7 x 14 in. double page spread; watercolor, ink, whatever, on Stillman & Birn paper.
In a little while I'll be leaving for the airport, about to begin the almost 24 hour trip to Buenos Aires we've been making every summer. As much as I like Buenos Aires, I dread the claustrophobic ordeal of getting there: the cramped seats in coach most of all. Being scrunched into such a compressed seated posture for so many hours makes me lose touch with myself and all of civilization. Civilization doesn't seem to exist in the air.
In particular, I begin to doubt the continued existence of my legs, below the knee. Occasionally I feel for my tibia, just to make sure it's still there. And I wriggle my toes for all they're worth. (I hear stories of people massaging their soles on balls, but they must be traveling business class -- there is simply not enough room for that in the seating I encounter.)
Airplanes seem to get smaller every year, the aisles narrower. You can't wander up and down the aisles much anymore, there's barely room to travel sideways.
I used to wonder at how so many people seem to be able to sleep their way across continents and oceans -- then I was told: sleeping pills. Aha!
Anyway, of all the experiences one pays big money, for flying is surely one of the most unpleasant, excluding of course such events as major surgery.
This drawing also appears in Jonathan Fitzgordon's blog.