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There’s nothing to draw anymore. I shake my head as I stroll down the damp part of the coast and the icy waves brush over my feet, which are barely making imprints in the wet sand. Sure, there are seagulls swooping overhead and calling out and shitting on the occasional unlucky beachgoer, but everyone draws seagulls. I’ve drawn them a dozen times and none of those drawings sold. Some kids are running down the beach, flying a kite. Whimsical childhood schmaltz. Nostalgic artwork already hangs in every hotel room that promises the tourists that they’ll feel that childhood whimsy again if they just spend a few more bucks. Then there’s the ocean itself. When I was younger, I’d see how far out I could swim before the lifeguard blew the whistle on me. After at least an hour in the water, I’d get out the sketchbook and draw those loose, ever-changing waves, wanting my art to move like the ocean. And what do you know, it turns out that every artist who lives in a seaside town wants to draw