January 15, 2009

I’m at a graphic facilitation workshop these few days.  I’ve spent most of the time doodling happily in this lovely A4 sketchbook that came with our seminar pack.  I don’t actually think I’m all that good but I like to draw, am not afraid to put pen to paper and will usually complete a picture.  Those factors alone mean that at least I have something to show for my perceived skill.  Quality aside.

I was telling Dad about the workshop and wondered aloud why people always think they can’t draw, when in reality, everyone can (or at least could when they were kids).  Dad philosophized that it was because at some point, little kids’ rational minds kicked in and they realized that their pictures weren’t great and people (i.e. adults) stopped praising their pokemon drawings.  So the little kids told themselves that they weren’t meant to draw and went to find something else to do.  Anyway, when you are older, drawing pokemon isn’t cool anymore.  “That’s sad,” I said.  Dad just shrugged.  “It happens”.  And we walked out of the kitchen, passing a framed picture of a horse that Dad painted some time ago.  I’m glad no one told me I couldn’t draw (or at least, I didn’t listen – being stubborn has its benefits).  I’m glad Dad still draws.

If I ever become a parent, can someone remind me to always be the kind who encourages my kids to draw.  My favourite childhood memories are of doing combined art projects with Dad – paintings for the wall, DIY storybooks and other happy things.  I liked how growing up my hands (and face?) were always covered in ink or paint.

(Even being in E’s apartment in Penang and seeing his humorous oil-paintings on the wall made me kind of happy.)


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