Artist's Foreword
I read somewhere that in the Tolstoy household the seemingly accidental reading of very personal journals was a frequent occurrence. I imagine that if anyone had something to say that was too harsh or painful or even embarrassing, it went into a journal that was then strategically abandoned where it could be found. Later I read that Boswell’s journal, like Swift’s Journal to Stella, was meant to be sent to a friend as correspondence and hence, meant to be read. Thinking about this strengthened my intuition that in spite of the books with locks and keys, or under lock and key, every diary, or journal, or notebook has an intended audience other that an older version of the author.
But is this true of artists’ journals and notebooks? Is this true for the writer who transcribes an overheard bit of dialogue, for the musician who notes down a phrase, or for the painter who makes a quick drawing? Who other than their author would be interested in sketches and half formulated thoughts? And are you who write or draw in your book not cramped by the constant presence of an imaginary someone looking over your shoulder? Do you not become more artful, more arch, than you otherwise are?
This is where I usually start: entirely self conscious I pull out a notebook and a pen in a public place – a museum, a park, a café, a waiting room – and start making notes or drawings, because I noticed something, or I thought of something, 
or I read something I do not want to forget. The writing, or the looking and drawing soon take over. Later, but not very much later, while the memory is still fresh, I compare what I wrote or drew to what I remember, and make amends. I add colour, obliterate drawings with writing, and writing with painting, paste things on top – until it feels right. Often the thought stays on the page just as I put it there: either I cannot add anything, or I am afraid to lose what’s there, or I just don’t know what to do with it. Accidents happen – not always happy ones – as ink and paint seep through the pages, as something spills or splatters and it all starts to look like the studio floor. And then the notebook peters out... there are always those last few pages that remain blank. Why should anyone else look at it? Who else would make sense of these encrypted pages?
Why do I look at other artists’ notebooks? When I hold one in my hand it feels heavier than it should – because of all the ink and paint and pasted bits of paper. It usually bulges and the pages have curled with abuse. I open the cover and look - I am curious.
I have spend many an hour poring over the dimly lit vitrines where notebooks and sketchbooks are usually exhibited, wishing bitterly that the glass would not stand between me and those pages that, for that day’s viewers, would forever remain unturned. The Notebook Project grew out of this frustration: this is a tool for the curious to explore a notebook. See what you make of it.
- Isabella Stefanescu, May 2006