The Emotional Act of Sketching

Part two in this whole art-as-a-full-body-experience adventure

Last in this series I talked a little about the physical act of sketching (which you can click and read if you would like to catch up).

“Sketching is a physical act, and the more we embrace that, the more free we become to inhabit our animal body with love and reverence - the same love and reverence we show towards the wild beings we are celebrating.

A dance, see. A dance between the pigment, the paper, the wild, and me.”

This time I want to talk about the emotional act of sketching.

For me, this flows through connection in (at least) three ways.

1. The process of connection to my animal body

2. The process of connection with my subject

3. The process of connection to the act of creativity

These three things are of course also wound up with self care, but we are going to delve into the self care aspect as a separate piece, so here, in as best way as I can describe in words (and not interpretive dance), I will talk about the emotional connection I get from sketching. 

And of course, the disclaimer is always that this is my experience, and what has evolved for me over the last five or years. I know this resonates with many of you, but if you don’t feel this way about sketching, or art making, that is perfectly valid too. We all have our own way of being in the world, and that comes from our upbringing, culture, society, education, experience, epigenetics and more. None is right, none is wrong, it is just our way. And we need alllll the different flavours of ways to make the world turn in its beautifully colourful dance. But maybe telling you my experience will spark a little something for you, too, and I will be honest, nothing could make me happier.

When I first came back to making art, wildlife was not my subject. It was humans and still life and occasionally landscapes because that is what I thought art was all about.

And abstracts, which I admired, but couldn’t seem to create.

Making realistic renderings came more naturally to me.

I liked what I did, but I can see now that I really didn’t feel a great connection to the finished sketches and paintings. I mean, I thought they were fine, but they certainly did not light me up like my work does now. In 2018 and 2019 though I began to create more drawings (I was pretty much exclusively drawing at that time) with an animal or something wild, in them. And I would create fantastical beings that were perhaps part animal, part human, but slowly (or perhaps not that slowly), humans, other than elderly women with whom I feel a deep connection, all but disappeared. 

Because I was making an emotional connection to my subject in ways that I had not before.

I started to resonate with wild beings in a more multifaceted manner than I had until then. I was always amazed by them, incredibly empathetic towards, fascinated by, in awe of. But with detailed studies something even deeper began to weave its way into my tapestry. 

In studying the wings of an owl, in taking their form and shape and complexity and indescribable beauty into my body through my eyes, through deep observation, I also started to feel my body changing.

I could feel recognition that there was not really that much of a difference between them and I, and that they were my family on a level I had not understood as deeply prior.

As I imagined running my hands over those wings, to feel them under hand, I also began to imagine my own wings unfurling, and how my own (wild hearted) animal body might feel if I had wings. I would roll my shoulders, imperceptibly, and unconsciously to start, but then I realised if I really beheld that moment, if I rolled my shoulders with strength and lengthened my neck and arched my back slightly, the movement now large and very conscious, my wings were bigger, stronger. And so too my heart. 

My connection to my subject went way beyond superficial.

I would read up on them. See if I could find poetry devoted to them. Write about them. Gather (mounds) of reference.

And the more I did this, the more connection I found with these beings I was drawn to in all ways, the more I valued my own animal body.

I appreciated the very physical, cellular connection that being present in a body at the same time as all of these other incredible, unimaginably varied human-animal and more-than-human-animals allows. I get to use this very animal human body to hold pigment and render the wild, and oh, I wish I could put into words just what an extraordinary act I think that is! And the pure magic that comes about when we honour our inherent creative capabilities.

It brings three things very much to the front of mind for me. 

In the very first instances of human art that we have depictions of still, the subject matter was more often than not, animals. We have always been connected to our non-human kin, living deeply intertwined and seasonally with them in shared lands, observing and learning from them, and yes, being fascinated by them. Fascinated enough to want to make art of them, to depict them.

Humans making art of more-than-humans seems to me to be central to our art making history, despite its relegation as inferior over the last several hundred years by the art elite. This makes me feel even more deeply connected to my creativity - an ongoing narrative that began no doubt a lot longer ago than the 40,000 year old “first” figurative depictions archaeologists’s recognise.

An other thing is that we are meant to live on the land, with our shelter and food and small community being our primary concern - not algorithms and productivity and deadlines and a constant stream of horrific news that we are incapable of stopping as individuals, but which we (most of us anyway) feel in a very real and visceral individual way. When I tie myself to my animal body, let go of some of the cerebral act of being a modern day human, I form a deeper connection not just with my own body, but with all other sentient beings around me.

I become present in a more encompassing way than I am through meditation alone. I get to be completely wrapped in awe, to celebrate my reverence through an act of deep reciprocity.

And finally, I have stopped sharing timelapses or sped up videos entirely. The dopamine fix we get from seeing hours and hours of work condensed into mere seconds means we crave more and more, that we don’t get to sit with the beautiful slowness that both making art, and viewing art deserves. Which is not to say that making timelapses is bad (nor good), it is just not how I want to share my work anymore (though I still become entranced by them on occasion).

In that format I found I went on an emotional rollercoaster ride from fascination, to frustration and comparison and expectation when I couldn’t keep up with that imaginary pace. I was watching timelapses more than I was making my own art. I realised I desperately wanted a quiet and devotional practice for myself, and my emotional beingness.

All of this comes together to provide a sense of safety and emotional solace.

My chronic illnesses do not go away, but I can find a peace and acceptance, and a desire to strengthen and mitigate rather than numb or engage short term unhelpful habits or despair into. Not always, of course, because I am human after all, complex and complicated. But sketching, connecting to the wild through my heart and mind, has made my life infinitely better.

🌟 Out of curiosity, I would love to know, how did the two videos above feel to you? Did you notice anything different in your heart, mind, or body between the sped up video I initially shared in November 2019, compared to the real paced one from April 2021? I am keen to know!🌟

Making art, sketching, is an emotional act of curiosity and compassion and connection and celebration. And we need that, that act of self care, don’t you think?

Tell me, how does your creativity affect your emotional wellbeing?

Want to grow your own gentle, compassionate, and connected sketch practice?

Drawn to Wild is here for you.