One of the few great things about packing is that you find all sorts of bits and pieces from your past. The literal skeletons in your closet and ghosts in the wardrobe. Underneath our bed, I discovered my old art folders from high school. Why I’d thrown them there I’ve no idea, out of sight out of mind perhaps. I certainly haven’t put paint brush to paper much since. Maybe I’d thought the bed would weight them down, stop all that ink, crayon and pastel from escaping and colouring my world again.
Inspired by Matty’s recent post:
” We all want to be ‘seen.’ but not necessarily for who we are, in our weakest state, our moments of greatest self-doubt and fatigue. ”
So I thought I’d share with you some of the inner most workings of my teenage mind.
This is a self portrait although my hair was never quite that shade and my cheek bones not quite that sharp. I still have that purple jumper though (not school colours I might add). Reflections fascinated me back then for which I blame Sylvia Plath. The need to know I didn’t have a hair out of place probably helped as well.
I was also big on drawing flowers and bones, although to be fair, we did have a fairly limited choice of subject matter. Rose thou art sick and all that. You might see a theme emerging.
Another staple of mine were portraits, the weirder the better. This quick sketch is loosely based on someone I used to hang out with. She had the most fabulous freaky eyes. I was ever so slightly jealous and ever so slightly attracted to her, however her taste ran to unsuitable boys with long greasy hair so I settled for the captain of the boys rugby team instead. The “strange” thing is, I dated him for almost a full academic year and yet I don’t have a single sketch, painting or doodle of him.
With hindsight, I suspect that I haven’t actually changed much at all. Sure my hair is a far more proper colour these days but underneath all that… well that’s another story.