a reunion of sorts

where we catch up in London with an old friend from France, and another from New York

One of the highlights of my recent trip to London was meeting up one evening with my friend Sandrine. I met Sandrine in Paris in 1989, and along with my roommate Jason, we spent the better part of that summer hanging out in an apartment on Rue Bichat before I returned to New York for my last year of college. I was in Paris again a year later, after graduating from college, and we stayed close. I even spent a night at her grandmother’s house when, long story short, I was locked out of my apartment. Sandrine’s grandmother didn’t speak a word of English, and I barely spoke a word of French. But she made me dinner and gave me a place to sleep.

When I left Paris the second time, in July 1991, I asked Sandrine to keep some things for me. I thought I’d only be gone a few months. The plan was to return to the States, save a little money, and get back to Paris, where I’d happily spend the rest of my life, of course.¹ This is where this story really begins.

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I don’t remember exactly what it was that I left in Sandrine’s parents’ attic in 1991. There were, bizarrely, a couple of large and unwieldy French windows that I believed would look amazing in my imaginary Parisian apartment where I expected to reside upon my return. And there was at least one box of design books and photography magazines. Probably some graphic novels, too. Whatever these things were, I’ve barely thought of them since the 1990s. If I had thought of them at all, I’d have assumed they’d been discarded and lost to time (I know the windows were). If I can’t even remember what was in those boxes, it must not have been that important, right?

wrong

I’d been in London for a few days when I got a message on WhatsApp from Sandrine: She lives near London, it’s been forever, and would love to catch up. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen Sandrine. She says it was late summer 1998, in San Francisco, and, she adds, I was a mess. That would make sense. Late summer 1998 is when I learned, to my great surprise, that I was going to be a father. This would explain both being a mess then, and not remembering any of it now. We made a plan. “Meet me under the clock at Waterloo Station, Sunday evening, 6:00 pm.”

I found Waterloo Station at the appointed time, and there, under the clock, I found Sandrine. I hadn’t seen her in 27 years, but I recognized her immediately.

we still look gooood

The plan was to get drinks, dinner, and just walk around, so first stop was Southbank, where we ordered a couple of pints, found a table, and began the process of catching up. While I was yapping on about who knows what, Sandrine reached into her bag, pulled something out, and just casually put it on the table in front of me. It was a small black sketchbook with a face screenprinted in yellow on the cover. I hadn’t seen it in 34 years, but I recognized it immediately.

It was not just a sketchbook. It was my sketchbook, one that I kept in college, in the late 1980s. The face printed on the cover was a design I made my senior year, in New York City, in 1990. But how was this sketchbook now sitting here in front of me, in London? Why was it in Sandrine’s bag? How is this happening?

Brains are funny things. I could almost hear the cogs turn and the pieces fall into place as I worked these questions out. I’d carried it with me to Paris, a few months after graduation. A year later, it was put in a box and left in Sandrine’s parents’ attic, awaiting my return. When Sandrine’s father cleared my crap out of his attic, he tossed the old windows, and I guess the books and magazines, but kept this sketchbook. He gave it to Sandrine, and she’s had it with her ever since.

I quickly paged through the book, reading some of the tiny print and deciphering a few of the sketches. But this wasn’t the place to go through it like I wanted to. I’d wait for the next morning at my local cafe, where I could take my time. I’d waited 34 years, I could wait a little longer to see what treasures it held.

it’s basically what I use the Notes app for now

I am a longtime keeper of sketchbooks. I’ve filled hundreds of them. Often, I label them with start dates and end dates, but I find that’s not often necessary, since I can usually tell within moments of opening the book. Some of these books contain work for one single project and have scripts and elaborate sketches. Some were bought for a trip. Most of my sketchbooks are small,² to be carried around in a bag or a pocket. They’re somewhat utilitarian, a place for quick ideas, notes, lists.

I’ve written before about found time-capsules, and rediscovering what’s in them. What would I find in this little book? Would it have some long-lost ideas that could now live their best lives and become something real? Some beautiful drawings from my life in New York City?

