It's All About The Strokes, Folks

I love this drawing and I’ll tell you why.

I know it isn’t perfect. There are anatomical issues. The calves aren’t quite right, she only has three fingers, etc. I don’t give a fuck. She’s beautiful and I love her.

See, I drew this quickly one night like I’ve done with so many others. It was an act of passion. A pouring out of emotions and ideas and lines and colors while music played and thoughts danced in my head.

She’s naked. She stands on the earth. I draw curves and lines and shapes that move and jiggle. I make grass and an old, old sword. She leans on it, caressing it. It is a power of the earth and she is growing out of the earth too. I give her color. The marker is dry. Fuck it. I rub it in harder, smearing it, making something come from it’s worn out tip. I grab another. A different color, but similar. Like all things in life she is not black and white. There are tones and shades and gradations and imperfections. Blotches and moles and wrinkles and fat and muscle and hair.

The marker dries up again. I grab a different one. I smear it in. I make her thighs and shoulders sun kissed. I dab in green of the earth, blasts of color popping out of it like little explosions of sound and fury and love.

It’s all about the process. The love making movement of a brush or pen or pencil across the yielding surface of white paper.

And it’s all good.