Under my bed at home is a big, three-ringed binder stuffed so full with drawings that I have difficulty turning the pages now. Flipping through it is like seeing a chronology of my childhood imagination, starting from when I first figured out how to hold a crayon. When I was little I made portraits of my stuffed animals, copied illustrations from picture books, and sketched what I saw outside my window. I drew my favorite cartoon characters, as well as countless characters that I made up. The binder is full of dogs, birds, horses, trees, superheroes, pokemon, dinosaurs, dragons, family members, and hybrid creatures straight out of my overactive imagination. An idea would pop into my head, and I would grab looseleaf paper, computer paper, a notepad-- pretty much whatever was closest-- and just start drawing. It was purely an expression of my creativity. I never really thought about whether I was good at it or not, I just loved getting the characters and scenes out of my head and onto the paper. It made them real and alive.
I'm definitely much more critical of my own drawings now, often comparing them to other art, judging them as good or bad, and feeling self-conscious about showing them to others. I don't have the same uninhibited, individual creativity that I had when I was little. I try harder to be original, and I often draw to see how detailed and realistic I can be, or to improve my technique. I think it's good that I challenge myself and strive for improvement. However, I like to flip through my binder of childhood drawings every once in a while as a reminder of why I love drawing in the first place. I can take classes, draw for other people, and maybe even try to sell something one day. But ultimately, I draw for myself. It is a creative outlet that I have always loved and always will.
My three-year-old interpretation of nature (or "nacher")
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