People keep asking what’s inside my sketchbook, as if it’s some secret place where I plan out the big works.
But the truth is: it’s not a plan at all.

My sketchbook is more like a dumping ground for whatever I’m carrying around in my head. Sometimes it’s a messy dribble of ink because I’m overstimulated. Sometimes it’s a quick mark just to get something out before it sits in me too long. Sometimes it’s nothing more than a scribble I make while thinking about something completely unrelated. It’s closer to a diary than part of my “art practice,” even though everything is connected in the end.

Most of what lands in there never becomes a painting.
That’s not even the point.

The sketchbook is where I loosen my hand, where I let myself be wrong, where I don’t have to impress anyone — not even myself. There’s no pressure in it. No composition. No intention. Just instinct. Tiny flashes of whatever mood or thought or frustration I’m in that day.

And weirdly, those raw moments often say more about me than the finished works ever could.

That’s why I decided to share one sketch per month. Not because these pages are “works” or because I think they’re precious, but because they’re honest. They show the shifts — in line, mood, energy. If someone follows the drops over time, they’ll probably see my brain changing, my hand changing, my emotional weather changing.

It’s like giving people a slow-motion tour of my inner life, one fragment at a time.

Sharing the first one felt strange, but also right.
There’s something grounding about letting the imperfect parts out into the world instead of pretending everything starts polished.

This is what’s behind the idea — nothing fancy.
Just the truth of how things actually begin.

— Manja

What a Sketchbook Really Is (At Least for Me)

What It Means to Paint What Can’t Be Said