Not really. It’s page after page of lists, reminders, carefully rendered diagrams of logo assignments, and other class projects. It’s full of phone numbers and addresses I didn’t want to forget for people I no longer remember. Diagrams for my portfolio. Checklists for graduation. It’s not unlike the small sketchbooks I keep now.

I wonder if I ever found a Tinguely book for Evelyn

More than anything else, this book is a note to self that 21-year-old me, in a lot of ways, had his shit together. I’m often hard on my 21-year-old self. I wish he’d just fucking relax a little. That kid was uptight, anxious, a mess. But this sketchbook proves he was a worker. This business of being an artist isn’t about big ideas out of nowhere. It’s about doing the work, and 21-year-old me knew this. He was a romantic, living in his head with some wild dreams about his future self, but he had goals and plans. I’m glad to see this. I’ll try to be nicer to that kid.

Call Lilla, for chrissakes!!!

The best thing I found in this sketchbook is a tiny little unassuming note on the next-to-last page. I highlighted it in yellow for you below. I have to explain, first, that I was a graphic design major. I didn’t take drawing pictures seriously. I wanted to be an art director. I wanted to be THE art director.³ And my degree was to be in “Communication Design.” As I began my final semester, I was told I was lacking two credits and I’d need to take one more elective to graduate. I scanned the catalog and found a class called “The Business of Illustration,” taught by an artist named

Lilla Rogers

. Lilla was at that time a successful illustrator and later a very successful agent. One night, on March 6 according to the sketchbook, Lilla announced in class that she needed an assistant. I made a note of this, which says for me to call her. I called her.

I worked for Lilla for six months, until I left again for Paris later that summer⁴. I did all the things that the note says: I answered her phones, I organized competition entries, dealt with mailings, supplies, rubber stamps, etc. And I learned to take drawing pictures seriously. Sometime during those six months Lilla said something to me that I sort of blew off at the time, but nevertheless lodged permanently into the corners of my brain. She said, “Brian, you know you’re an illustrator, right? Your degree might say graphic design, but you are, in fact, an illustrator.”⁵

so many fish. some things don't change, i suppose.

No argument from me.

Meanwhile, back in London in 2025

Sandrine and I had a great time hanging out and catching up that evening. We were saying our goodbyes on the Waterloo Bridge when I asked her whether there was anything else that was saved from that box in her parents’ attic.

She laughed and cocked her head in a way that I remember Sandrine does. “Yes, in fact there was,” she replied. “So, I guess you’ll just have to come back to London.” 😳

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Speaking of sketchbooks.

I was flying from New York to Paris during this same time, just after New Year’s 1991, carrying another sketchbook with me. This one is a little larger and was the book where I kept notes and sketches for what became Frederick & Eloise. I was at JFK when I spotted a man, as I wrote in my book…

with round red-framed glasses, shaggy blonde hair and looking awfully nervous. I knew immediately it was (David) Hockney.

The note continues:

I pulled out my sketchbook and walked up to him. “Mr. Hockney,” I asked. “As a fan, would it sound stupid if I asked you for an autograph in my sketchbook?” He seemed very nervous as he took my pen and scribbled his name in large red letters. “Are you an artist?” he asked. “I’m a graphic designer living in Paris.” “I used to live in Paris,” he said. We spoke for a short twenty seconds or so, shook hands and parted. I have to say, I’m rather ecstatic. That was almost as good as (meeting) Maurice Sendak. Cool.

Remind me to tell you sometime about meeting Maurice Sendak.

David Hockney’s autograph, and my story of getting said autograph

Thanks for reading.

1. Of course, that’s not how it went, is it? The next time I was in Paris was for a week, in 1995. And then again in 2004, and I’ve not been back since. C’est fou.

2. I use those little softcover Moleskines now, with the thin and flimsy pages.

3. The new Tibor Kalman or Fred Woodward. Take your pick.

4. Where I had a job as assistant art director of a magazine, and later lived on a friend’s sofa and drew Frederick & Eloise, my first graphic novel. It was a busy year.

5. Obviously, Lilla was right. (Maybe not a verbatim quote (hi Lilla!), but it’s how it sounds to me now.)