V. H. King's Ink

I’ve been on another art kick recently. By recently, I mean the last month and a half. Fine-tuning works in progress, sketching out new projects, and of course, hoarding more art supplies. I’ve been reflecting on my art process here and there too, when my body needs rest but my mind hasn’t quite gotten that memo yet.

When I started drawing in sixth and seventh grades, I wasn’t thinking about selling prints or taking on commissions. I was too busy worried about the sudden shift in my friend group’s dynamics. I was also terrified of becoming a teenager. I had read the books, you see. The girls would be meaner and the boys would be absolutely cruel and I was sure I would be invisible. Add to that the expectations to excel at honors classes and advanced athletics? On top of choosing electives that would guide my trajectory through high school, all so I could get impressive scholarships at a top-tier university? Well, that’s a lot of pressure for a twelve-year-old.

In the middle of all this, I dove deep into art. Coloring pages had always been a comfort as a kid. I loved creating my own puzzles and word searches, gifting them to parents and friends. But as a pre-teen, my creativity took a sharp introspective turn. I filled sketchbook after sketchbook, pushing the boundaries of the art I thought I was allowed to create.

Sharpies became my best friends. I attempted painting on paper and canvas, although the results were rarely to my satisfaction. I took my art class projects with utmost seriousness, pushing myself to create masterpieces. Some things were cool, others not so much. And more often than not, my frustration with imperfection yielded the best works of all.

In high school I stopped taking art classes because I knew my work wouldn’t merit the grades I wanted. I had heard about the teacher’s standards and opted out of that sort of criticism real fast–but that didn’t mean I held myself to lesser standards. Instead I decided to explore elsewhere. I experimented with ink and calligraphy, I tried mixing media on a single space. I went from my 8.5×11 sketchbook to working with canvas boards, stretched canvases, and massive (to me) art sheets. Acrylic, watercolor, brush pens–I essentially discovered ways to express just what I thought about all those expectations that weighed on me.

I created a playground for myself. In this wordless space, I could shout all those things I wasn’t allowed to speak, let alone think. I imagined with a certain recklessness, a restlessness, that fueled me month after month, year after year, during times when I didn’t know how to survive. The final products rarely matched what I had envisioned. My so-called mistakes rearranged my view of the world into something messier, something more honest and human than the clear-cut rules I had always side-eyed with suspicion. I found that the work I created wasn’t worthless, even if it wasn’t what I thought I had wanted.

I still learn this every day: the difference between the art I admire and my own style, the revisions that allow a work to speak for itself, and the heresy of expecting perfection from myself. Back then, I thought I only poured my heart out if I could use words on the page. It seemed even in my art, I couldn’t get away from words.

As I’ve thought about the pieces I’ve created this year and the projects from years past, I’ve found that my art speaks for itself. And when it comes to my work, I prefer it that way. Let people interpret it as they will. Let the colors and lines resonate without my explanation of it getting in the way.