A visit to the College bookstore this morning found me lingering at the adult coloring book display.
In childhood, I spent many happy hours (perhaps too many, but I made good grades in school with minimal effort, so why calculate how many?) coloring and completing paint-by-numbers sets. Why shouldn't adults do the same?
There are the pleasures of movement of the hand, of smelling the crayon or sharpening the colored pencil or washing to watercolor, of emerging color on an otherwise white page, of clear black lines -- all creating a mindlessness I enjoy when taking pictures and walking or used to enjoy when practicing transcendental meditation or playing the piano. (I've read prayer can have the same effect for religious people.)
I was charmed by several of the books, especially those by Joanna Batsford, whose beautiful graphic work started the current craze (I think), and one called Parisian Street Style, which reminds me In and Out of the Garden, South of France, and A Bowl of Olives (do choose "Look Inside") by Sara Midda.
Perhaps, when my high photography season ends late in the fall, I shall buy one or more coloring books to get my through the gray days of winter.