I can’t really draw… I have a magic pencil that was given to me when I was young. It is said to have been endowed by Brunelleschi, used by Diego Velazquez, discarded by Vincent Van Gogh, found by Pablo Picasso and appraised by Jean-Michel Basquiat. So you see, in fact my talent has nothing to do with my history in art since I was 3, my creative boom in primary school, nor my countless hours on childish commissions throughout my stint in college. My talent was destined and predetermined by the chance happening upon said pencil.
It’s tip forever sharpened and nibbled down ever so slightly on it’s left plane for correct shadowing, it’s own known and honed technique guides my hand as it did the artists of old. It knows what all my work should look like and I allow it to dictate such things for it recalls the approach of those far greater than myself in producing such works of art.
But I digress… For I am lying. There is no such pencil, there is no approach, nothing to find, no miracle or get good quick scheme. Nothing substitutes a vigilant hand and an abundance of imagination. The notion is relative and makes no concession to level or subject matter. Art makes the artist.
I just felt like telling a tale, however tall it may seem.