I found a pen and ink of mine in a portfolio in my storage unit the other day. It’s probably 20 years old. (I just choked a little writing that.) I really like this little sunflower on it’s way to opening.
Since I found it I’ve had this nagging voice in my head asking “why did you stop?” and then another nagging voice in my head telling the other voice to “just shut up.” I think I’ve said out loud “cut it out, both of you” but thankfully most of my days are spent alone so no one can confirm that.
But really, I didn’t just meander off an artistic path, but grabbed a machete and beat my way to a whole different road. And I do wonder why exactly I stopped drawing. Not because I want to linger in the past, or place blame on a person or incident, but because I don’t want to do it again. I’m borderline creating from a place of fear some days because I am worried I will stop again. I think I have a better grasp (hah!) on myself now, so I’m fairly sure I’ll be fine, but it doesn’t stop those little voices.
In sheer defiance I stopped at the art supply store in town that I had a gift certificate to (thank you, Santa!) and chatted with the wonderful woman that works there and picked up 2 new pens, 3 new colored pencils, and an eraser.
The voices had all shut up by the time I got back in my car.