There are pieces I made when I was wide open. Vulnerable. In love, or in pain, or somewhere in between. I’d draw not just to capture someone, but to hold onto moments that mattered – the kind you know won’t last forever. There was this urgency to it all, this fear that the magic would slip away if I didn’t get it down fast enough. So I’d post before I could overthink it. Reckless, maybe. But sometimes exactly right.
When I look back at those pieces now, I can’t help but wonder: was that the truest art I’ve ever made? It felt like everything was on the line.
These days, I work differently. I give drawings time to sit. I step away, come back later, let them breathe a little. I try to stay connected to what I actually want – not just what I think people will respond to. But even now, the question creeps in: is this really me? Or just a more polished version of who I used to be?
I don’t have a clean answer. What I’m learning, though, is that maybe both versions belong. The raw, urgent work that came from being cracked open. And the quieter pieces I make now, from a place of steadier self-trust.
If you’ve ever felt this split – like your “best” work came from somewhere you’re not sure you can or even want to return to – you’re not alone. I think a lot of us carry that tension.
But maybe we don’t have to choose.
