First-aid station for abused tomato plants

First-aid station for abused tomato plants (fineliner sketch)

First-aid station for abused tomato plants (fineliner sketch)
First-aid station for abused tomato plants (fineliner sketch)
Weeks ago I accidentally broke off part of the stem of one of my tomato plants. I put it in a glass of water and it started growing roots, so I planted in a pot of its own.
Just when I thought it had pulled through, I broke it off again (accidentally, of course). Not sure how much abuse a little plant like that can take.
But at least its mother plant continued to grow fine.

Another one of my plants, that was already carrying small green fruit, I dropped from quite some height and the stem broke off completely. I doubt that a big plant like that can grow new roots quick enough to recover.

Indoor tomato plants

Indoor tomato (fineliner)
Indoor tomato (fineliner)

Last year October: While cooking I was cutting tomatoes, and I noticed that the seeds had already started to germinate.

So I put them in a flower pot – fairly confident that they would not grow anyway.

But they did, so I planted them in separate, but very small, pots and put them on the window sill – fairly confident that they would not get enough light in winter indoors anyway.

But the tomatoes did not care about what I thought, and even though I neglected them and did not water them all that regularly they just kept growing and growing.

So now, months later, in spite of the tiny pots they have to grow in, I have almost ten plants which are now forming green fruit (but they are not ripe yet).

The marvels of nature.

Social phobia and the beer breath of strangers

City Tanzcafe, Dortmund (fineliner and watercolor)
City Tanzcafe, Dortmund (fineliner and watercolor)

I have never attempted to — but I’m fairly sure I could convince a doctor that I have social phobia, if I tried.
So I usually look for a hidden, sheltered spot when I sketch outside.
This was not the case when doing this sketch. I was sitting on a circular bench on a busy square in the city, and soon after I started sketching, a bunch of older men sat down there, too, talking loudly in a language that I didn’t know. I tried to ignore them, but even though I didn’t understand the language, I could tell that they were talking about me.
I imagine the conversation went something like this:
– What’s she doing now?
– She’s putting in shadows. (The man sitting next to me answered.)
– What?
– (Louder) She’s putting in shadows!

At times the guy sitting next to me was leaning in so closely that I could smell his beer breath.

But in the end it wasn’t such a traumatic experience after all.