state, the marks will show it.

Not as symbol or metaphor. As direct evidence. The transition inscribing itself through your hand before you understand what's transitioning. The page becoming archive of a state too fluid, too in-process to capture any other way.

This is transition recorded through the page. Drawing as documentation of change. The work that holds evidence of states that exist only briefly in the space between what was and what will be.

Think about marks you've made during periods of change. Maybe moving between places, between relationships, between ways of understanding yourself. The drawings from those periods probably look different—not because you were trying to draw differently, but because transition was moving through your hand. The instability, the uncertainty, the sense of being in-between inscribed itself whether you intended it or not.

That's the page functioning as archive. Holding evidence of changing that might otherwise disappear. The transitional state documented through marks before language could name what was shifting.

Transition is evidence, not error. The marks that show change in progress—the wavering, the inconsistency, the signs of instability—aren't mistakes. They're documentation. Proof that transition was happening here, that changing was in process.

The body knows change before the mind can name it. Transition shows in gesture, in pressure, in the quality of marks before you can articulate what's shifting. The hand records what language hasn't yet caught.

The page holds transitions that otherwise disappear. States too fluid to stabilize, too brief to photograph, too in-process to capture—drawing holds them. Creates record of changing that exists nowhere else.

What I'm offering today is recognition of drawing's capacity to document transition. To hold evidence of change while it's happening. To archive states that are usually lost because they're too unstable to preserve any other way.

You're not trying to draw about change. You're letting change draw itself through you, inscribe itself through your hand, create its own documentation on the page.

TRANSITION IS EVIDENCE, NOT ERROR

A line wavers. Pressure fluctuates. Marks show inconsistency. The usual interpretation: error. Loss of control. Failure to maintain steady state. But what if the wavering isn't error—it's evidence? Documentation of an actual state: transition.

When you're in the middle of changing, control becomes difficult. Not because skill diminishes, but because the reference point keeps shifting. You're trying to maintain consistency while the ground of what's consistent moves beneath you. The wavering marks aren't failing to be steady—they're accurately recording instability.

This is transition as evidence. The inconsistent marks document the actual state: neither settled in what was nor arrived at what will be. The in-between inscribing itself through gesture.

Here's what to explore: Notice if you're in any kind of transition right now. Doesn't have to be dramatic—small shifts count. Maybe your attention is unstable today. Maybe your energy fluctuates. Maybe something in your routine has changed and you're adjusting.

Draw for five minutes from that transitional state. Don't try to stabilize the marks. Don't force consistency. Let the transition show—in wavering lines, in pressure that fluctuates, in marks that can't quite settle.

The work will probably look unstable. Good. That's accurate documentation. The page is recording the actual state: transition in progress. The wavering isn't error—it's evidence that change is happening, that you're in the space between settled states.

After five minutes, step back. Look at the marks not as failed attempts at stability but as successful documentation of instability. They're showing what's true: that transition is present, that consistency isn't available right now because the ground keeps shifting.

Now try the opposite: draw for five minutes trying to force stability. Attempt consistent pressure, steady marks, controlled gestures despite the transitional state. Make the drawing look settled even when you're not.

The effort will show. The marks might appear more controlled, but they'll feel strained. You're forcing consistency that doesn't match your actual state. You're creating false evidence—marks that suggest settledness when transition is what's real.

Compare the two approaches. The first set of marks—the ones that allowed wavering—probably have more integrity. They're honest about the state. The second set—the forced stability—probably feel hollow. They're performing settledness rather than documenting actuality.

This is what transition as evidence means. The marks that show instability aren't errors requiring correction. They're accurate records of a state in flux. The wavering documents the actual experience of being in-between, of changing, of not yet having arrived at what's next.

When you recognize transition as evidence, you stop trying to hide it. You let the marks show the instability because that's what's true. The page becomes honest archive rather than performance of settledness you don't actually feel.

Transition doesn't mean making bad work. It means making work that accurately reflects an in-between state. And that accuracy—that honesty about instability—has its own authority. The authority of evidence rather than polish. Of documentation rather than control.

The wavering marks say: transition happened here. That's not error. That's record.

THE BODY KNOWS BEFORE LANGUAGE

You know something's changing before you can say what. The body registers shift before the mind names it. You move differently, breathe differently, inhabit space differently—but you can't yet articulate what's shifting or why.

This is where drawing becomes essential. The hand can record what you can't yet name. The body's knowing translates through gesture before thought can organize it into words. The marks document change the body knows but the mind hasn't yet caught.

Think of how this works. You wake up feeling different. Not sick, not well—different. The body knows something has shifted, but you can't identify what. If you draw from that state, the marks will show it. Different pressure than usual. Different rhythm. Different quality you can't explain but can feel in the gesture.

The hand is documenting what the body knows. Recording transition before language can name it.

Here's how to work with this: Before drawing, scan your body for any sense of difference. Not specific feelings you can name—just the felt sense that something isn't exactly as it was. Maybe tension is distributed differently. Maybe breath sits in different place. Maybe weight feels shifted.

