The Blue Compass

Jon stepped into the studio like a man fresh off a long haul, carrying that quiet heaviness people get from staring at open water for too many years. He told me he wanted “something nautical,” which is the kind of brief that could mean anything from an anchor to a childhood memory. But he said he trusted me. Said he liked my edge. Wanted to see where I’d take it.

Most folks who ask for a compass are after the same thing the internet has chewed up and spat out a thousand times. A safe symbol. A tidy circle. A polite nod to direction.

But Jon wasn’t built for polite.

When I showed him my sketch, the room went still. Not dramatic, just that slow inhale where you’re waiting for the verdict. He studied it like he was reading weather on the horizon, and then that grin broke through. The kind that tells you you’ve hit the mark without him needing to say a word.

Sure, it came out bigger than he expected. Some pieces just demand space, like they’re trying to breathe.

Over the years, this compass has been traced, copied, stolen, reposted, imitated more times than I can count. Doesn’t bother me. The copies don’t have the miles, the salt, the story.

Jon’s arm carries the first. The true north. The original that all the others are chasing.