When I was a child, the adults said I was good in drawing and art. Looking back, I remember how I made pretty neat stuff (puppets, paper dolls, shoebox houses, and popsicle stick fences). As I went to school and met kids who were doing better at it, I got scared. I felt behind and discouraged and limited. Anyway, wrong attitude. Moving on…
Just recently, I broke up with my boyfriend and thought I needed to work on my self discovery. Hence, my attempt to revive this blog and search for the artist in me (among many other things I have been fighting for as part of the change I am eager to attain).
I ran to a store, purchased tools (chalk pastels, charcoal, a sketchbook, some pencils), and worked on a few pages. I know that the output don’t even measure, but the effort I put into each of it made me feel great. Guess what? It’s the process that counts. The relief, the strange joy, and the solitude while I have been working on each was inexplicably fulfilling.
While I have certainly commited myself on deciding which sort of art journal to have and maintain, I don’t feel the rush. I call these days (or months) to come part of my discovery not of where I am good at, but of where I am happiest with in terms of medium and styles for my art. Today, the style is random and the pressure is off.