Nautilus

On Wednesday, someone asked me what my "drawing animal" was, and I automatically replied, the nautilus. It's a funny animal that I think I resemble the most: elusive, awkwardly cute, and runs into things because it can't see where it's going.

It is in my nature to look behind me as a nautilus does. As both an artist and art historian, I look behind me at what others have done. Even if they lived a thousand years before me, doesn't that mean that I should have the same (if not better) tools and materials as they did? What's stopping me from painting like Rembrandt or carving a piece on the same level as Angkor Wat?

...a lot of things, really, but lack of effort and inspiration won't be among them.

The "drawing animal" question was asked on the day I attended a drawing event at school, despite no longer being a student. Wholeheartedly, I enjoyed it. Bouncing off the energy that everyone was putting in. Action and reaction. Punchlines and laughter. Dancing and embarrassment. No one "owned" that drawing, just as no one "owned" that moment. It was ours. And it was shared.

But when the time came to leave, I hesitated and pressed the elevator button with my back turned to it; facing the work and people I wasn't sure if I would see again. The walk to the station felt particularly quiet and lonely that night.

Always the nautilus, I look back and watch it all. Learning. Changing. But could I, should I turn my eyes forward and look ahead for what may be? Certainly I would go faster and spare myself some pain, yet the cost may be forgetting not only those who pass out of sight, but myself as well.

I don't know the answer. I hope I find it one day.