The Art of Childhood
And how it affects the storyteller
What is inspiration, really? How does one weave such an intricate relationship with an innocent hobby, something that was passed off as simply a way to loll the time away. As a child, I always looked forward to bedtime. It was the time of day where I could finally think about all that I’d seen and experienced in the daytime, making up little plotlines and characters in my mind as my consciousness began to fade. Even nowadays, I cannot fall asleep without thinking about a piece of media or my own characters. My days were spent swimming in emotion and fantasy as I stared blankly at a non-descript window, my mother’s voice blending into the background. Getting out of bed became a challenge, my vivid imaginations and wonderings distracting me from the sound of my alarm ringing away, eyes fixed on the ceiling as my sister rushed to get dressed in our shared bedroom. I could not imagine life without the other one I had built from the visuals and the seemingly nonsensical logic of cartoons, the black ink on my barcoded library books, and the life I led in my little neighbourhood. Recalling these experiences it is clear that they could be considered my inspiration, prompting me to realise my fleeting daydreams on paper instead of letting them live in between the cracks of my mind, allowing me to properly connect with reality as well as the people living in it.
Imagination was an integral part of my childhood, my love of fictional stories helping me find my interests in other parts of my life. After school was the epitome of freedom, my short legs racing home as soon as I heard the bell chime. I had finished all my schoolwork in class and at lunch, the short pencil I used making almost incoherent scratches all over my worksheets, my hand gliding across the freshly printed paper. My classmate's faces loomed over me during lunch, questioning me about my absence from the four square game they had just begun, wondering why I secluded myself in a tiny corner near the school entrance.
Imagination was an integral part of my childhood, my love of fictional stories helping me find my interests in other parts of my life. After school was the epitome of freedom, my short legs racing home as soon as I heard the bell chime. I had finished all my schoolwork in class and at lunch, the short pencil I used making almost incoherent scratches all over my worksheets, my hand gliding across the freshly printed paper. My classmate's faces loomed over me during lunch, questioning me about my absence from the four square game they had just begun, wondering why I secluded myself in a tiny corner near the school entrance.
“Why don’t you come play with us?”
I looked up at them, pausing my mad rush for completion and spoke with a hint of annoyance.
“Unlike you, I don’t have the time to be whistling dixie. Don’t you know I have all kinds of things to do back home?”
Suffice it to say that I did not have much company during my early elementary school years.
When home finally came, I would run to my room and close the door. Laying down on my bed, not even changed yet, I would look up and start thinking, the gears in my head groaning and squeaking, happy to be in motion again after so much idle chit-chat and vapid lessons. By happenstance, today I found Persephone sitting in a flowerfield, picking flowers with her nymph sisters. I always loved reading about ancient myths, and it showed in my stories. Persephone smiled to herself, plucking a small daisy from the swaying grass and held it up to her nose. The odour reminded her of childhood, its earthy scent dominating the time she spent growing in the mortal world, memories of those times blooming in her mind at the smell. She thought of time before birth, days where she spent her hours as the essence of earth, silently observing the ambience and hoping to be born soon. Persephone recalled thinking about her future home, creating scenarios in her head on how her life would play out, how her mother would be. She created stories of life and its occupants, all while waiting to be shaped into being by Demeter’s glowing hands, creating herself a daughter from pure soil and giving life to the sky-minded Persephone. Putting the daisy in her basket, Persephone reached for another flower, anticipating the scent. Just as she culled it from the ground, Demeter’s voice boomed across the field. Persephone jumped, dropping her basket and turning around to see her furious mother rising from the surface of the land.
I looked up at them, pausing my mad rush for completion and spoke with a hint of annoyance.
“Unlike you, I don’t have the time to be whistling dixie. Don’t you know I have all kinds of things to do back home?”
Suffice it to say that I did not have much company during my early elementary school years.
