…through the keyhole of her confines, she sees how poor the world has become; Thence, she mutters;
can one ever really be free,
when all that lingers in captivity’s dust,
is the thin veiled irony,
wheezing, “Freedom cometh at a cost”?
Page 1 of my Strathmore Sketch pad.
Here’s my recent attempt on El (Millie Bobby Brown) from the Netflix original series, Stranger Things.
Upon the completion of this drawing, I conceived some thoughts on artistry, particularly pencil drawing:
•I’d like to think drawing as the portal between two worlds: our world and oblivion, where the artist is its gatekeeper and his/her media, the keys.
•I’d like to think artists as those who not only possess the deftness of visualization, but also the ability to percept ultrasonic screeches from entities stuck and forgotten within the walls of blank canvases, waiting to be let out. Strange.
•I’d also like to think a pencil artist as a “compassionate sorcerer” who with the subtle strokes of his/her wand and the seething darkness spewing from its tip, conjures up his/her deepest epiphanies from a clean slate. Dark magic, huh.
•I’d finally like to think that just like alpha numerics, drawing should be learned and not necessarily inherent, thus, all humans are artists, making us gods of some sort from the aforementioned thoughts. Hence, before that bob start clanking repeatedly on our aluminium coated mindscapes, yelling, “I’m not talented, so I can’t draw; or I’ll never reach the levels of elite artists”, remember that not all Greek gods reside at the summit of Mount Olympus, not even the nine Muses; but we budding artists can only strive to get there.
On ice cold mornings,
bell clanks stay sunken in frost,
while sloth drowns the bed.
It’s been eons since you left,
but, your perfume still lingers in the attic;
the sun sleeps,
the dark creeps,
and as each day passes,
our past evanesces,
now, memories of you are
as thin as a knife’s edge,
and the more I cling unto them,
the more I bleed out,
so, it’s time I let go.
O solemn silent nights, we crave thee,
graced with spirits; not one, two, but three,
come tuck angst in to sleep,
and make heavy hearts leap,
for your aura brings nothing but glee.
Stray thoughts glide unseen,
through the mists of my mindscape,
searching for the perch.
The drums of my heart throbbed,
as you left me to wither,
but its melody so sonorous,
as sonorous as a swan’s song,
sweeps you off your fragile feet,
and slides you right next to me.
brightens our gloomy neon nights,
numbing creeping plights.
The golems of ire,
spits fire into men’s faint hearts,
coursing madness through.
Desire of the flesh,
raises tombs where Pharaohs lay,
sowing seeds of fey.
Through the storm, we sailed;
with you, the crafty captain,
and my heart, your oar.
life paints beautiful pictures,