Dear readers,
Doodles. Drawing. Art. Why do I do it, or attempt to do it? What is the point of it all? Why do any of us do anything? Why even breathe? Where are we? Point of life? Who knows. Seeing that I’ve diverged into pretentious, philosophical nonsense, I will now attempt to get back to the point (if there is one?), addressing the question of this blog post.
I doodle. I love it. I do it all the time. Drawing. Or writing. If I have a pen, pencil, brush or mobile app in or at my fingertips, something to draw on, and an idle mind full of ludicrous inspiration, I am at my happiest. Letting the world and hours fly by and switching off my phone to all distractions. A coffee or tea close by is a nice luxury. The location of where I’m vomiting my imagination on paper isn’t much of a worry, unless I’m in an environment provoking motion sickness, and then I’m vomiting my last meal on the paper. Not a good thing. Unless you like vomit art. And if you are, please stop reading now and visit the dark web or wherever sedates your needs. You know who you are, even if we don’t. Spoiler alert: I don’t practise that kind of art.
I also love the absurd. In art, novels and movies. The tens of thousands of thoughts we have every day. The vast majority of them are useless; we don’t practise upon them because of just that: they are absurd. But art enables us to do that: spew our thoughts out on paper [note to self: enough of the vomit analogies. I don’t know what’s got into you. It’s tiring your dear readers and beginning to sound like verbal diarrhoea. (Pun intended.)].
I have always enjoyed drawing or doodling, or painting. I don’t think I’ve ever been that great at it. I struggled to colour within the lines at school, causing much disdain among teachers (I justify it now by telling myself that art shouldn’t be kept within the lines…I wish I’d had the wit at the time to tell the teachers just that, not that I hold any [much] resentment). Through constant practice, and I don’t want to bore you with the ‘practice makes perfect’ line, I’m proud of my improvement. Maybe it’s the Malcolm Gladwell 10,000-hour rule to master an activity. Fuck knows which hour I’ve reached. I’m not counting. Who does when one’s enjoying themself? Just recently, I feel I’ve turned a corner. Not to blow my own trumpet. I’m not winning any prizes (yet!), and when I look at doodles and drawings in galleries or social media or Pinterest or by friends, I am astonished and inspired by the thought process and technique and style of the artist. It’s a constant learning process, like everything in life, but in a more profound way.
Sometimes it is just a stream of consciousness and improvisation, being inspired by something I see and trying out styles and/or putting my own touch or narrative around it. Just finding out what I like, and fucking up with no pressure or remorse and succeeding now and then and being proud with what I produce, taking my foot of the pedal, so to speak. Self-teaching and finding a voice for everything. I love to see what comes out from an intangible idea created in a millisecond, to create a tangible work of art. The spark of it all. The burst of activity. This comes through all acts of creativity. But still, I love it.
I guess I started something of an artistic journey two weeks after my father passed away. To the day, actually. Sunday 23rd October 2022. I found myself walking down the high street in Great Malvern with a fiver in my pocket. Not in note form, though; just coins and shrapnel. And if anyone knows anything about the UK or even spent 5 minutes there, they love change, and to make matters worse, the coins weigh a ton, even if it doesn’t come to that greater value. You need a belt to save your trousers or skirt dropping to your ankles. And don’t think that baggy trousers trend in the early 90s had anything to do with aesthetics or style; fuck no, the eejits just had too much change in their pockets. Which is where I found myself that morning, no doubt a grey morning considering the time of year. To be honest, I can’t remember if it was grey or even a morning. I just remember walking down the high street, trying to adjust to the death of my father and a cashless society. I felt the coins in my pocket and had a burning desire to part with them as quickly as possible, with an adequate rush of consumer thrill (more like dull thudding), while also trying to keep my jeans at waist height. I was toying with the idea of a sausage roll and/or Cadburys Chocolate. But then the book and craft shop, The Works, stood before me, so I stepped in to see what nonsense of a book I could buy and probably not bother to read. But, amongst all the Christmas shite that Santa had no doubt barfed up, there sat with halo around it was a little black sketch book; the colour pretty much reflecting how I was feeling around those days. I needed to fill it with whatever storm was brewing in my head. I picked it with some colour pencils and went to the till. The irony was, the two items came to over five pounds so I had to use my card anyway, and I was still left with the hunger to part with the fiver. Luckily my hunger for a sausage roll and Cadbury’s Chocolate had not departed, so I walked home with the thought of being slightly fatter and the potential urge to do something artistic. And it all sparked off from there, with the image below, just the urge to part with five pounds.
