Temperamental Ramblings.

Friday, January 22, 2010

Pencils and ink

Why did I stop drawing?

Is it really my lack of technical skill that is preventing me from creating anything?
That's been my story for a long time.

Every couple of months I will enter into a period where I'll draw erratically for a couple of days, sometimes weeks, until I run myself dry again. Six months will pass, and the process repeats itself.

I haven't drawn anything new in a long, long time. I'll pick up a pencil, make an outline of something, and then I'll give up because I can't make the connection between my brain and my hand.
There is a wall I have put up between the two; a wall made up of excuses and insecurity.

I don't draw anymore because I feel like I can't do it. The act of drawing is less therapeutic and more of an ordeal these days.

Anatomy, lighting, shading, colors, clothing folds, depth, emotion, vibrancy...
I struggle with all of these things. Nothing I create is good enough because I can't incorporate these things properly.

It's not good enough to just sit down and draw anymore; everything has to be perfect. I can't do perfect, so I can't draw.

That's my excuse.

The other night, though, I had this insatiable urge to sketch. No, more than sketch - I wanted to finish the poster I promised for Oh, Lenore!. I've been avoiding it for the longest time and I feel terrible about it.

I sat down and I stared at it for a couple of minutes, and I just wanted to cry.
I've never felt so distraught over a picture before? It was so strange, and I couldn't understand why I felt so miserable.

And then I realized that those feelings had nothing to do with the actual picture.

The picture is just a fine example of how I've lost touch with myself.

Listen, I've never been an "artist". I don't even like the term.

I'm not a fantastic painter, I don't create masterpieces.

I'm not a prodigy, there's no higher power guiding my hand.

I just love to draw, that's all.

It's something I've always enjoyed. There is nothing more therapeutic than engrossing yourself in your own creation.

Sitting for hours at a time over a sketch book, with your favorite CD playing the background-

that's what I consider therapy.

When I stopped doing that, I think that I really cut off a part of myself. Closing the bridge between my brain and my hand had repercussions that I never anticipated.

The weirdest thing is that I didn't even know I had done it. I just...stopped drawing. I didn't even think about why.

In fact, I never considered it an issue until the other night.

I was sitting over a blank page and feeling this overwhelming urge to cry, and I was so confused because I had no idea why I felt so sad--
and then Eric sent me a text, and he asked me how the drawing process was going.

I spilled everything to him. I feel bad in a way, because I was just shooting a torrent of shit and I'm not sure if it even made sense--

but it felt so good to talk about it. The best part was that he listened, and he gave me honest advice.

He said that the only way I'll be able to draw is if I let myself. I can't learn anything if I'm not putting myself in a position to learn.

He's right.

I've always known that, too; I know that the only way to get better is to practice.

I know that, but I never really understood it.

I probably wouldn't have figured any of this out if I hadn't talked to him about my creative problem. That page would have stayed blank, and I would have just given up drawing for an indefinite amount of time.

It's such a trip to talk to someone about such personal things. It's weird to even type about this in a journal; talking about it is a totally different story. That goes for most things in my life, I think.

I've gotten too comfortable with my silence.

(That's another entry on its own, though.)

I've started my visual journal again...

My goal is to just draw what I feel, and not concern myself with technical things. I need to experiment with new techniques and create a learning experience out of it.