On Paper and Joy

This week was full – classes taught, lectures given, ideas shared – but today I don’t want to write about all of that. I want to linger on one small, beautiful pocket of time that filled me with quiet joy.

On Saturday, I taught a handmade journal class in my studio.

We gathered around the table and began slowly, the way I love best. Papers everywhere – different textures, colours, weights, sizes – inviting hands to touch, shuffle, compare. We folded and glued, building spines for journals that already felt personal before a single word or image had been added. Then came the play: decorating pages with strips and circles, layering and rearranging, and finally reaching for the washi tapes I brought back from Japan. Each roll felt like a small treasure, and watching everyone choose, tear, and place them was pure delight.

We also made two different kinds of envelopes – little homes for future notes, secrets, scraps, and discoveries yet to come.

In the days leading up to the class, I found myself unexpectedly stuck on one decision: what to use for the covers. I agonized over paper choices, colour palettes, and combinations that felt right. Nothing quite clicked… until I glanced up at my design wall.

There, quietly waiting, was a piece of painted fabric – and suddenly everything made sense.

Every time I have a monoprinting session, I end up with one, two, sometimes more pieces of painted fabric from cleaning my brayer. They’re spontaneous, layered, unplanned – often set aside and forgotten. Looking at that fabric, I realized it already held everything I wanted the journal covers to be: expressive, imperfect, full of history.

So I gathered a small stack of these wonderfully colourful fabrics and cut them to size, giving the students a selection to choose from. Each piece was different. Each one told a story. Watching the students respond to them – holding them up, turning them over, imagining them as the skin of their books – was deeply satisfying. I even used one of my own monoprinted fabrics for a smaller journal, and it felt like closing a quiet creative loop.

By the end of the day, the table was scattered with paper scraps, washi tape ends, and smiles. No two journals were alike. Each one felt alive, already holding the promise of future marks, words, and memories.

This is why I teach.
For these moments of shared making.
For the joy of noticing what’s been waiting patiently in plain sight.
For the simple magic of turning leftovers into something cherished.

Thank you for reading. Until I write again, I’m off to finish my own journal …

Ana