Let’s take it back to the beginning. To my beginning that is…before it all really began…There were pencils, HB, 2H, HH… a pencil was a pencil to me really. Then the crayons, the wax kind, and the slightly hateful oil crayon. Hello deadly toxins at my fingertips!
Ahhhh and paint. Watercolour, oil, acrylic, and the Barbie make up i thought was paint.
Through all this, i struggled at my artsmanship during the fumbling undiscovered stages of my life.
Then life took a turn and perfection came in a box of 10.
The slick black casing of a pen so natural in my hand, it could have grown into an extra finger. I can’t quite explain the feeling of a fineliner. It’s almost like you have to know yourself, know what you have and what you’re gonna do with it. It’s the kind of confidence a skydiver has. Once he jumps of that edge, he knows, this is it. Either fly or die. Same with the pen. Be sure of every stroke you make coz lets face it, ink was not made to be erased! You know there’s just no turning back, even if you’ve drawn that eye a few inches too close to the other, thats pretty much where it will remain.
I may be crazy but i find more surety in my pen than anything else in life. Maybe i don’t control it. Maybe it controls me. My hand knows exactly what path to take as soon as that cap comes off. The realisation that i make no defeating errors with that pen is nothing short of profound. Without a doubt through that black ink flows some kind of magic. Now it may not be a perfect picture, all symmetrical and expertly aligned but it sure is always a picture even i can be proud of!