I don’t much like bags. I try to carry what I need in my pickets. If I risk looking like a kangaroo with bulging, tumorous trousers, I begrudgingly pick up a backpack or one of the many bags Patti used to sling on her scooter.
This particular bag looks like a dark blue, exploding chicken. It has been hanging, more or less untouched, in Patti’s bathroom for the last 839 days.
I drew it sitting on the cool marble floor, Joe leaning heavily against my side. My composition is a bit lopsided and there are some splashes of ink on the right for some reason but I like what I made. It was easier to draw than it was to haul myself up off the floor.