Sketches of feelings and emotions. It pretty much is just that, literally a doodle journal. I complete it every day without fail with a time stamp on each entry. I also keep a normal journal and I clock in everyday, but as many can testify, my handwriting is utter dog shit. Some scientists say it is a sign of extreme intelligence and genius, and while I often tell myself this, I think the studies are highly dubious and largely unfounded. So re-reading my written entries months, days or even hours later is an utter waste of time to chart my thoughts and feelings, yet still it is a useful strategy for my own peace of mind. However, my sketches are different. I vividly remember each one, imprinted in my memory. Maybe that’s just who I am: a very visual person. I never thought I was. I thought I was more of a man of words and text. Maybe most people are like this. Lots of maybes.
The journal consists of memories, maybe moments of those days. It might be an anniversary, a song that really resonates with me, lyrics or words from a book or even a picture or portrait in a gallery. A day that I met someone who had a profound impact, good or bad. I might be venting about something, scraping out the bitterness or getting to the bottom of something, or in contrast to that, manifesting something new and wonderful in my life. I consider it a lifesaver. I still do. I started off with colour pencils, then mid-October 2023, I turned to black ink, investing in some high quality pens. The doodles might look less colourful, but I love the feel of the professional pens and experimenting styles with the different size of nibs. Trial and error, and like previously emotioned, fucking up and succeeding along the way.
Then, in May of 2023, I was sat in Plaza Miraflores – a small shopping centre in Tegucigalpa – having a coffee while waiting for a friend to collect and take me to Danli, a town to the east of Honduras. I’d already done my doodle for the day, but I found myself with a pen in my hand, a servette before me and an idle mind, as well as caffeine stimuli running through my bloodstream, so I just started creating silly faces, and they took a life of their own. I might be in meetings or waiting to be served in a restaurant, alone or with friends, with a scrap of paper, a piece of toilet paper (not used) or a receipt, and a pen or pencil, and just see what absurdities come to mind and appear on the paper. Some I would share on the Instagram Stories function or to close friends and family on WhatsApp and receive all sorts of funny comments and compliments, mostly in good taste. I even gave them their very own hashtag, labelling them Coffee Doodles. Some people requested I publish a drawing every day, but there are obvious moments of doodle block. Other folks have recommended that I should sell on Etsy, which is the ultimate compliment, but I’m working out how and if it’s plausible to do from Honduras, as I haven’t a Scooby Doo of a clue (if you know how, please get in touch). It may seem that I am writing this with an inflated ego – the loudest pat on the back in the world – but quite simply; it’s nice to know my doodles mean something to someone.
Over time, I had too many scraps of paper with the doodles lying around and cluttering the place. I would take photos, but sadly, I would just chuck the the originals. People told me not to, but my indifference blocked out the sound thinking. So I started purchasing little sketchbooks from places like MUJI and bookshops so I would be more enticed to keep them. Then people noticed what I was doing and gifted me with pens and sketchbooks, beautiful items that are now priceless to me, from different corners of the world. I am also given challenges, a drawing and a message, daily.
I went through a period of using objects, little bits and pieces around the home, to create doodles, such as ear plugs, pins, pens and cotton swabs (before use). They were nice little challenges, but they also brought a little chuckle and smile to my own face, as well as others.
As I’ve got better, I feel more confident and I enjoy gifting friends and family drawings crafted especially for them, usually consisting of lyrics from a song they love or maybe a moment imprinted in their memory. They may well politely say, “Err….seriously, you shouldn’t have” and hide it away, but joking aside, hopefully putting it into a frame as a token of love and friendship. If it comes to be worth something, I hope they go on to sell it and buy themselves a house, or what worse, drugs and booze.
Yes. I suppose it comes from a place of pain. That’s how it started anyway. Someone very close to me started pretty much the same way, drawing wild birds ever since her mother passed. But as stated, I’ve always had an interest in art. I don’t consider myself anything special, but the need to practise it is intrinsic, for sure. My mother is an extraordinary artist, making Christmas cards out of wood carvings and all sorts, plus paintings and sketches. She has also passed this on to my niece, showing her techniques along the way. In the meantime, I have also experimented with creating art using different textures of grounded coffee beans. I have played with different drawing apps on my phone and turned them into GIFs. But also, during COVID, like for many people at the time, I tried to fill the countless hours with new activities or hobbies, aside from watching NetFlix and reading, and I took to oil and acrylic painting, as well as water colours. However, that particular project didn’t go very far.
While it may have started from pain, it has blossomed into a delightful method to relax and find a meditative state. But it is also self-expression but also wanting to move or entertain, leave the person looking at it to reflect or laugh. I had a psychiatrist reach out to me on social media telling me she saw a theme of love appearing with what I produced. I guess most artists want that, right? Express, move or inspire? I know I’m not breaking the wheel or creating any groundbreaking feeling, but still, the joy of doodling has inspired me to write this spiel.
I recommend it to anyone though, whether it is out of pain or to rewire your brain with circuits of stimuli and start a new artistic venture. You don’t know what you will come out with at times and that’s the joy of it. Everyone has an artistic journey, whether it doodling, writing, music, photography or cinematography. This is my journey. What’s yours?
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