Writers are told to write about what they know. That rule doesn't apply to us visual types, but sometimes what you know is what there is. Over the years my feet have made countless appearances in sketchbooks and journals---my feet in doctors' waiting rooms, my feet on the beach, my feet on the bed, my feet nude, my feet shod. Sketching your own feet is an activity similar to a cat chasing its tail, only moderately more decorous. You can do it discreetly, you can do it for free, you can do it without thinking. You have a moment, you have your sketchbook and a pencil, you're bored--- and there they are, those trusty appendages.
Today I prepare to have my feet unveiled after last week's surgery to correct overzealous metatarsals (for this condition, thanks are due to my forbears and, I suspect, to years of running) and I wonder, whose feet ARE these? Will I recognize these tootsies, with their newly slim silhouettes, their scars, their invisibly ( I hope) embedded screws? You know, I'd grown accustomed to their look.