I've decided to post up my first moleskine sketchbook drawings. The drawings range from when I was still a senior in high school to when I was finishing up my freshman year in college. I've been meaning to post these up, to at least immortalize the drawings into images before they smudge into smudgy oblivion. I tried posting this in about the same order as I have drawn them. The only thing you have to understand is that I started drawing from the last page first. Then went on from there. To me, it was convenient cuz I'm right-handed. But cuz I like being the different one, the one who you'd stare at cuz she says something strange. I started from the back because I believe that the end is only the beginning.
You know, it was pretty weird for me to look at these again as I was enhancing their qualities over Photoshop and posting them here in the nearly correct order. It was like I was sucked into some worm hole where the voices of my past echo from every page. Do you know what I mean? It's like every page, every minor detail, has a story. But the story--they're all personal to me. I could show these pictures to someone and they can nod in approval of my technical skills or laugh or sneer at some of my random drawings, but they wouldn't get the same effect from the pictures as I get from each page. Little aspects of my life are capture in a bottle. Pieces of time captured in ink the same way moments of time are captured on film. Those moments become immortal.
Hmm, I'll give you an example of what I'm saying about these drawings. The third to the last picture seems like some casual observational sketch. Just ehhh. A chair, a table, some people. That's all you see. But what I see, what I hear, what I smell, is the moment of when I was in the library around finals (for the record the library smells nice. i like the smell of books, okay?). I'll admit it now. I rarely go to the library. I didn't really have reason to be there. I mean, c'mon. I was practically done with all my finals. Reason I came was cuz I was seeing someone. A boy who'd eventually become my boyfriend. At the time, I was making excuses to go to the library--work on my paper. Pshh. I bullshitted that paper (but heh, I got an A on it). That page in my sketchbook reminds me of when we were passing notes to each other across the round table while he worked on his assignment. I still have that note.
The drawings make sense to me. They tell me of some passive heartbreak, some boredom, some exploration, experimentation, ideas, thoughts, notes, lectures, memories. I don't have to write little memos to myself to remember some moments (and I mean little as in ant writing). Memo to self though....write down the friggin' dates I drew the pictures!!
But eh, that's just what I see from my drawings. You can see whatever you want, make something out of it however you'd like. It's kinda like meeting someone. You see an image on the surface, but the story is really in the artist who gives you these images to look at.
