Little Black Box

In my small, borrowed, box bedroom, I recently took a small step and made space for a small box of art supplies. After taking note of lots of little moments that resonated with me as messages from the universe, including unexpectedly stepping into my dream bedroom in the house we're buying (decked out as a working artist's studio), or overhearing a conversation about painting while sat deliberating in a cafe, I went and bought new stock of some of my old favourites. WH Smith's art section was my Mecca about twelve years ago (second only to the Mothership that is B&Q), so picking up a fat permanent marker, a tin of drawing pencils and a putty eraser was like becoming reacquainted with old friends.

I keep the box by my short-term single bed now, and even if I don't draw in my new, grey, spiral bound sketchbook often (if you know, you know), just having it there feels better. It feels familiar. It feels like me.

So far I've only done a couple of quick sketches after girls in magazines, but it's funny how quickly the feelings of frustration and impatience came through. Why don't my fingers translate what my eyes can see exactly the way I want them to? I already remember why I turned to working with Photoshop and a graphics tablet; there's so much more control that way. Maybe I should spend some time playing with ink again to help myself let go - that stuff just does what it wants and that's half the beauty of it.

In the same way drawing again is throwing up apprehensive feelings, writing on here is already starting to feel problematic. I've only written one post in six months (I know, calm down), but whenever I write anything on here I always want to take it straight back down again. There's obviously part of me that wants to keep the option of this creative outlet open, otherwise why would I keep paying to keep the same domain name I've had for over a decade?

That part of me is the same part that wants to keep a sketchbook next to my bed, and the part that's held onto my old box of paints and brushes through countless house moves, even though I haven't needed them since I left sixth form. It's the same part that still has paintings I made when I was in primary school and the part that still counts my A-Level portfolio as one of my prized possessions.

But the part that makes me feel silly is still there too. That's the part that makes me want to delete blog posts and take down Instagram posts of drawings I've made in the past. I feel silly for writing. I feel silly for writing about drawing. I feel silly talking about feeling silly. So for now I'll just stop.

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