Thursday, June 22, 2017
My first love as long as I can remember was drawing. Drawing something, drawing nothing in particular. It was done in happiness and in sadness. It was done feeling something and feeling nothing. My earliest memories of drawing something was drawing my own interpretation of that object because no matter how much I tried, I just couldn't make it as real as what I saw. But it was okay. It still looked great. I cartooned it and colored it and it became its wonderful self. It became its own identity.
Drawing, I saw as a talent as people called it that when they saw it. Drawing, I got praised for how beautiful it looked. Drawing, I saw as an unserious ambition because only a few made money out of it. Drawing, I saw as a burden when I thought it could be better. But drawing put my mind at ease. It made me wonder about beautiful things I'd like to see in real life. It filled me with a sense of anticipation and at the last dot, resulted in an 'unended-conclusion.' Unended, you might ask? Yes, because it was never finished. I could revisit it and add to it.
As far as I can remember, I was that kid who cherished pencils and drawing books. I'm that adult who cherishes blankness and plainness as I am presented with a canvas for creativity. I just have to disrupt plainness because I get bored at blankness.
Drawing, still a love of mine, I'm glad I found you. I may never be able to understand you completely but what I know about you is enough!