A few years ago, at a Turner exhibition, I was enchanted by several small, velveteen sketchbooks. Their covers were faded and paint stained; their pages were water-buckled. On the front corner of one, a large sienna thumbprint was clearly visible. I was surprised by their smallness, especially when I compared their size to the much larger watercolours and oils that hung on the walls of the room. At the same time, I was thrilled to think that Turner had carried each of these small books. Perhaps he had slipped one into the side pocket of his frock coat. Perhaps he had held one in his palm and sketched the scenery as it flew by train windows. For each of his many journeys through Britain and Europe, a sketchbook had accompanied him.

The oldest surviving sketchbook is French, made by the architect, Villard d'Honnecourt, in the first half of the thirteenth century. It includes drawings and measurements that he collected during his travels to the building sites of the great cathedrals of France, in towns such as Reims and Chartres. It was intended as a manual both for himself and for other masons and architects involved in the Gothic construction boom. Thinking about it, I can almost see the men huddled together, intense, passionate, scanning first the book and then the arches, buttresses, and spires of the cathedral rising in front of them.

When d'Honnecourt created his book, he used vellum for its pages since paper was still a rarity in Europe. However within the century, the town of Fabriano, in central Italy, had become an important paper-making site. Soon its watermarked sheets were to be found throughout Europe, and paper had supplanted vellum and parchment as the drawing and writing surface of choice. By 1430, Bellini was exploring perspective and urban architecture in paper sketchbooks, which are now part of the collections of the Louvre and the British Museum. Although I have been unable to discover the provenance of the paper that he used to make them, I know that his first Florentine teacher was Gentile da Fabriano, so it is not far-fetched to think that the master might have introduced his student to paper from his birthplace.

Eighty years later, Durer bound paper to make sketchbooks in which to record scenes from his many journeys through Europe. Among the earliest surviving watercolours is one that he painted of a small woodland pond, an intensely blue puddle set in a blurred landscape of watery greens and browns. I saw it at the British Museum, and I went back several times to look. The paper was thick, and I wondered when it had been removed from the folio. I tried to imagine flipping through page after page of colourful sketches. It made me happy to think that Durer was creating albums of his trips, over five hundred years ago.

Of course, among the most famous sketchbooks are those that were made by Leonardo da Vinci. Most people have seen at least one reproduction from the more than 5,000 pages of his text and drawings that have survived. (The Vitruvian Man is perhaps the best-known, appearing as it does today on everything from logos to wrapping paper. ) Leonardo epitomizes what we have since referred to as the "Renaissance Man". His notebooks bear witness to his overwhelming curiosity, a trait not only highly regarded but also assiduously cultivated among the wealthy intellectuals of the sixteenth century. Collecting and scientific investigation became passions, and sketchbooks provided a way to document what they were discovering and observing. Soon, the sketchbooks themselves became collectibles, and folios were being bought and sold.

I have so far been unable to discover when bookbinders began to bind blank pages into books. At some point, someone realized that artists would pay for the convenience of a pre-made sketchbook. It is likely that sizes and papers were not standardized initially, but as papermaking and bindings became more sophisticated, so did sketchbook options. From the simple folio stitching that held together d'Honnecourt's sheaf of vellum to the sewn and twice- glued bindings that allow pages to open flat, the artists' sketchbook has come a long way.

Recently I ran into a friend who will soon be leaving on a trip to China and South-East Asia. We chatted about her readiness, and I learned that the only item she still needed to purchase was a new sketchbook. She knew exactly which one suited her needs, which one was the right size, the right shape, and most importantly, had the right paper. She confessed that she always bought the same sort, that she had tried others on occasion, but had always returned to her old favourite. As she spoke, I realized the importance of a sketchbook for an artist, and I thought back to those little books I had once seen in a glass case at the Royal Academy.

Contributed by Aubin van Berckel
aubin@opusframing.com