This one has no end date because I don’t think it has an end. Once a week, I draw a room from memory: my kitchen, a waiting room from a decade ago, the studio I rented before this one. Never from a photo, never from life. Whatever the memory left out just doesn’t appear in the drawing, and that turns out to be the interesting part.
Graphite only, because color would make me second-guess the memory instead of trusting it. A room I lived in for years comes out looking almost empty. A room I sat in once, nervous, for twenty minutes comes out with every object accounted for. The drawings are a pretty accurate record of what I was actually paying attention to at the time, which is not the same thing as what was actually in the room.
I keep meaning to stop and never do.