Until Solitude Becomes an Outline

When I draw, I end up alone. There is no avoiding it.

No words with anyone, no ear for whatever sound is happening outside the page. Just paper, my tools, and me.

At first, that solitude felt a little like loneliness. Cut off from other people. Unseen. I would be lying if I said that feeling was never there.

But the longer I drew, the more I began to notice something.

While I was looking at the motif in front of me, I was also looking at myself.

Where to place a line. How far to let a shadow deepen. What to render fully, and what to leave alone.

None of that is only a technical decision. What I find beautiful right now, what I want to hold onto, those answers end up bleeding into the paper before I realize it.

And some of what surfaces there, I would rather not show anyone.

Jealousy. Fear. That sense of falling short. The things I cling to. The feelings I am least willing to call my own are often the ones quietly moving my hand.

A line drawn in a hurry keeps that hurry inside it. A shadow laid down while I hesitate holds the hesitation. However hard I try to hide these things, the paper will not quite let me.

At first this embarrassed me. I wanted to be steadier than that, to draw calmer lines.

These days I feel differently.