When my sister and I were kids, we had access to all kinds of wonderful art supplies because Dad was very generous about sharing his stuff with us. We had watercolors and pens, acrylics and crayons, calligraphy tools, and all kinds of wonderful paper. The one thing we did not have (much): coloring books. A few crept into the house here and there (in particular I recall one with troll dolls to color in), probably gifts from a grandmother or aunt, but Dad thought most of them were abominations–carefully crafted to rob of us of our creativity and make us color inside the lines.
I think he was right, and I’m grateful for the guidance.
Still, lately I’ve been gravitating towards doodling images of things that can be colored in. These, for instance, scribbled over the past couple of days in a nifty little handmade journal filled with very thin sheets of lokta paper, make me itch to take crayons or colored pencils or fine-line markers to them. And even to stay within the lines.
But maybe since I made the lines, too, Dad would have given these a pass. What do you think?