Unshoulding

"Love yourself enough not to draw a horse."

More than one friend said this week, after my last post, I had no idea you can draw.

I can draw. Pretty well. Well enough that I spent more than a decade with a nagging sense I was supposed to. Supposed to hone the skill, supposed to become some kind of formal visual artist. There were colleges I got into in part because my application included an art portfolio I was proud of. One of them offered me a full ride, but it was in New England and there was no way I’d survive all that snow. I didn’t end up going to college at all, instead drove out west and tried to figure how people live a life. After a couple years in San Francisco, I started taking classes at community college. To this day, hands down, my favorite class ever was Figure Drawing with Diane Olivier.

In most versions of my identity crisis monologues of the past decade (I know I’m an artist, but what’s my art form?) Visual Artist was rarely questioned. Not Painter—I still don’t really know what I’m doing, don’t know how to work with tertiary colors. But without question I’m a visual person. I sort the world by color, forget names but not faces, prefer audio stories so my brain can be free to sink into the imagery without having to take in written words. I should be a visual artist.

As I writer, I get overwhelmed all the time. There are so many words. Too many to conceive of at the same time. This is where the visuals come in: equations, charts, graphs. Little pictures to summarize what I’m trying to say. Sometimes a friend will send me a cute graphic pulled from the internet that will say succinctly what I’ve been trying to work out with more than 4,000 words.

I regularly print out and cut up my essay drafts. Color code themes. Physically move parts around. I need it to be tangible and visual. I’ve started to think maybe there’s something to it. Whether it’s because of ADHD or a visual mind or a fast-moving world, I think the majority of us appreciate a visual aid. I’ve even started to think, what if my book of essays has a visual component? Not it should, but what if. What if I write a book that better reflects/reveals how my mind actually works.

I’ve long been a fan of Aubrey Hirsch, first discovered her in The Audacity when my own essay was published there. She has a powerful way of taking a huge social issue and addressing it with a handful of images and a few pointed words. Her comics pack a punch. I have thought, from time to time, that I could probably learn a lot from her.

Last night I took a class with her! It was called Comics for People Who Can’t Draw, and though I’ve established I can, I also sometimes can’t. Everything requires practice. Mostly, the name signaled lowered stakes, seemed to say, Maybe you’ll be good at it, maybe not. Nobody cares. Just come play.

Anyone who knows me knows I think I need to say every word of the 4,000 to feel even remotely sane. There’s no universe where I’ll throw in the towel on being an essayist to become a comic artist. But could I be both? I was excited to learn a new skill of distillation, to get a little confidence in another arena, to once more think broadly about who I am as a writer and sociologist and philosopher (with no degrees to prove it). It was a delight, reminded me that people are witty and playful and it’s just fun to do something without stakes. Horses are hard to draw, Aubrey said. “Love yourself enough not to draw a horse.”

Speaking of practice, this week I finally signed up for a 10-day Vipassana silent meditation course in November. It has been nearly a decade since I’ve gone to one. Over the years I’ve struggled with the idea of the time commitment, the level at which I’d have to face myself, but mostly I’ve wondered if I’m worthy. In the last ten years I’ve been through cycles of depression and addiction, tried different techniques like medication and ketamine therapy, abandoned my body and definitely my meditation practice. I effectively rejected something I know is supremely good for me. I’ve been mean and reactive and I know better. Have I demonstrated the kind of compassion worthy of receiving all those benefits?

I said something to this effect in my application and almost immediately got a message from the teacher of the course asking me to call him. Mostly, he said, he just wanted to say he’s so glad I’m coming back. He was touched by my application. All that doubting about taking it seriously enough? “Don’t do that to yourself,” he said.

Right, these are the kinds of humans we’re dealing with at meditation centers. That he reached out meant the world to me, eased a small anxiety that would have lurked in a corner for months. Replaced it with a reminder. Love yourself enough not to draw a horse.

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Optional Assignment:

Make a comic. Sure, yeah, right now. Four panels. A conversation you overheard or something you did today. You don’t have to put people in it. It doesn’t matter if you can’t draw. Make that limit your inspiration (Good Talk by Mira Jacob is a great example of a book told in a visual way by someone who insists she can’t draw). Cut out pictures from the brochure you just threw away. Draw two pretzels talking. No one knows what they’re doing.