When home finally came, I would run to my room and close the door. Laying down on my bed, not even changed yet, I would look up and start thinking, the gears in my head groaning and squeaking, happy to be in motion again after so much idle chit-chat and vapid lessons. By happenstance, today I found Persephone sitting in a flowerfield, picking flowers with her nymph sisters. I always loved reading about ancient myths, and it showed in my stories. Persephone smiled to herself, plucking a small daisy from the swaying grass and held it up to her nose. The odour reminded her of childhood, its earthy scent dominating the time she spent growing in the mortal world, memories of those times blooming in her mind at the smell. She thought of time before birth, days where she spent her hours as the essence of earth, silently observing the ambience and hoping to be born soon. Persephone recalled thinking about her future home, creating scenarios in her head on how her life would play out, how her mother would be. She created stories of life and its occupants, all while waiting to be shaped into being by Demeter’s glowing hands, creating herself a daughter from pure soil and giving life to the sky-minded Persephone. Putting the daisy in her basket, Persephone reached for another flower, anticipating the scent. Just as she culled it from the ground, Demeter’s voice boomed across the field. Persephone jumped, dropping her basket and turning around to see her furious mother rising from the surface of the land.
“Wake up, Persephone!” Demeter was livid, and the sound of a distant, sequential booming swallowed the sky. Persephone started to run away, her long chiton flowing in the wind as she sped past daffodils and lilacs.
“Wake up! We’re setting the table!”
I groaned and got off my bed, trudging towards the door with a heavy sigh. Redirecting my attention back to the world was always rough, my mother’s voice seeping through the cracks of my heavily fortified mind. It was an annoyance, my little child self wanting to be sucked back into worlds of fairies and pixies, and not ones including mothers.
My time spent at home was nothing short of robotic. I dreamt, did my chores, went out for a bit, and slept. Hours at school were no different, talking to the people around me on autopilot rather than putting my all in the various conversations I had. There was one person that caught my eye though, someone spending all their time drawing in a tiny blue school issued sketchbook. She drew pictures of people I had seen before in shows, like ittle blue cats and yellow sponges. I approached her during class one day, curious as to what she was doing.
“Hello there, what is it you are doing on those sheets of paper?” I approached her desk, leaning down to get a better look at the multicoloured lines.
“Why, I am simply drawing!” Her dark eyes shone as she explained her work to me.
I rolled my eyes to show my annoyance. “Of course I know what drawing is. I was curious about all the boxes you are drawing in. What are those for?”
“You see, I create stories within these little boxes. I am making a stream of happenings, instances and occurrences connect with my squares.” She pointed to one of them on the page.
“This one is about my rabbit, Milk. She likes to play among the clouds, hopping from one to another in search of food. Look, here she is eating a carrot while talking to the Sun!” She smiled.
“What does the Sun have to say?” I asked, curious.
“The Sun says all kinds of things, especially to Milk. He mostly talks about how nice it is way up high in the air, but he does sometimes mention his brother, the Moon.”
This is how our interactions went for the rest of the week, our conversations filled with her stories she so delicately copied onto her book. The first day she told me about Milk and the Sun, I went home and sat at my desk, pencil case in hand. An empty sheet of paper stared blankly at me. It soon started to speak, giving me a piece of advice.
“Wake up! We’re setting the table!”
I groaned and got off my bed, trudging towards the door with a heavy sigh. Redirecting my attention back to the world was always rough, my mother’s voice seeping through the cracks of my heavily fortified mind. It was an annoyance, my little child self wanting to be sucked back into worlds of fairies and pixies, and not ones including mothers.
My time spent at home was nothing short of robotic. I dreamt, did my chores, went out for a bit, and slept. Hours at school were no different, talking to the people around me on autopilot rather than putting my all in the various conversations I had. There was one person that caught my eye though, someone spending all their time drawing in a tiny blue school issued sketchbook. She drew pictures of people I had seen before in shows, like ittle blue cats and yellow sponges. I approached her during class one day, curious as to what she was doing.
“Hello there, what is it you are doing on those sheets of paper?” I approached her desk, leaning down to get a better look at the multicoloured lines.
“Why, I am simply drawing!” Her dark eyes shone as she explained her work to me.
I rolled my eyes to show my annoyance. “Of course I know what drawing is. I was curious about all the boxes you are drawing in. What are those for?”
“You see, I create stories within these little boxes. I am making a stream of happenings, instances and occurrences connect with my squares.” She pointed to one of them on the page.
