My dusty sketchbook must dread the moments I decide to take it off my desk. Every time I pick it up to use, it results in piles of graphite and eraser shavings everywhere in my room. I’ve gone through so many boxes of pencils, I think Ticonderoga must know me by now. The sketchbook of mine has seen better days – days where it looked pristine and without blemish.
I love to draw. Yes the final result provides fantastic amusement to my eyes, but the process of the entire drawing allures me to this hobby. The second the fine point of my pencil hits the devoid paper, wonders only comparable to music begin to formulate. Each stroke of the pencil leaves a mark surpassing in magnificence to the one before. The freedom to pour out my thoughts into a sheet of paper astonishes me and provides me with a feeling of bliss and comfort.
Each sheet of paper is brimmed with portraits; my loved ones, friends, even strangers take up the space in my book, but for good reason. After I finish each drawing, I simply give it to them. I do cherish the journey I take with my art, but the smile on their faces when I give them my art is nothing less than beautiful. Even the most majestic of artists wouldn’t be able to capture the raw nature of that smile. For that is where I am given the most joy, in the smiles of others.