How quickly the past can bury itself under mountains of storage containers and lock itself in a shed. I have been purging myself of many unwanted items and have stumbled on some treasured mementos that I have been thinking about a lot lately.
I used to love doodling in class when I was in high school. Art class was the only time during my day where I found myself truly drawn (pardon the pun) into the subject material and would pay attention throughout the entire lesson.
I remember sitting in the library, long before the world-wide-web was introduced and encyclopedias were still a functional research tool, and I began to draw some lines. The lines continued and a face began to emerge. I continued, not knowing what the final product would be, and this face appeared.
Drawing for me, then, was what writing is to me now. I would lose myself in the process and dabble in many different ways to create a picture. I painted birds with oil paints on cedar shingles, I would sketch with charcoal, create drawings using nothing but stippled marker and create caricatures of faces that were popular at the time.
It’s amazing that I had long since forgotten that part of myself. That creative side morphed from sketches into stories and now I use my words to paint the pictures that I used to draw.
I have an opportunity to speak to someone who may be able to help me with a series of children’s books I have been working on. Last year I began putting out the feelers to find an artist to sketch some characters for me but perhaps it was fate that I found these drawings. Maybe I can sharpen a pencil or two and get back that love for modeling characters from a piece of lead and see where the lines will take me.