![]() On the right is a very different drawing, by the Russian Constructivist artist Natalia Gontcharova. But actually the surrounding white space creates a palpable sense of distance from the building – you can really feel the on-the-spot observation happening. In this case, the motif initially seems to have been placed very casually on the page. I’m pretty sure it shows a kiosk for distributing water and sherbet you can still see some of these lovely tiled buildings there today. The one on the left is an unattributed drawing, dated 1844, made by an unknown European artist visiting Constantinople (present-day Istanbul). The two very different drawings below both use the edges of the page very effectively. Like Leonardo, most artists who use sketchbooks tend to respond to the format. Then of course there is the more familiar sort of sketchbook, usually small and portable so that the artist can take it out at a moment’s notice. Here’s a spread from a book kept by the Leeds ceramic firm Hartley, Greens & Co, which shows the collage-like approach typical of such pattern books. Though they serve the same purposes as an artist’s sketchbook, often the pictures are not drawn, but rather are pasted in and then perhaps annotated or marked-up. Maybe they show things made by the company in the past, maybe images by competitors, maybe historic objects – all intended to aid in further design. They are reference guides for production. Fascinating for the way they reflect a person’s (or business’s) practice and thought process, they can be divided roughly into two groups. The first, which might best be described as in-house ‘pattern books’ (not to be confused with the published kind, like Chippendale’s Director), are like scrapbooks with a purpose. More pertinent to this blog, though, are books that designers and artists use to collect pictures. ![]() You marked them with a stylus, and could then rub the ivory clean, like a school child’s tablet. The below example from the Gilbert Collection at the V&A still bears numerals scrawled on to its delicate surface. In the 17th and 18th century, elite examples sometimes had ivory plaques for pages. ![]() Over the centuries notebooks have taken some beautiful and surprising forms, which have of course dictated the drawings (and writing) that is committed to them. It’s as if it were designed on a modern layout grid Massimo Vignelli would be proud. In the example at right, each page has been given a more or less 2/3 – 1/3 composition, with the right-hand column reserved for illustrations and notes. Paul’s was the centre of this trade.) A flip through the Forster Codices (you can do this digitally here) reminds you of a less historically-specific aspect of notebooks for sketching: artists tend to react to the format.Įven someone of the inventive power of Leonardo, seemingly by instinct, divides up the two rectangular facing pages of each spread into more-or-less evenly divided spaces. Right up until the 18th century, you had to get your loose leaves of paper from a bookseller, and then take them to a binder yourself. It’s a reminder that in the early modern period, the relation between a book’s pages and its covers was quite flexible. One of the interesting features of the Leonardo volumes is that they include five separate notebooks, set into three bindings. They got me thinking about the books that artists and designers use for sketching. Among the prize exhibits in the V&A’s new Medieval and Renaissance Galleries are the so-called Forster Codices, a trio of notebooks kept by Leonardo da Vinci.
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