By Jessica Helfand
Filled to overflowing with the cryptic residue of my addled mind, my sketchbooks accompany me wherever I go: they’re my mobile studio. At turns wildly chaotic and compulsively neat, they’re densely packed with questions, yet vexingly devoid of answers. If there is a palpable representation of lunacy, this may well be it —though a more forgiving description might be that they’re eclectic, which is to say they’re all over the place. In sum, they are honest, if random, representations of the way I think. What they lack is consistency.

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