By means of tracing-paper I transfer my design to the wood and

“By means of tracing-paper I transfer my design to the wood and draw on that.” Thus spoke Sir John Tenniel, the famed illustrator whose hand gave life to the dreamscapes of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. At first glance, these words seem plain—a simple description of craft. Yet beneath their modesty lies a deep and ancient truth: that all creation, whether of art, word, or life itself, begins not in the final form, but in the transference of vision into matter. Tenniel’s tracing paper was not merely a tool; it was the bridge between imagination and reality, between the idea and the act.

In the time of the ancients, such wisdom was expressed through the language of the soul. The sculptor would gaze upon a block of marble and see, within its cold stillness, the hidden form of a god. But to release it, he needed patience, method, and devotion. Tenniel’s tracing-paper is of the same spirit: the delicate step where inspiration takes its first physical shape. His statement reveals the humility of true artistry—to serve the vision faithfully, not by chance or whim, but by careful translation. For the dream is fragile, and without structure, even the purest idea fades like mist before the sun.

Tenniel was no ordinary illustrator. In the mid-nineteenth century, his hands were entrusted with the task of shaping the fantastical worlds imagined by Lewis Carroll. It was he who etched the face of the Mad Hatter, the grin of the Cheshire Cat, and the surreal proportions of Alice herself. Each began as a drawing, then as a trace upon thin paper, then transferred onto wood for engraving—a laborious process that demanded precision, discipline, and reverence for detail. The tracing-paper, in his method, was not mere convenience—it was an act of preservation, ensuring that the purity of the original design would not be lost in the transformation from vision to permanence.

And in this act lies a timeless teaching: that every great work, before it stands complete, must pass through stages of transformation. The tracing-paper, the sketch, the carving, the polish—these are the steps through which raw inspiration becomes enduring form. So it is in art, and so it is in life. Our dreams are the first drawings, fragile and full of light. But they must be transferred, patiently and carefully, into the harder surfaces of reality, where they can be shaped and fixed. To rush this process is to lose clarity; to neglect it is to lose the dream itself.

The same wisdom can be seen in the lives of the architects of change throughout history. Consider Leonardo da Vinci, who filled countless pages with sketches of flying machines long before any such thing could exist. His tracing-paper was his mind—transferring vision to record, imagination to possibility. Each drawing was a whisper from the future. Though the world was not yet ready to bring his designs to life, his act of transference ensured that the dream would not die. Through discipline and patience, Leonardo taught that vision must first be preserved before it can be perfected.

So too does Tenniel’s practice remind us that creation is both an act of faith and of method. Inspiration may strike in a moment, but its realization demands order and care. To trace one’s design onto wood is to honor it, to commit to bringing it forth into a tangible world that resists imagination. It is to accept that the path between thought and form is not instant, but sacred—a process that shapes not only the work, but the maker. The tracing-paper, then, becomes a symbol of humility: the artist’s willingness to learn from his own vision, to approach his creation with respect rather than pride.

Let this teaching guide all who create, in any craft or calling: do not despise the small steps, for they are the bridge between dream and reality. When you trace your idea—whether upon paper, upon plan, or upon heart—do it with reverence. Preserve the original flame, but give it structure. The ancients knew, as Tenniel did, that nothing of worth is made in haste. Every great creation is born twice—first in the mind, and then through the steady hand that brings it into being.

For in the end, Tenniel’s quiet words speak not only of illustration, but of life itself. Each of us, in our way, holds a design within—a vision of what we might become. But to make it real, we must trace it carefully onto the material of our days, line by line, act by act. So let your tracing-paper be patience, your wood be effort, your design be faith. And when at last your work stands complete, you will see, as Tenniel did, that between dream and reality lies not chance, but craft—and the sacred discipline of creation.