When I show a non-artist my sketches or art, I always hear, “Man, I wish I could draw.” Or, “I wish I were talented as you.” Lately, I have thought a lot about these statements, and I could only come to one conclusion: How wrong they were.
When I first started drawing, I struggled. I struggled with my confidence when I looked at a magnificent drawings and compared them to mine; struggled and getting particularly frustrated when I couldn’t make my hand move in ways to show what I had in my head. But yet, I couldn’t stop. I kept practicing. Quite a lot. Years of practice. Tears and blood. Pulling out the hair, grinding the teeth, fingernails digging into your palms kind of practice. Why even go on? But when a practice that dedicated is accomplished, you look back, and you actually see a change. It could be a minor thing you notice, such as knowing why a certain shadow appears in the cheek, or having a muscle memorized. Your confidence builds up, and you realize that what you have done so far is paying off.
Honestly, I don’t think I have any talent whatsoever, nor do I think a muse exists; I don’t believe in those words. It’s confidence and knowledge, a love/hate relationship, a never ending challenge to become a better version of yourself.
These sketches became a huge monumental standpoint in my life. These were done about three years ago, when I finally reconsidered what I wanted in my life and how to seriously learn about what art was all about. So far, all of my art has been self taught, but I plan on taking a class this summer to practice.