Back to the Beginning: Children’s Drawings

Rarely do I leaf through the voluminous stack of my children’s drawings. Yet when I do, I must be surprised to find that I “could draw better” back then.

At 3, 4, 5 years old – what vigour! What courage!

No fear of pink, stars, and hearts (which I still like).

No fear of perspective, for I knew none.

No respect for shadows, for I didn’t place any.

No attempt to give my characters recognisability – I decided who was who, period.

No idea what other contemporary artists outside the school corridor were capable of. I don’t believe it would have interested me particularly anyway.

What self-confidence is shown in these drawings.

And what a sense of composition! Sometimes the paper is regularly filled with paint, sometimes a large white spot remains empty. Obviously intentionally. No fear of emptiness.

What a sense of rhythm and abstraction!

And what a contrast on one of the sheets, between the very small house and the large person beside it. Did I already know back then that people are more important than objects? Two decades later, I could name this principle of representation: perspective of significance.

What freedom and modesty in the choice of materials. Scrap paper was good enough.

How much focus and energy these drawings convey.

And how productive I was back then! Several finished drawings a day. Whereas now I need several weeks for one.

I threw away a third of my children’s drawings. Most of them had been good. I kept the “most beautiful” ones.

I found my evaluation of the drawings interesting. If I liked a drawing very much, but discovered on the back that it wasn’t mine, I could simply let it go. If my own name was behind it, I immediately felt a familiarity.

“I drew THIS!” is apparently a pride that is very flexibly applicable.

I threw away two-thirds of my drawings as a teenager. There was more pain in them; that’s where the insecurity began. Once an emotion has been expressed, I no longer need to keep it in the form of a drawing. Its purpose is fulfilled.

After that came art school, where I learned to channel this childlike energy without damaging it. We developed techniques to stay fresh and spontaneous before picking up the brush for the 10,000th time.

Then it was about showing perseverance. The child I was drew simply in freedom. If illustration is to be practised as a profession, constraints come into play.

These constraints are a blessing, for they invite me to open up and explore new visual places.

Nevertheless, evaluation criteria remain important:

– “Do I enjoy drawing?”

If the joy has completely disappeared, something has gone wrong.

– “Does a certain lightness reach the viewers?”

If it is missing, I may reflect on at which point in the process I lost it myself, so that its absence is palpable.

Paper, Pen, Brush, and Paint

The paint. Liquid. The pen has absorbed a lot of it. Apparently too much. I write a word, beautiful and even, and on the last letter – Splash! My word is swimming in the puddle.

The paper.

The stroke was perfect. For a second. Then the ground behaves like blotting paper. It was more open than I thought. The line is no longer clean.

The pen.

I want to make round letters from round arm movements. I breathe in and start. The pen resists my momentum. It stops on the paper far too early, and I cannot finish my letter.

The brush.

A hair has come loose from the brush. Now it lies in the middle of the painted area. If I try to remove it with my finger, I destroy the calm of the even application of paint, which will soon be completely dry.

The paper.

I was immersed in drawing. For an angled brushstroke, I rested my elbow on the work surface. And there it happened: The paper got an incurable crease at the edge.

The paint again.

Fully engaged, I continued drawing. Meanwhile, I didn’t notice that my hand was brushing over the lines I had just drawn. The paint landed where it didn’t belong.

Pen, brush, paper, paint… so innocent.

For Whom Do I Draw?

My client likes the drawing, and I don’t. I like the drawing, and my client doesn’t. I can now avoid one of these two situations.

I only show drawings that I can stand behind.

No one should fall in love with an illustration for which I would be ashamed.

Even though I appreciate “shame competence” very much.

And if my client doesn’t like the drawing, then it is due to something.

Usually, I even understand it. I accept the challenge.

It is already nice and should become even nicer. Or rather, it is simply a matter of taste.

Perhaps I don’t see the colours correctly myself, who knows? In my world, everything is beautiful, and… What do other eyes see?

