The double doors stood at the end of a long hallway. They were dark wood, sturdy, embellished with the type of beautiful carvings that you might only witness in a building that has been around a long time. There were little glass windows, mottled, so it wasn’t possible to see into the room. In a way, this added to my interest in what lay beyond them. There always seemed to be a hive of activity taking place inside, with sounds of creative murmurings, and scents of paint, glue, and paper wafting through the air. Then one day, it was my turn to go in. In to the Art Room.
At 13, a few weeks into a new chapter, having just started Secondary School, I was excited to “try out” some subjects before finalising choices about which to take to exam level. I didn’t realise it then, but I was drawn to anything creative. I didn’t know what I wanted to focus on, I just knew I wanted to create. I loved writing (as in the art of drawing shapes to form letters, and would spend many a happy time trying out different styles of writing). I loved the idea of learning languages. I adored music, and even though I had taken a few years of lessons, my favourite activity was to try to “figure out” the notation of songs I liked myself… playing with chords and keys to try to replicate a song. It would have been easier in hindsight to use the books of sheet music that were available, but the fun, for me, was in the creation, the discovery, and the experimentation.
The Art Room was beautiful. Old wooden shelves were stacked high with every colour of paint. Cups and pots filled with brushes, pencils, and every creative tool imaginable stood neatly, and there were sheets and sheets of paper. Decorated papier mache balloons hung from the ceiling, and the prospect of starting with a blank space and creating someone new was so exciting. It was though, my first and last day in that Art room.
The task set to each of us, after we were assigned to clusters of tables, was to sketch a bowl of fruit which sat in the middle of each group table. At the end of the class, I was advised by the art teacher to not take the subject. Even though this was almost 30 years ago now, I can easily recall the disappointment I felt on leaving the Art room. Not only the disappointment, but also a realisation and acceptance that I would never be “good” at art.
This isn’t a sad story by any means. I had a wonderful time in Secondary school. I chose two languages and music along with other subjects and enjoyed my time immensely there. My experiences there enabled me to study, and eventually work in the field of Psychology. It opened doors that I was so grateful to walk through. But I still sometimes wonder, given what I now work at, what might of happened had I been encouraged that day to pursue Art as a subject (in a sliding doors style pondering!) Did I end up where I was supposed to anyway?
I have never felt comfortable calling myself an illustrator or artist. If I’m being honest, I think that early experience did contribute to that, along with the fact that my path then never progressed to an Art College or formal qualification. I have spent hours upon hours practising and sketching, and reading, and developing my own drawing skills. I am completely self-taught. I’m also my own biggest critic, as well as being the person who pushes me the most to improve.
But I’m also a writer. The same fire inside me ignites when I write, as does when I draw. Both actions produce the same feelings of excitement and release. Both challenge me to create an output that reflects my thoughts or feelings, and both calm my anxious disposition in equal measure.
Am I an illustrator? A writer? I think I’m just a creative. Creativity, in all its forms, is what I am drawn to. Expression of an inner landscape.
Deep inside, I am still the little girl who loved arts and crafts, who stood happily in a stationery section of a shop and picked a “fancy pen”, who read the blurbs of all the books before finally settling on one to commit to, who listened to her favourite song over and over, while trying to match keys and write out sketchy notation in her manuscript, and who sketched faces with various expressions along the margins of her copybook.
My work now is a mixture of words and drawings. Sometimes I just write. I pour words onto a page, and I create prints of some of them.
Sometimes I use one of my many pages of little quotes to add to an illustration. My two little characters (a girl and a dog) are how I communicate these ponderings. I created a book of them, and then the collection continued to grow and expand after that. And on days where I crave the calm that creating brings, I choose one of my little quotes that I have written in a notebook, and I draw my two characters with it.
Sometimes, I write letters to you, like this one. I’m never sure how they will end up, or where they will land, and I always feel a little vulnerable sharing. But my hope is that they might resonate in some way, or at the very least, they might allow you to get to know me a little better, as the person behind the work that I put out there.
Either way, I hope you enjoyed the read, and the little windows into my creative life that I share, and that I am so very grateful for.
Until next time!
Take good care,
Deborah x
ps if this resonates with you, please feel free to comment below, I’d love to hear from you
pps if you’d like to browse more of my work, it can be viewed on my Instagram profile, and all of the prints that are available to purchase are on my website here.
Deborah, you are a darling creature & I adore your hard work! 🎈I inspire to grow in my creativity without feeling pressured by my perfectionist tendencies. I love how you have continued your journey & did not shy away from this undertaking given the response you received at 13.
Thank you for sharing your story! 💕