Since my childhood, the white walls of my home have never been bare. In a mess of scotch tape, pencil marks, crayon, and ink, my 10 or 20 or 30 drawings have patched the empty spaces with images of unicorns, butterflies, book characters, hedgehogs, mountains, fairies, ornaments, eggplants, dragons, crabs and reindeers. The scattered bursts of colors, smudged eraser lines, and dried pools of paint became vital to the image of the kitchen, the bathroom, and the hallways by the doorway.
The drawings from my youth were a reflection of my mind, as scattered, colorful, and imaginatively unpredictable as it was. And it became ritual, as I constructed art piece by art piece, day by day, for my parents to examine the colorful square of paper in my tiny hands, let out a tired, “Wow, this looks very nice!” and return it back to me. I’d then get the scotch tape, search for a naked space of wall, and calculate the most strategic tape placement to keep the corners of the drawing from curling in.
It wasn’t until high school that I began to notice the differences between my home and my friends’. Their rooms were color coordinated, with pristine white walls and minimal, intentional art: a painting of flowers for the kitchen, a drawing of seashells for the bathroom, an inspiring quote for the doorway. I hadn’t recognized before that my home, in comparison, was a mess. Unrefined.
I began to feel ashamed of my cluttered walls, and over the next few months, the white of the hallways was revealed, 8.5×11 inches at a time. My crayons, watercolors, glitter pens, and half-used erasers found their home in the drawer of my desk. That was three years ago.
I’m left now thinking that maybe I just grew up. But I wonder: if I never took down the drawings, banished my tools, could I have retained my long-lost ability to have such free and wonderfully scattered ideas? I hope that in putting away my drawings, I didn’t accidentally put away my dreamy childhood, banished by my judgment. I long for that imaginative freedom again, especially as I try, in vain, to muster up creativity for my endless articles, essays, and book logs.
Recently however, my cousin, Bret, shared with me his set of 60 alcohol markers, bursting with obnoxiously vibrant colors. The liquidy ink bled into curvy, unusual flowers as I drew on my index card, which was meant for taking notes. From that index card, I felt a welcome sense of creativity returning to mind — a sensation I never felt from my now-stark walls.
Thus, I’ve come to find gratitude for art, as unrefined and messy as my products are. Because the splotches and smudges were more me than the white walls ever were. Because I’m as unrefined as my home, but I’m also as creative, loved, and colorful. And because some days, I need that reminder that I’m still free to dream.
