Sunken was supposed to have been done in colouring pencil. I feel like colours would have given it more life, but I left all my colouring pencils in London, and didn’t feel like buying yet another set. I already have 3.
Dedicated to strong women everywhere and to the special ones in my life who inspired this.
Follow your heart. To where? and at what cost?
Whilst he thought of ways to follow his dreams, she thought ‘how do we pay the bills and eat?’
Not that she didn’t have any dreams of her own, but she was evidently more willing, albeit reluctant, to make sacrifices. “You make certain concessions to protect your own”
Ending up deeply wrought by a situation she concluded to be the fault of his selfishness and egoism.
Rocked by the thought that she would have happily supported anything, if only he was at least following the voice of God. Not that of his fickle heart.
After finally accepting that chivalry is not actually dead because it never really existed, she could really only blame herself.
‘Its just, as you go through life, you’re bound to sometimes forget that people are just human beings. Regardless of who they are, what they mean to you or the promises that bind them.’
It was the sound of my heart breaking.
When I forged for you clippers to break the hedge. “Set me free?”
Instead you used them to rip out my wings.
Cracked the bones even when they were still attached.
Robbed the desert soil of it’s gold.
These are my just rewards;
For there is nothing new underneath the sun.
“Whosoever breaketh a hedge, a serpent shall bite him”
The day before I drew this, I saw some swans really up close and thought I was going to end up drawing swans. But instead I ended up drawing someone with a swan like neck.
I wanted to give Nightmare feathers on her neck but after drawing the hair, I was less inclined to the feathers idea and gave her red iris instead.
The Nightmare realm.
When I stopped feeling, I moved to the nightmare realm.
In hope that it would shock my senses back into motion.
In the realm of nightmares, I learnt that;
Sometimes the moon does a poor imitation of the sun.
Some curses can never be reversed because deep down we are so used to them being a part of our identity.
When invisible snakes dart at you, they do it with the most evil of intentions.
That poison can only be fatal when it runs through your veins.
That water and music have healing properties.
I learnt that fire burns but it also cleanses,
that bread is not life unless it is the bread of life.
For those who would never see their loved ones again.
For those who experienced demoralising, dehumanising events.
For those who lived through hearing screams.
For those whose lives have been turned upside down.
For those who could literally feel their hearts jump out through their mouths.
For those who were too traumatised to hold on to reality.
For those who are still trying to get used to it.
For those who could not do anything else but cry.
I once survived mass killings in a civil war outbreak. Though it was nothing as titanic as recent events, in those timeless yet brief hours, I learnt what it felt like to be frozen in a state of shock; petrified. To not know whether to hide or run, to be surrounded by blood curdling screams.
I know the sound of death.
The sound it makes when it comes hungered, in a rage, unexpected.
But what haunts me more than the experience is the thought that this is not a one off thing for some people. That some people live the trauma, as the rest of the world watches in silence whilst they die.
The world has been shattered into delicate pieces long before last week, last month, earlier this year. The world has been so broken that the stories are becoming as ancient as time itself.
I struggled with writing. I didn’t know if I wanted to do it in the first or third person. Monster is technically a Black Sketchbook piece, I think it was the ninth or tenth. It explores repentance and the act of forgiving one’s self, which I guess is an essential topic, because not a lot of people are aware that it is possible to hold a grudge against themselves. I sketched Monster 2 years ago, but I could only really write about it now. It was the first time I ever used pure graphite on paper.
I don’t know why I knew this, but I knew that all repentant monsters stood in dark corners and said venomous things to themselves, in their own individual spaces.
They remembered the past:
“where we incited fear with one glance of our bloodshot eyes, where we ripped things and people to shreds even when they pleaded ‘please don’t’.
We resolved within ourselves that we did not deserve good things because we had destroyed so many good things in our time…
In our individual spaces, we remembered when we pleaded with the world not to turn us into monsters, we remember that we were too weak to not take the bait.
We remember when we decided that the world deserved to be ripped to pieces because we were the result of mankind’s selfishness and wickedness, that the world had ignited this everlasting flame that is now trying consuming it”.
I don’t know why I knew this, but I knew that all repentant monsters stood in dark corners and said hurtful things to themselves in their own individual spaces. I also know that as dysfunctional as the world is, it is sometimes more forgiving of itself than repentant monsters.
Season greetings dear readers: it has been ages since I last wrote on my blog. Apologies; I proportion part of the blame on severe writer’s block and the other half on the trauma that came with going back to being a student.
The Ninth sketch form the Black Sketchbook was drawn during my first few weeks at Uni. I have always wanted to be more than just a pretty girl, I could very well handle the days when my mother put me in a dress and tried to make me look pretty for guests or pictures or parties but I always felt constricted and uncomfortable. However the older I grew, the more appealing it was to be just a pretty girl, nothing more, nothing less. I felt like it didn’t help to be deep because depth brought with it a depressing atmosphere; “I was always making the people around me think more than they usually would”. When I did try to be just a pretty girl, I looked in the mirror and it was not me. I was definitely surprised by how long it took me to accomplish ‘the look’, I was surprised by how different it made me look, but I was mostly surprised by how easily I had caved in. Then I started to think..
What happens when you are no longer conceived as a pretty girl?
What happens when your charm fades and your face is no longer bright?
What happens when you grow old and your back starts to hunch over, you can no longer walk in those stylish heels, and your face is covered in wrinkles and your hair is white and people are no longer drawn to you?
What happens when you start to feel irrelevant and imperfect in a society where the standards are so high?
How far would you go to feel like a pretty girl again?
After all that thinking I laughed because I realized that none of this actually matters If I continue to just be myself.
The Ninth sketch isn’t one of my favorites but I think she definitely nailed the expression I had when I looked in the mirror, surprised but also subtle hint of disappointment. Back then I seldom used coal in my drawings, but I did here. Perhaps I did it as a reflection of my sudden willingness to try new things. I don’t know.
Hi guys, welcome to my Art space. On here I will post stuff derived from my mind and created with my hands. Enjoy.