You will never learn how to draw.
Some memories echo through your head. For me it’s that simple sentence. On the surface, it was fine, and is fine, for me not to learn how to draw, because it was never my dream. But it wounded me nonetheless. A teacher who was supposed to help me learn something new, stabbed me by those words.
You will never learn how to draw.
As young, impressionable children, we learn a lot of things. Two things about learning:
- While the word does have this positive glow to it, it doesn’t always mean the things you’re absorbing or acquiring are positive, good, or useful.
- Unlearning some of those things is a battle that could take a lifetime to win.
I was told by one teacher that I had a knack for storytelling and that I should continue writing. It felt good but it was soon forgotten. Why? Because I learned that having a vivid imagination and a talent for writing were useless skills as far as the big picture was concerned. Though I kept on dreaming. I kept the imagined worlds in my pockets, the stories at my fingertips, and the words right on the tip of my tongue.
The other teacher taught me that I had no talent for art. No, not just art. She said I had no talent, period. Now, being an artist fell under the same category of Useless Skills right along with writing back when I was being taught these important lessons. So, in the grand scheme of things, it shouldn’t have meant anything. But I was young. I was impressionable. I learned that I wasn’t talented and allowed that single verdict echo through my life.
When that period of my education was over and I no longer had to attend art classes, I threw the supplies away and turned my back on everything to do with art, not knowing yet that throwing away the physical objects does not mean being rid of the mental garbage.
I moved through life with this thorn in my side that didn’t necessarily hinder me in any way, but it constantly hurt. My teacher had gifted me a demon—a demon that sneered at me at every turn and called me talentless, not enough, less. Less… less… less…
Did I say thorn in my side? I was wrong. Let me rephrase: thorn in the ears. Because it didn’t just hurt, it blocked my ears to all the good and positive things about me.
I lived on. Not because I was strong, but because I had to. Because in life there’s only one way to go: onward.
Days turned into months. Months were replaced by years. The numbers on the calendars changed.
The wounds you collect in your life, the ones that don’t heal, will resurface eventually. Mine caught up with me on a beautiful evening in a home far, far away from home, when I was least expecting them.
The sky was a hot mix of regal red and opulent orange in preparation for the sun’s farewell. I was sitting in my room, a happy witness to the horizon’s beauty, unaware of what awaited me. The further the sun sank, the deeper my heart slid into the black sludge of despair. What was happening? Where was this sudden sadness coming from? I had no idea. It crept in uninvited, whispering words I didn’t want to hear. When the sun left, taking all the colours with her, the shadows filled the room. The demons crawled in from the corners, clambering through the windows, tripping over each other to reach me. They swarmed me like carrion birds over dying prey. And I had nowhere to run to.
I had nothing, they whispered to me.
I was nothing, they laughed cruelly.
Hopes? Dreams? They’d gone out at some point in the mundanity of life like a fire that fizzles without oxygen. It was just me, my demons, and all the things that I had lost—all the things that I wasn’t. Hopelessness filled me. It clawed its way through my guts to my throat, and tore out in a sob. I lay my head on the hard floor and gave in to the demons.
After a heart attack, it takes you a while to do things you normally did with ease, right?
After a demon attack, you’re just numb. You can do everything still, you just feel nothing. The nothingness swallowed me and I didn’t fight. I was numb for days. In that dark corner of my life I reached out for something, anything, and found a piece of paper and a pen. I didn’t write. My mouth was full of unsaid words but my hands didn’t want them. They didn’t know where to start, which words to choose. My hands shook. The pen turned. The paper crinkled. The numbness was being replaced by fear once again. The words buzzed louder and louder. The demons were waking from their slumber. I was going under once again…
Until I drew that first line.
The patterns, the repeated movements, the long hours spent with the lines brought me back to life. They wrapped around me like barbed wire, protecting me from my demons and keeping fear at bay. As long as I had a pen, as long as I drew, I was safe.
When the first page was finished, I was oddly satisfied. I remember feeling that first smile taking over my face. I was and am no Picasso. But it was something I had created and it wasn’t half bad. Unlike writing, the satisfaction was immediate. Well, almost. And more importantly? It was therapeutic.
I felt good.
The talentless girl was now creating beautiful pages every day. My fingers ached. My neck and back were angry with me. But my mind? It was calm.
It was in that calm that I decided to go back to my lost dream—my useless skill. It was then I decided to go back to telling stories.
So what if I’m not an artist? I can still create these pages and enjoy them. My pages won’t be hung on a museum wall but so what? They’re my accomplishments, my steps towards healing. They mean so much more to me than that unhappy teacher could ever understand.
So what if my stories don’t have an audience yet? I get to tell them. And that’s enough for now. Someday, someone will stumble upon them. Someday, someone will want to read them.
I told you, didn’t I? Not everything you learn as a child is good.
Let me tell you this as well:
“[…] genius is as common as old shoes. Everybody has it, some more than others, perhaps; that hardly matters, since no one can hope to use up more than a very small portion of his or her native gift.”
— Becoming a Writer by Dorothea Brande
(This is from the foreword by John Gardner)
Maybe one person among you needed to hear this. Maybe one person has demons that need to be silenced. I hope my Gallery of Lines can help you in some way to unlearn something that has been hurting you for a while now.
And if you have no demons, I hope you simply enjoy seeing these patterns. I hear they can be meditative and pleasant to look at.
