Prompt 328. Rabbit Holes
& the artist Erik Winkowski on how writing and drawing are the same
Hi friend,
I want to start today’s missive with an enormous thank you. The response to the Alchemy Tour has been astonishing—the San Francisco show sold out in a mere eight hours and the other shows are filling up fast! I’m so grateful and thrilled to bring The Book of Alchemy to life onstage with this community.
Along with the excitement is a healthy dose of nerves too—not only about the tour, but also about this book’s debut. I have so many deadlines between now and April 22 that it feels really daunting. But instead of focusing on hammering away at my to-do list, in moments like these I procrastinate by doing one of two things: I begin maniacally reorganizing my house, or I disappear down internet rabbit holes—or both. So it’s not a shock to me that my sock drawer is as tidy as it will ever be, and that a quick glance at my browser history reveals the following research adventures: planning my summer garden (see Virginia Woolf’s Monk House), allergen elimination diets for dogs (sweet Sunshine has been chewing her paws), the history of Pixar (reason unclear), and visual inspiration for a wooden beaded chandelier I’m currently dreaming up for my living room (see in-progress pic above).
My husband Jon is also prone to these kinds of rabbit holes, though his distend into wormholes—so that rather than burrowing his way to China, he ends up out by the Pleiades. It’s not uncommon to open my laptop in the morning to find a hundred different browser tabs about one person, subject, or movement. I’ve taken to calling him my Youtube historian, because he’ll get fascinated by a public figure and scour the interwebs for every soundbite and video clip, including the earliest one he can find—before they got media training, before they had learned not to reveal too much. What I find interesting is that I view Jon’s chosen form of procrastination in such a positive light. I see him as voraciously curious, fascinated by everything, open to inspiration from everywhere. I think of his internet searches as the artistic equivalent of panning for gold—whereas I see my own behavior as a personality flaw. I think, What a waste of time—stop dilly-dallying!
But the truth is, I’ve always been very curious, and I’ve always had wide-ranging interests. When I was growing up, my mom said that I was a kid who went through a lot of phases—that I’d get really obsessed with ballet, then really obsessed with the double bass, then really obsessed with the Beat poets or Maghrebian literature. I used to feel a sense of shame around that, thinking it was a weakness—that I was easily distracted. But as the years pass and all my past interests, from design to music to dogs to writing, reemerge and cohere in my adult life, as I braid them together, I feel the urge to change that story, to tell my inner critic to pipe down—I’m not some distractible procrastinator. I’m curious, and the best and most interesting things happen when I follow my curiosity.
Which brings me to today’s guest essay: Earlier this week, in one of my internet interludes, I came across a newsletter called Paper Films, where the artist Erick Winkowski shares his art and animation along with the processes, inspiration, and insights behind them. With Erik’s permission, I’m sharing his delightful exploration of typographic art, “The Written Image,” and a prompt inspired by it. May it send you down a curious, enchanting, discovery-filled rabbit hole of your own.
Sending love,
Suleika
Some Items of Note—
If you missed the announcement this week: I’m going on a very special book tour to celebrate The Book of Alchemy. You can find more info here!
The next Hatch, our monthly creative gathering for paid subscribers, is scheduled for March 16, 2025, from 1-2pm ET.
will reflect on how we can turn isolation into creative solitude and connection. Mark your calendar!
Prompt 328. The Written Image by Erik Winkowski
When I bought a typewriter, I never intended to write with it. I wanted to make drawings.
In truth, there’s not a big difference between writing and drawing. The alphabet began as pictograms, and over the course of 5,000 years, those pictures of ox heads, huts, and fish were simplified and abstracted into the letters we find on our keyboards today. I learned this in typography class back in art school, and it completely blew my mind. It still does. Just imagine what ancient images are lurking in this sentence.
I bought a vintage sage-green Smith-Corona typewriter off Etsy a few years ago, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever owned. Unfortunately, it’s spent most of that time sitting in its case, collecting dust. So last month, I decided I’d finally make some drawings with it.
Looking for inspiration, my first stop was Concrete Poetry: A 21st-Century Anthology. I’ve turned to this book many times over the years. It’s a diverse collection of work from artists and poets who use language in surprising and often beautiful ways.
Then, while poking around online, I discovered an absolute gold mine: Typewriter Art by Alan Riddell. The bad news? It’s out of print and costs about $200, used. The good news? The entire book is available for free on archive.org. This book shows a much more expressive, almost painterly approach, to typographic art. It gave me permission to get loose with my compositions.
That led me down a rabbit hole on Archive.org—from Fun with Your Typewriter to Artyping to How To Make “Typeys.” After a couple hours, it became clear I had passed from research into procrastination.
Finally, I got to work. I spent the next three days making typewriter drawings. I like using new tools that force me to work in a different way. A typewriter is stubborn, uncooperative, and utterly ridiculous as a drawing tool. And yet, that’s what makes it fun. Every drawing feels like discovering something you didn’t know you were looking for.
Your prompt for the week:
Write about a rabbit hole you went down recently—what sparked it, what unexpected discoveries you made, and where your curiosity led you.
If you’d like, you can post your response to today’s newsletter and prompt in the comments. As a reminder, we love seeing your work inspired by the Isolation Journals, but to preserve this as a community space, we request no promotion of outside projects.
