Today I decided that the artist’s block that’s been hounding me for I guess a week can get lost. I was done moping over blank sketchbook pages and trying to re-evaluate my whole entire life. I asked my mum if I could borrow the brown paper she uses to wrap parcels (‘It’s for my art, mum…. No, I won’t use it all…’) and I just sort of… did it.
Trying new things isn’t a concept I’m particularly great at embracing. I love routine, I love control. And I love routine. I like to know how things are going to be before they are. I even asked my friend to outline the whole plot of the new Star Wars film to me. (I don’t even have plans to go and see it anytime soon. I just want to know how it ends in case I do go and see it.) Anyway, he refused. But using brown paper instead of white- that fortunately was a tiny enough step out of my comfort-zone to get me back into the swing of drawing without inducing lack-of-control, expect-the-unexpected anxiety.
I didn’t know what to expect though. I didn’t test my pens on it to see if the ink would feather or bleed through, I didn’t test my paint to see if it would be opaque enough or if the paper would hold up under the wetness of it.
And I’m weirdly thrilled! Like, I’m on a bit of a high. Obviously, it’s not a big deal. It’s a painting on brown paper. I haven’t changed the world. But I feel like I’ve been in this groggy, dark tunnel of anti-creativity and I’ve finally breached the lull of movitationlessness (please, don’t check the dictionary for that one) and here I am, finally on the other end. I finally reached the light.
The clear, bright, brown-paper light.