ART – PENCIL SKETCH – RANT
In my usual digital existence, I conjure AI-birthed masterpieces from the depths of my imagination, letting algorithms do the heavy lifting while I play puppet master of pixels. But the other day, something snapped in my perfectly curated technological sanctuary. After weeks of wrestling with an inexplicable urge – like a cat trying to resist knocking things off a table – I finally surrendered to my baser artistic instincts.
In a fit of creative madness, I dismantled my pristine computer lab, a temple of processing power and blinking lights, transforming it into something almost prehistoric: an actual art studio. The horror. I excavated long-buried art supplies like an archaeologist unearthing artifacts from a civilization that knew how to function without Wi-Fi. The sketch pad emerged from its tomb, probably wondering what year it was, while dried-up markers and dusty pencils rolled around like confused time travelers.
My reluctance to embrace traditional art wasn’t unfounded – my last serious artistic endeavor predated the invention of social media. Since then, my artistic expressions had been limited to absent-minded scribbles during those endless phone calls with customer service, where “your call is important to us” plays on a loop that would make Dante reconsider the circles of Hell. These masterpieces typically featured abstract demons and nameless entities that looked like they’d been rejected from a budget horror movie’s creature department.
Yet here I stood, analog tools in hand, facing the blank white void of possibility – or possibly just facing the void of my artistic abilities. The paper stared back, judging me with its pristine emptiness, daring me to make my mark. It knew, as did I, that this could either be the renaissance of my artistic journey or just another reason why I should stick to pressing buttons and letting AI do the heavy lifting.
I’m discovering that artistic atrophy is real – like trying to do splits after decades of couch-surfing real. The muscle memory in my fingers has apparently retired to a beach somewhere, sipping cocktails and laughing at my current predicament. I’d conveniently forgotten about the sheer labor involved in sketching, the way it demands patience that my Twitter-trained attention span no longer possesses.
Here I am, yanking out what precious few strands remain on my increasingly reflective dome, while my fingers are stained with pretentious charcoal imported from some artisanal mine in the depths of European forests. Because apparently, American charcoal is too pedestrian, too lacking in that je ne sais quoi that only comes from being excavated by third-generation charcoal artisans who whisper sweet nothings to each piece before packaging. Meanwhile, the humble No. 2 pencil, that faithful companion that birthed countless doodles and masterpieces alike, now sits in the corner like a neglected relic, deemed too barbaric for my evolved artistic sensibilities.
The absurdity isn’t lost on me as I sit here, surrounded by tools that cost more than my first car, trying to remember how I ever managed to create anything with those basic supplies in my youth. It’s like watching a master chef refuse to cook without their imported Japanese knife collection, completely forgetting they first learned to slice vegetables with a butter knife in their mother’s kitchen.
We’re masters at this kind of self-deception, aren’t we? Convincing ourselves that we need the finest tools, the most expensive equipment, the most exotic supplies to create something worthwhile. Meanwhile, our younger selves were out there making magic with crayons and notebook paper, blissfully unaware that their tools were “inferior.” They were too busy having fun, too engrossed in the pure joy of creation to worry about the pedigree of their materials.
Sure, as we develop our craft, better tools can enhance our capabilities – like upgrading from a tricycle to a mountain bike. But somewhere along the way, we’ve started believing that the tools make the artist, rather than the other way around. We’ve forgotten that creativity doesn’t flow from the price tag of our supplies but from that childlike spark that made us pick up a pencil in the first place – that pure, unadulterated joy of making something exist that didn’t before, even if it looked like it was drawn by a caffeinated squirrel, named Ennis.
Let’s be honest – half the time I’m sitting here with the artistic confidence of a drunk penguin attempting interpretive dance. My lines wobble like a politician’s promises, and my attempts at perspective make M.C. Escher look like a strict realist. But here’s the beautiful paradox: I couldn’t care less if I tried. The sheer audacity of not knowing what I’m doing has become its own kind of superpower.
There’s something magnificently liberating about embracing your artistic incompetence with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever chasing its own tail. I’m scribbling away like a mad scientist’s journal entries, creating shapes that probably violate several laws of physics and maybe a few of geometry. My art style could best be described as “enthusiastic chaos meets questionable life choices,” with a dash of “what even is that supposed to be?”
But sweet heavens, am I having fun! The kind of unadulterated joy that usually requires either a prescription or a warning label. I’m doodling with the abandoned glee of a toddler who’s found an unguarded Sharpie, minus the property damage, inevitable time-out, and the utterance in unknown language from my mother. My creative process has all the sophistication of a sugar-rushed squirrel with an art degree, and I’m absolutely here for it.
In this moment, I’ve achieved a state of zen that monks spend decades trying to reach – the perfect balance of complete cluelessness and total contentment. It turns out that sometimes the secret to happiness is just letting your hand do whatever questionable things it wants to do on paper, while your inner art critic takes a much-needed vacation to somewhere far, far away.
Memoirs of Madness 