Don't try to understand it. Just notice: the body registers something.

Now draw from that registered-but-unnamed state. Make marks that match the body's sense of difference. If weight feels shifted, let pressure shift. If breath sits differently, let rhythm change. Don't translate into language first—let the hand record directly from what the body senses.

After five minutes, step back. The marks will show something—a quality, a shift, a difference from your usual patterns. You might still not be able to name what changed. But the evidence is there. The body's registered transition inscribed through gesture.

This is the body knowing before language. The hand recording what you sense but can't yet articulate. The marks functioning as documentation of felt-but-unnamed change.

Now try to force language first. Decide what you think is changing—"I'm tired" or "I'm anxious" or whatever label seems to fit. Then draw from that named state.

The marks will probably feel less accurate. Because you've imposed interpretation before letting the body show what it actually registers. The language flattened the complexity of what you were sensing into single term, and the marks followed that reduction.

The difference is clear: marks from what the body senses (before language) capture nuance. Marks from labeled states (after language) lose it. The body knows more than language can say. And the hand can record that more-than-language if you let it work before words arrive.

When you draw from transition before language names it, you create archive of states that otherwise disappear. The body's subtle registrations of change, too nuanced for words, recorded through gesture. Evidence of changing that exists nowhere else.

The hand speaks what the body knows. Let it document transition before language reduces it to labels. Let what you sense register through mark before thought translates it into terms.

That pre-linguistic recording is often the truest evidence of actual change.

ARCHIVE OF CHANGE

Transitional states disappear. The in-between doesn't last—you move through it toward resolution, toward the next settled state. Unless you record it. Unless the page holds it.

This is archive of change. The page as repository for states too fluid to stabilize, too brief to photograph, too in-process to capture any other way. Drawing holds transition that otherwise vanishes.

Think about how few records exist of your own transitions. You might photograph before and after, but the middle—the actual changing—usually disappears. It's too unstable to hold still for documentation. Too unclear to describe. Too brief to feel worth recording.

But it's often the most important part. The changing itself—how you got from there to here. And drawing can hold it when nothing else can.

Here's what this means practically: When you're in transition, the page can archive it. The marks document a state that will disappear once change completes. You're creating record of something otherwise unrecordable.

Work from this understanding: draw during transition not to make good drawings, but to create archive. To document a state that won't exist again once you've fully changed.

Make marks for ten minutes with archival intention. You're not trying to make art—you're creating record. Evidence of a state that's happening now but won't last. The page is holding what's too fluid to hold any other way.

After ten minutes, date the work. Mark it as archive: "Nov 14, transitional state." Put it aside.

Weeks or months later, when the transition has completed, you'll be able to look back. The marks will show a state you can no longer access. You'll see evidence of changing that's finished changing. The archive will hold what you couldn't hold yourself—the middle state, the in-between, the transition in progress.

This is archive of change. Not polished work, not finished art, but documentation. Evidence that change happened, that you were in flux, that transition occurred here.

The archive function changes what drawing is for. It's not about making things worth showing. It's about recording things worth remembering—especially the things that disappear otherwise. The transitions, the in-between states, the changing that's too unstable to preserve except through marks.

When you work archivally—when you draw to document rather than produce—the pressure changes. The marks don't need to be good. They need to be accurate. To show what was actually happening in the unstable space between states.

Years of this practice creates archive of your own transitions. Not just who you were or who you are, but evidence of all the changes between. The in-between states preserved through marks. The changing itself held on pages that function as repository for what otherwise disappears.

The archive says: transition happened here. This is what it looked like from inside. This is the evidence of changing.

That documentation is worth more than polished work. Because it's the only record of states that exist nowhere else.

Drawing holds what disappears. The transitional state, the in-between, the changing that exists too briefly to capture any other way.

Marks that show instability aren't mistakes but accurate documentation. The wavering records actual state: neither settled in what was nor arrived at what will be. The inconsistency is honest archive of change in progress.

The body knows transition before the mind can name it. The hand records what language hasn't caught, documents shifts you sense but thought hasn't organized into words. What the body registers inscribed through gesture before language reduces it.

The page holds states too fluid to preserve otherwise. Transition documented through marks creates record that exists nowhere else. Evidence of changing that disappears unless drawing holds it.

What you've encountered this week is the page as archive of change. How marks document transition while it's happening. How drawing holds what would otherwise vanish. How the work functions as evidence of states too unstable to capture any other way.

This shifts what drawing is for. Not producing finished work, but creating record. Documenting the in-between states, the transitions, the changings that make up most of lived experience but usually leave no trace.

When you draw to archive rather than produce—when you let transition inscribe itself, when you record what the body knows before language, when you preserve changing on the page—you're creating evidence. Proof that change happened here. Record of states that existed too briefly to preserve any other way.

The page remembers what you'll forget. The transition itself, held through marks. The changing, archived.