Portland, OR, Circa 2006 – I’m standing in the Art section of Powell Books. A particular shelf has seized my attention. It holds a dozen or so copies of a book that is new to me. I bring down a copy and begin to peruse the pages. It’s an artist’s sketchbook, fully realized as a hard-bound publication. It offers more than I could have asked for: droll yet entertaining text with insights into the process and the experience, page after page of creative, imaginative depictions of fantastic places, objects and creatures; musings on how such ideas arise…
The pencil drawings are rendered deftly–almost casually–but with such skill! The designs are out of this world, and fully believable. The environments are evocative. I aspire to draw like this!
So engrossing is the book that I do not immediately notice what’s happening on the other side of a projection screen facing rows of chairs a short distance away. A man is speaking in a gentle voice with quiet enthusiasm. The audience laughs appreciatively at one thing or another.
Somehow, what he is saying correlates to the drawings I’m studying. Minutes later, I come to the realization that the man is speaking in first person–that this is, in fact, the very artist whose Lord of the Rings Sketchbook I hold in my hands.
I close the book and walk around the edge of the now-standing-room-only crowd facing the projection screen. Alan Lee is saying things like, “I eventually left art school because we didn’t seem to be doing much drawing,” and “The film deadlines were so tight, we all got very good at Photoshop; we would just paste a few figures onto a photo of New Zealand.”
He carries on for maybe half an hour more, holding us in rapt attention. When he is done, he sits down at a small desk while a staff member announces that Mr. Lee will be available for autographs. Ping suggests that I buy the book and have it signed. I tend to be reluctant to ask for autographs. I don’t quite know what they mean, I guess. The people who quickly form a long line leading to the desk have no such misgivings.
I buy the book and join the queue behind a guy who has a moving box full of Alan Lee art: books, calendars, posters, etc. I have a long time to wait. I watch Mr. Lee stand up and shake the hand of every person who comes to the desk. He does this for everyone, without exception. Then he sits down and signs whatever thing they have for him. He is neither hurried nor harried. I’m impressed. The line inches forward.
When the guy in front of me gets to the desk, he launches into a “great fan of yours” speech. Mr. Lee listens quietly until it becomes obvious that the guy wants him to sign every bit of memorabilia in the box. “How about if I sign these two?” says Mr. Lee. The box holder relents.
Now it’s my turn. Alan Lee stands up, looks me in the eye and asks my name. We shake hands. I give him my new copy of his sketchbook. Opening it to the title page, he asks: “How would you like me to sign it?”
I balk. I have no idea. We’ve just met. What do I want from Alan Lee?
I don’t want to be a bother. I say: “Whatever you like is fine.” I’ve given him nothing.
Graciously, he writes a brief dedication, signs beneath it and hands the book back to me with a smile. I thank him and move on so he can continue with the rest of the line. I’ve not been too much of a bother.
I’ve had years to think about this. I know what I would ask for now. From what I have seen of Alan Lee, he would happily give it to me. Time is not linear, so I have gone back and asked for what I really wanted. I got it.
When I read his signature now, it says this to me:
To Mark–
Keep drawing!
Alan Lee
I have done so, Mr. Lee; I have indeed. Thank you.
Memory Bits 