“This one is about my rabbit, Milk. She likes to play among the clouds, hopping from one to another in search of food. Look, here she is eating a carrot while talking to the Sun!” She smiled.
“What does the Sun have to say?” I asked, curious.
“The Sun says all kinds of things, especially to Milk. He mostly talks about how nice it is way up high in the air, but he does sometimes mention his brother, the Moon.”
This is how our interactions went for the rest of the week, our conversations filled with her stories she so delicately copied onto her book. The first day she told me about Milk and the Sun, I went home and sat at my desk, pencil case in hand. An empty sheet of paper stared blankly at me. It soon started to speak, giving me a piece of advice.
“Go on” It prompted me, “Draw anything you’d like.”
“You think so?” I brought my pencil up to my chin and thought. “I have just decided; I will draw Persephone!”
“A splendid idea,” said the paper, “Persephone should work just fine.”
I slid my pencil across the sheet and traced the figure of Persephone as lightly as I could, shying away from the bold, confident lines I saw Milk in. I added in the flowers she kept in her basket, giving her a wide smile. Soon enough, I was now filling in the background with hills and wind and clouds, Demeter’s looming presence nowhere in sight. Just like I had seen, I traced a shaky box around my artwork, finally finishing it off and looking down confidently at my piece.
“See,” The paper, no longer empty, gave me its opinion once more. “It looks lovely.”
“Why thank you!” I replied, getting my materials ready for the next box. “I quite like it too.”
I spent the rest of the night drawing Persephone’s adventures, now adding in colour as I went. Inspiration seemed to flow out of my being, my ideas and characters forming naturally. Everything was just as I saw it in my mind, only now it was real and no longer a figment of my imagination. I went to bed satisfied with my work, anticipating my friend’s reaction the next day.
Just like the sheet of paper, my friend took a liking to Persephone, reading through my story with great interest. She commented on my dialogue and characters with precision, making my efforts seem worthwhile. It was then I was struck with an amazing thought, grabbing my friend’s shoulders and telling her my idea.
“Why don’t we make a story together?”
She looked back at me in surprise, blinking. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” I said, grabbing my work, “We draw a story like this together.”
She grinned at me, understanding what I intended to relay to her.
“What a marvelous idea! Let’s get to work.”
“You think so?” I brought my pencil up to my chin and thought. “I have just decided; I will draw Persephone!”
“A splendid idea,” said the paper, “Persephone should work just fine.”
I slid my pencil across the sheet and traced the figure of Persephone as lightly as I could, shying away from the bold, confident lines I saw Milk in. I added in the flowers she kept in her basket, giving her a wide smile. Soon enough, I was now filling in the background with hills and wind and clouds, Demeter’s looming presence nowhere in sight. Just like I had seen, I traced a shaky box around my artwork, finally finishing it off and looking down confidently at my piece.
“See,” The paper, no longer empty, gave me its opinion once more. “It looks lovely.”
“Why thank you!” I replied, getting my materials ready for the next box. “I quite like it too.”
I spent the rest of the night drawing Persephone’s adventures, now adding in colour as I went. Inspiration seemed to flow out of my being, my ideas and characters forming naturally. Everything was just as I saw it in my mind, only now it was real and no longer a figment of my imagination. I went to bed satisfied with my work, anticipating my friend’s reaction the next day.
Just like the sheet of paper, my friend took a liking to Persephone, reading through my story with great interest. She commented on my dialogue and characters with precision, making my efforts seem worthwhile. It was then I was struck with an amazing thought, grabbing my friend’s shoulders and telling her my idea.
“Why don’t we make a story together?”
She looked back at me in surprise, blinking. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” I said, grabbing my work, “We draw a story like this together.”
She grinned at me, understanding what I intended to relay to her.
“What a marvelous idea! Let’s get to work.”
This is when my true obsession for storytelling began. My friend and I spent all our time at school drawing for our various comics, the plots ranging from huge tsunamis and earthquakes to little dogs and cats going about their day, our drive and motivation reaching an all time high. I started watching more cartoons and movies and reading more comic books, my need for art and fantasy being fueled by all kinds of characters and stories. We grew alongside our work, our childlike thinking and perspective apparent in what we did. The more we changed, the more our stories changed as well. Ghosts and demons occupied my mind at night, still as excited I was when I first found out about the tiny little series of boxes called comic strips. We kept this steady rhythm of pumping out content until the beginning of grade six.
