I used to draw a lot. I’m not saying I was an artist, but I had some skill.
Anyway, I remember drawing my aunt. She passed away during my high school years, so the drawing must have been during middle school, maybe elementary, I don’t really remember. My aunt was great, my drawing however, wasn’t.
I was proud of the portrait at first and I don’t recall her having a negative reaction to it, so I’m willing to say that she was good with it too.
What I do recall is my uncle’s reaction to the drawing. He laughed. He laughed and pointed out the things that were wrong with it. I’m sure he was right. I was a kid trying to draw a life drawing so I’m sure the errors were galore.
But that moment sticks with me. I reflect on that moment from time-to-time and it’s almost become a haunting more than just a memory. I think that’s because I loved drawing. And I loved my aunt. So having that reaction from my uncle must’ve really hurt, because I don’t remember drawing too much after that.
Of course, my uncle wasn’t the reason why I put my drawing pencil down. It was my inability to take some feedback and practice on getting better. Instead, I let that love fade and once it wasn’t so strong, I hid it. I placed it in a small metaphorical box, locked it, and hid it.
And though it was hidden, I could still hear it.
I love others’ work and I constantly marvel at their talent and creativity. I often wonder if I could draw something as beautiful, then I think about that moment.
The moment still bothers me because somewhere inside of me, I want to draw. Regardless of whether my drawings are good or not, I sort of have an itch for it that I want to scratch.
I thought I fell out of love with drawing, but in reality I’ve just neglected it. That love is still there, so I think I need to nurture it. I need to feed it, grow it, train it, and share it.
Repressing that love because of a past failure is foolish, especially foolish since that failure happened when I was a child. I recognize that now.