She hadn’t started out to pen graphic novels. She planned on being what she called then a “serious artist.” Navigate the perplexing world with a paint brush. Capture the elementary. Drench the canvas with colour. Each viewer meant to create their own meaning. The palliative ecstasy of a thousand different perceptions and interpretations.
A thousand people didn’t rush to see (or purchase) her work. Even she had to admit it was mediocre at best. There was no meaning, no intention. Just paint on paint on paint.
She turned her back towards the murky mucks of paintings. Sharpened pencils. Selected paper. And then just sat. So much for being a graphic novelist. Good bye art-world, hello latte-world.
Her mind wandered. Remembered days by the lake. Stillness and silence. Water. Mossy trees. Slippery paths through underbrush. Calm. Peace. The natural world art instructor insisted a bustling, noisy place existed if they would learn to observe with ears, eyes and soul. Most importantly the soul.
A tiny bird showed her the environment wasn’t a bucolic idyll, nor as simple as prey meets predator. Drama of it’s life unfolding in her sketch book. A story in pictures and few words.
She picked up her pencil again. Sketching rapidly, she started her first graphic novel, wren.
@ phylor 2014