Recently I’ve become enamored with paper. Or rather, in paper that I’m not traditionally interested in. I’m a journal addict, the collection of 12+ unused tomes under my bed is a testament to that. Nor have I been spending as much time wit my planners as of late. Instead, I’ve been researching and making preliminary scratches to my very own tarot grimoire.
I recently read an article about Melania Trump’s Instagram feed. How every person has an eye and a voice in their photography… even if they are untrained snapshots. It got me pondering about my own photographic voice. Because a photographer I am not. But if what the article’s author says is true (and my gut affirms it is) then surely I have my own eye for other artistic endeavors… even if I don’t classify myself as particularly artistic.
I have a strong voice in my writing. All my blogs sound like me (probably because I read them all aloud prior to posting). Even my work reports sound like me. But all drawings, painting, designs I craft feel distinctly one thing… bad.
But that article and my ruminations on it have got me spinning that perhaps I just need to output my art. And these damn doodles that have captivated me so. On Saturday (or was it Friday?) Josh and I went to an art fair with a henna artist. I thought ‘I like how that looks’ so for SCRIBBLE I gave myself permission to try… sans judgment.
The image above isn’t perfect. As you can see, I smudged the ink in several places as I shifted the notebook around. And my inner critic chastised myself. Told myself it would be an embarrassment to share. There are elements of the design that work and elements that I flat out dislike. But the essential thing is I just completed it. That I allowed it to be imperfect because it’s for fun. It’s a new hobby. And it’s as inconsequential as tossing into the recycling bin.