Today’s Contributor—
Erik Winkowski is a New Orleans–based artist who treats video like collage—cutting up, drawing over, and remixing scenes from everyday life in playful, unexpected ways. His pioneering animation techniques lend his videos the spontaneity and vitality of painting; this experimental spirit can be seen in his collaborations with Prada, Gucci, Hermès, and The New York Times. For more of Erik’s work, subscribe to Paper Films.
For more paid subscriber benefits, see—
Catch It by the Tail, a recap and replay of the Hatch where Holly Huitt reflected on the many ways creative inspiration can appear and how to catch it (by the tail, if need be) when it does
Studio Visit: Hospital Edition, a behind-the-scenes tour of my makeshift studio in my hospital room, where I followed my curiosity and learned to tame my fears by painting my fever dreams
On Finding Your Voice, a replay of my Studio Visit with the brilliant Ashley C. Ford, where we talked about taking risks, dreaming big, and the most important question you can ask yourself when you’re at a crossroads
Pre-order The Book of Alchemy—
My new book, The Book of Alchemy, comes out on April 22, 2025. I’d be so grateful if you would preorder a copy for yourself or a friend. Preorders are so important for authors, and it would mean everything to me!
I wasn’t looking for a revelation at the farmers’ market. Just a slow wander, eyes skimming over peaches, eggplants, & fragrant basil. Then, I saw it—a tomato so dark it was nearly black, its skin taut, marked by a pale, star-like scar where the stem had been.
I stopped. Stared. Picked one up. I’ve known tomatoes my whole life—in kitchens where olive oil pooled in earthenware, where hands shaped dough on floured wood, where the scent of simmering pots carried stories older than the walls. But never this. Never a tomato so dark it seemed to hold the night within its skin.
The grower, a woman of Indian descent, smiled. “Black Cherry Tomatoes,” she said.
That was it. The rabbit hole opened.
It was a weight thing. The roundness of it. The way my fingers knew the feel of it before my brain caught up. And suddenly, I wasn’t in the market anymore. I was in my aunt’s house, leaning against the billiard table, watching her line up a shot. The lacquered balls, the deep polish, the way the light bent over their curves. The tomato sat in my palm, marked with the same quiet geometry—smooth, weighted, holding a history within its skin.
I bought a whole bag. Not because I needed them, but because I needed to understand them.
At home, I fell straight in. Black Cherry Tomatoes—heirlooms, passed down through generations, their darkness owed to anthocyanins, the same pigments that give blueberries their depth. The star at the top? A natural imprint, left by the calyx pressing into the skin as the fruit ripens.
That should have been enough. But now, I was thinking about billiard balls.
Early ones were carved from ivory, each tusk yielding only a few. Later, celluloid was introduced as a synthetic alternative—until they discovered that under just the right conditions, these balls could explode on impact. (Imagine lining up your perfect shot only for the table to stage a tiny mutiny.) The game itself? Pure physics. Angles, resistance, force—every shot a calculation, every motion dictated by an unseen formula.
And that’s when I saw it—the deeper connection. Not just shape. Not just markings. Movement.
A billiard ball, struck just so, follows a path determined by its surroundings. A tomato, though slower in its journey, is no different—shaped by wind in the vines, the weight of its own growth, the hand that plucks it & sends it rolling. Both are objects caught in stillness just before they shift again.
I imagined setting a Black Cherry Tomato on a billiard table, watching it sit for just a breath before it tipped & rolled, nudged by some invisible force. Like the billiard balls themselves, which, when knocked too hard, would drop from the table & disappear—into woven pockets, like macramé socks, stretched just enough to catch them; in other tables into openings where they’d roll down unseen channels, landing with a quiet finality. One moment in play, the next, gone. A different kind of rabbit hole, where things vanish, waiting to be retrieved.
I wanted to ask the grower more, but she was busy, hands moving swiftly from one customer to the next. The rhythm of trade pulled her forward, & I let the moment pass.
So, I left with my questions intact, my curiosity only half-fed.
But I’ll return next week, find her again. I know she had another name for them, but my mind was already headfirst down the hole, & all I can remember are the letters Y & U. Perhaps that was her name for them… perhaps I’m imagining something altogether. This time, I’ll wait for the pause, the moment between transactions when the weight of a question lingers just long enough to be answered. The other kind of rabbit hole—the in-person kind, unfolding in real time, through conversation, through the hands of those who grow the things we eat.
I so enjoyed this prompt, Suleika, & reading of Jon’s explorations, of how both your curiosities works. Starting with a tomato, & before you know it, you’re knee-deep in billiard ball manufacturing, exploding plastics, ancient cultivation, & the mathematics of motion. And maybe that’s the real beauty of it—not the answers, but the sheer thrill of not knowing where the next turn will take you.
Hello All. I love Rabbit Holes. And worm holes!. I love this "I used to feel a sense of shame around that, thinking it was a weakness—that I was easily distracted. But as the years pass and all my past interests, from design to music to dogs to writing, reemerge and cohere in my adult life, as I braid them together, I feel the urge to change that story, to tell my inner critic to pipe down—I’m not some distractible procrastinator. I’m curious, and the best and most interesting things happen when I follow my curiosity." Thank you for such a beautiful way to look. I went through a journey with your announcement of excitement and sadness to acceptance. I live in Pittsburgh so I thought maybe Phil. However with much discussions with my husband it is not possible with my health and caregiver of my mom. However if you decided to record any show and sell those recordings I am first in line for tickets!!