It was the year we were split apart, our classes miles away from each other in the school. I only saw her at breaktime, but the damage had already been done. I still remained consistent in terms of my love for creating comics, but our joint projects had become less and less common. I no longer spoke as much as I did to the Sun or my friend the paper, but they still showed up in my stories. Grade seven was rapidly approaching, and my fear of change showed in my work. I still hung on to my old characters, redrawing them and reusing them for comics, not ready to let go. I was not ready to accept that my childhood would be ending, but it was apparent in everything I did. I no longer daydreamed as much as I had, and school started to occupy more and more of my mind. It was frightening, and I hung onto the past as much as I could until it would inevitably slip away, fading within the confines of my mind.
It was the year we were split apart, our classes miles away from each other in the school. I only saw her at breaktime, but the damage had already been done. I still remained consistent in terms of my love for creating comics, but our joint projects had become less and less common. I no longer spoke as much as I did to the Sun or my friend the paper, but they still showed up in my stories. Grade seven was rapidly approaching, and my fear of change showed in my work. I still hung on to my old characters, redrawing them and reusing them for comics, not ready to let go. I was not ready to accept that my childhood would be ending, but it was apparent in everything I did. I no longer daydreamed as much as I had, and school started to occupy more and more of my mind. It was frightening, and I hung onto the past as much as I could until it would inevitably slip away, fading within the confines of my mind.
Some of my drawings from my childhood.
I sat at my desk one day, looking down at the sheet of blank paper that lay before me.
“What should I draw today…” I pondered out loud, waiting for an answer.
Silence awaited me. This was usually when I would receive a suggestion from it.
“I said, I wonder what I should draw today.” Again, I was met with nothing.
Now angry, I balled my hands into fists and cried out at the table.
“Why aren’t you responding to me?”
I did not understand how much would change with the flow of time up until then, but it was in that moment I finally realized the loss of my imagination. Persephone’s strawberry fields were a distant memory, and I was not ready to completely exit the world of fiction. I cried about the loss of something that wasn’t completely over yet, crumpling the paper and throwing it away. This pain is what prompted me to keep creating, to hang on to my worlds and attempt to keep them alive through my comics. In the end, I continued to grow, my fear of change increasing tenfold, wishing I had made the most of my time as a child more.
“What should I draw today…” I pondered out loud, waiting for an answer.
Silence awaited me. This was usually when I would receive a suggestion from it.
“I said, I wonder what I should draw today.” Again, I was met with nothing.
Now angry, I balled my hands into fists and cried out at the table.
“Why aren’t you responding to me?”
I did not understand how much would change with the flow of time up until then, but it was in that moment I finally realized the loss of my imagination. Persephone’s strawberry fields were a distant memory, and I was not ready to completely exit the world of fiction. I cried about the loss of something that wasn’t completely over yet, crumpling the paper and throwing it away. This pain is what prompted me to keep creating, to hang on to my worlds and attempt to keep them alive through my comics. In the end, I continued to grow, my fear of change increasing tenfold, wishing I had made the most of my time as a child more.
My semi-recent artwork.
Now that I am grown, I lament the loss of my childhood, but I still remember it through my art. Just like Persephone, I think about life before it happens. Everything I saw and experienced is apparent in my work, my sadness and attachment to the past influencing my characters and stories. I have learned to see life differently because of my childhood, my perspective being an integral part of the art I make. I may be angry it ended sooner than I wished, but I keep it alive through my characters and pieces. Inspiration, in my opinion, stems from my childhood, from all of those days I spent in my room and talking to my friends at school, learning about the Sun and the Moon and little rabbits soaring through the sky. Art has been the one thing that reassures me as I navigate my life, something that has been with me throughout everything. My life is interwoven through my art, and for this, I am thankful. I honour it and and remember it through my silly drawings, never wanting to forget where I found my personal inspiration.
#artjourney #artist #inspiration