Photo Credits: Sarah Waggoner
Being isolated indoors during a snowstorm can, at first, seem extremely demotivating. You’re cold with five blankets covering you; it’s dark at four p.m., and you realize that the sound of your heater, ‘VRRRRM’, is much more terrifying at night. Multiple days pass without much human interaction, and even if you have virtual meetings (like I did), the ‘real’ world seems almost untouchable.
So, what better time to do something creative? At least, that was my thought. My big project is my fantasy novel, so, naturally, I wanted to work on it. However, every time I tried, the words simply wouldn’t flow. I couldn’t see the scenes in my head like I usually could. The characters – I couldn’t see inside their minds, feel their steps, take their breaths. I was stuck.
Instead of continuing to struggle, I decided to draw something. It’s not a hobby I do often, as my book takes up most of my time, but being an artist is much like riding a bike: you never forget how to do it. And this time, with the snow falling outside my window, I wanted to push myself.
I’ve never been great at drawing realistic faces. I could do animals and even landscapes just fine, but the human face I could never truly replicate. And, although I hadn’t made an attempt in many years… there was a specific reason why I wanted to. My late father had always pushed me to improve my art. Not in a mean way, but in a very kind and compassionate manner. I’ve always pushed myself, too. Even though many would probably consider me an adequate artist, there was this one thought lingering in the back of my mind. “I wish I could draw realistic faces.” I know my father was proud of me when he was alive. Nevertheless, I wanted to make him proud through this one accomplishment.
I started first with an ink and graphite drawing of one of my characters. It went well enough, especially since I had no reference for the shading. Once it was finished, I sat back and said to myself, “This is good.” But I knew I could do better. Still high on a newfound sense of hubris, I began another drawing, this time with Prisma color pencil.
If you don’t know, Prisma color pencil acts differently than a normal color pencil. It’s made of wax, like a crayon, but its application is more like watercolor, in the sense that you layer multiple colors on top of each other to get your desired hue. The medium requires patience.
I decided to sketch in Prisma color pencil as well, even though it can be hard to erase. This was a challenge, after all, and I thought skipping graphite entirely would force me to focus. My instinct was correct. With every small line or curve, I was slowly building up my portrait of Maria, the main character of my book.
I did have a reference this time. It was a sketch of the face of the statue of David. Although I don’t know of the sketch’s origin, I understood I was studying a master artist. The proportions were perfect, the shading, the expression—absolutely everything. And with every pass of shading on my own drawing, I felt that I was nearing a perfect piece of my own.
Then suddenly, I noticed a mistake.
The right eye was slightly too high and too far to the right in comparison to the left. And there was absolutely no way to fix it. I had already finished the face and hair. Only by coloring in the irises did I notice this large oversight.
My ‘perfect’ drawing was ruined, and I had no one to blame but myself. Every thought you’d expect ran through my mind: I was a failure, I’m not a good artist, I could never make my father proud. All of them lies, but the sense of grief over my failed art piece only perpetuated them.
I then looked at my reference. I knew I was being hyper critical of my work, and I thought that, if I just take my scrutinizing eye onto someone else’s, I could see that I wasn’t a failure after all. And, sure enough, the beautiful sketch I was referencing indeed had some ‘flaws’. But were they really flaws at all?
Looking back at my own drawing, I was suddenly reminded of an art piece in my home that I love dearly: a hand-crafted mug. The reason why this piece of pottery was so special to me was not only its craftsmanship, but rather, it’s ‘flaws’. There’s a little circle on the handle to place your thumb on, and within the lip of the circle is an obvious crack. Clearly, the potter let the mug dry out after creating it, and this piece was a bit too dry, causing the crack. There’s a speck of unpainted clay under the glaze on the side of the mug. It must have been sitting near the potter as he worked on another piece at his wheel, and the spray from the wheel flew, landing on my mug. It’s these little details that make me love it so much.
And even though many would consider these little details ‘flaws’, the artist still decided to proudly sign his name on the bottom of the mug. It’s completely, uniquely, human.
I realized the same could be said for my ‘ruined’ drawing. I realized the parts of art that I most dearly appreciated were not the supposed ‘perfect’ lines, shading, composition; you name it. I appreciated the ‘humanness’ of things, and I believe that most people do too.
I thought to myself, looking at the face that caused me so much distress: “Someone is going to appreciate that, just like I do my mug.”
Finally, I could write again. The words flowed! I could live, breathe in a world of my own creation, no longer concerned of the ‘perfection’ of things. After all, there is a difference between ‘perfection’ and ‘excellence’.
Excellence is not achieved through the erasure of so-called ‘flaws’. It stems from skill and understanding, but it’s fueled by passion and persistence. There is no ‘perfect’ piece of art, and there never will be. Humans are flawed, so our art is flawed, and through that admission one can truly appreciate art for its one purpose: the engagement of the imagination. A uniquely human enterprise that connects the mind, body, and soul.
For what is art, if not an expression of the beauty seen within our mind?
