At long long last, the Portland urban sketchers met in person, there being enough of us fully vaccinated (mostly the old farts, but the youngsters are hot on our heels) to feel safe out in the world.
We met on the esplanade, and, seeing that the Hawthorne Bridge was closed to auto traffic, I took the opportunity of planting my butt on the sidewalk and dangling my feet on the road bed and did a one-point perspective of the bridge, taking care not to drop a pen or pencil through the mesh and into the drink.
And then switched to my tablet and did a study of the trunk of a gnarly old willow by the fire station.
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