Like or Dislike, what does that say about the value of a mature drawing?

And for whom do I draw? For me or for you?

Completion of a Drawing

The day is finished, but the drawing is not. How am I supposed to sleep tonight if the result on paper only resembles a mere disappointment?

Every hour I spend on it makes the drawing worse.

I can’t go on. I need a break.

But for a break, I need at least an intermediate result.

I mean, a successful one.

One that gives me the courage not to give up drawing completely.

Only, the energy isn’t enough.

And this intermediate result, I’ve been waiting for it for hours.

OK. When did I still like the drawing?

Yesterday. The pencil draft? Yes.

So we discard all the colour combinations I tried today? Yes.

What a waste of time, energy, paper, and paint! – Yes, perhaps.

Now I’ll give up drawing forever.

“I will never draw again!”

Apparently, I can’t anyway.

That means consistency.

What a relief!

Never draw again, just imagine!

Now it applies forever.

I mean: Just now, you know?

That is also relieving.

From Head to Paper

The character wants to live. While it still exists only in my head, it sets my hands in motion. Driven, I fetch paper, brush, pen, and all the inks.

Comic drawing. The little woman looks up into the air with a dreamy smile. She rests her head on one hand. A small heart is drawn above her head.

Ink illustration in the style of a comic drawing. The little woman in a polka-dot outfit holds a chicken in her hands. Drawn with pen and brush.

Comic drawing. The ink illustration shows the little woman with a polka dot outfit doing a handstand. She smiles.

Ink illustration for the category "Body Sketches". The little woman in a polka-dot outfit stands in front of a mirror. She places a hand on its surface and looks at her reflection. She asks, "Who are you?". The fine drawing is done with brush and pen.

– “Yes, yes, wait. Soon. Now we can start. What colour do you want, first of all?”

The character moves my hands quickly, and soon I have collected and sorted many small ink pots in front of me.

– “Yellow? Green? Gold-green? Yellow-green? Chick yellow? Tooth yellow? Formica yellow? Hmm… OK, that’s not quite my colour!”

– “But it is mine!”

I draw. The character, who still exists only in my head, is not satisfied at all.

– “I don’t look like that!”

– “I know that already.”

I draw.

– “Not like that!”

– “I knooooow. I’m just getting warmed up.”

– “So, what do you think of this?”

– “Not bad, but not good.”

– “That matches my feeling too. Tell me, what is your nose like? Pointed, round? Small, big?”

– “What my nose looks like is your job. Anyway, I am sweet, smart, playful, and simply happy all round.”

– “You are lucky.”

Then the big moment arrives. Silence in the head. I look at the picture. And I no longer know where the character is. In my head or on the paper?

– “Hey. Are you there?”

Silence. The character on the paper looks at me. It looks sweet, but not statuesque, smart, but not gifted, playful and happy anyway.

And green, very green it looks. I wonder how this gold-green – which on its worst days is simply just khaki and on its best days has a warm orange tint – will look on my website. But well… That wasn’t my decision.

It looks as if this character knows no worries. Inspiring.

– “I don’t know any either! That’s the idea, that I’m not like you!”

– “I agree with you. Oh and! Are you speaking again?”

Now I draw and draw. There will be many. Suddenly I no longer know where the real, the original, the true character stands.

– “Is that you?”

– “No.”

– “And this one?”

– “No.”

– “Where are you, my goodness!?”

– “That one has my nose, that one has my hands. Take my eyes here.”

The next day, in all freshness, crafting begins.

Then it happens again. Silence in the head. I think we are celebrating a birthday today.

– “Now we need a name for you. And what are you anyway? Woman, man? Child? All? Are you very young, very old? Both?”

But the character no longer speaks. It exists now only on the paper. And I can rest.

Life with this character has settled down. It is no longer so exciting, but still beautiful. Sometimes I think the character is not elegant enough. It seems a bit rough. It sometimes even looks silly. But wait. Am I a mother who loves unconditionally, or not?