Wings are always a puzzle to draw. There are so many variations of them, from the avian to the reptilian to the angelic. They can be imposing or inviting, nightmarish or holy. They can elevate or behead. They are a bodily form we are still, after all these years, trying to successfully, safely imitate in a more personal way. What marvel is there in flight when 150 people can frequently engage in it all at once?
Inevitably, I split the difference between drawing from memory and reference. I’ll find a picture, give it a shot, and then fill in the blanks on my own. It’s never perfect, but it’s a wing that did not exist before. It’s another footprint to add to the drawing journey.
I don’t remember exactly why I grew the roots at the base of this person, who perhaps quite intentionally looks somewhat like me. But I imagine it had something to do with the warm and #fuzzy feelings of growth that come with getting back to your roots. With simplifying your life. With starting with a pencil, some paper, and a dream. In other words: it’s very much like my writing process. The pieces that I’ve felt the proudest about have come from simply getting back to the basics of what interested, astonished, bewildered, confused, grabbed hold of me. When you start with something you can’t quite let go of, you don’t have to find your way back to it; it will pull you in all on its own. It will make you think, if only briefly, that you can fly. A warm, fuzzy feeling will envelope you. The future will feel brighter and alive with possibility. The gravity will feel less oppressive. You will think you’re flying when, really, you’re floating. Floating on the buzz of creativity sparked.
But all of this comes with putting down that first puzzle piece. That first feather. That first attempt at dreaming a little bigger.
