THE HISTORY OF ART AND ME

It all began on a mindless summer afternoon. I was a 9-year-old girl who’s starting to die out of boredom. I’ve scanned the bookshelf for the second time around hoping to catch an interesting title to read, but instead, my eyes landed on the strings of a queer looking book with Dragon Ball Z as the cover. I anticipated to find interesting drawings inside, only to be faced with blank pages. It was my first encounter with a sketch book. Though we may have melted crayons or blew watercolor droplets across pages during our elementary days, I can say that the seed of art was planted during the time that I held this sketchbook in my hands and discovered the joy of drawing.

The next minutes were spent copying young Goku from a poster. While the next days were spent convincing my brother and mother that I did not traced it, but copied it (hahaha there’s a huge difference you know). They wouldn’t believe me! They actually thought that I was lying. But when I repeated drawing another comic book character, they finally did. It was the height of afternoon anime, so the rest of the pages were filled with characters that I have grown to love. When you’re a 9 year-old, there’s a certain feeling that anything you draw can be considered as an art. It gave me the confidence I need to start joining poster making contests in school, eventually winning first and second place most of the time. It gave me hope that I have a future in pursuing this thing called art.

SLOW DOWN THE TIME

Two weeks has already passed since I ended my longest hiatus (40 days) from social media. Now that I’m back on the regular rounds of status, 3 x 3 grid, and more or less 140 characters to express my thoughts, I found myself thinking back to the time when I shut it off.

During the first week of my absence, people and fried were wondering, Why did you disconnect? Are you deactivated? Why the need? Well, because I was fed up. I was overwhelmed with all these things that a screen can present for hours without an end. The internet became a labyrinth that I didn’t know how to get out off. It was eating me up, and I was already beginning to feel lost. On the deeper side of things, I found myself questioning my own posts; do the things I post online still reflect a real version of me? Is there still authenticity? I might just be a bad case of being an over thinker, but still it bothered me.

THE LONGEST RIDE

The last time I read a Nicholas Sparks novel was during my freshman year in college. The university’s library has always been refuge for me, but when I discovered that it also housed a variety of fiction books it became a little bit of heaven. I borrowed books every week and most of it were Sparks’ novels.

It was a two-week marathon of love stories with heartbreaking tragedies; eventually this plot grew familiar that I can already guess who would die or be involved in an accident. The love scenes got too descriptive for me, so after a month I stopped reading his novels. It turned around last week because of much-needed break from all the deep and serious stuff that I’ve been reading. When a colleague/friend offered me to lend her copy of The Longest Ride, I accepted with the thought that giddy or kilig novels can be a good break.

AROUND THE WEB | VOL. 1

It's a millenial's battle - to keep on doing what you need or to leave it all behind and to pursue the things that you love. One of my high school friends once said that pursuing your passion is an entitlement -- something that only the privileged ones can do (those who have unlimited funds to supply their dreams or those people who don't need to worry about grinding a 9-5 job). There are moments of frustration when I am thisclose to believing that his statement is true, but there's a huge part in me that won't give in to this idea. It seems that saying yes to the fact dream jobs are achieved only by the privileged is like killing my own dreams. So, at this season of my life I beg to disagree.

Day Job vs. Dream Job, is one better than the other? The Great Discontent's newsletter came right on time in my inbox as I was pondering these thoughts. I could babble on this for so long, but I know that I belong to the category of people who hustles in order to figure out the right balance of things. Read instead the round up of the online content shared by TGD on their weekend newsletter and other related podcast and blog posts found along the way:

COFFEE HOUSE

It's one of life's comfort; there are times when I find myself sitting there, looking around, and feeling that sometimes this is a better refuge than our own home.

My last year in high school taught me how to drink coffee, but it was four years spent in college that made me love this drink. It became a need for a sleepy head like me to the point that I can now classify 3-in-1 coffees based on its caffeine effect. It might be such a nerdy claim but my body was able to memorize the kind of coffee it needs to pull out an all-nighter, or last until my twelve noon classes, or even survive for another 24 hours.  It even became a substitute for water during the last stretch of our thesis (yes, coffee dependent at its best). It became a constant companion until now that I am working.

With the rise of third wave coffee, there's just a lot of places to drink, to visit, and to hang out in every corner. Back then we had to wait to be seated on a jam packed place. Can I just say that student nowadays have more choices when it comes to coffee shops? It's everywhere in the metro and my list of must-go places keeps on getting longer. For a coffee lover, this is such a treat.

I try to tick one coffee shop each month, whether it be with friends or for some quiet time alone. Sometimes I come for the coffee, sometimes I come in because of the place. No matter, the warmth it offers me never changes. It's a place to be -- somewhere you'll need not an excuse to be alone.

IN MY OWN WORDS

Words.

I can't pinpoint when I started to become drawn to them, but I know that these things we call nouns, verbs, adjectives and more -- I've truly learn to love them. Maybe it's because of my exposure to poems, or reading posts from newly discovered bloggers, or the simple act of practicing the old art of calligraphy and lettering has made them more special.

I've been on a reading spree lately; from blogs, newspapers, magazine, and books. I must say that if we are what we eat, we also become what we read. So I devoured each page, as if eating every word can make me good in letting the ink rush through paper. I can't help but admire people whose words seamlessly form into something wonderful. The gift of expressing myself through the written language can be quite evasive.

I stalled writing this entry because facing the blank page has become a bit more difficult for me. I am overcome with this thinking that everything will come sounding like a news report or a research paper. But I still want to improve. To break free from my mold. Not out of insecurity, but out of the desire to write something worth reading. And with that thought sprout another desire -- to find my own voice. To not be a mere echo of someone else. To have my own words instead of borrowed ones.

It might seem like a blabber for now, but I am hoping that in time these words of mine will solidify itself on these blank pages.

THE 100 DAY PROJECT: DEVO X TYPO

“A hundred days! I can recall the questions that raced through my mind before I decided to jump in: can I handle it? Will I push through when my schedule is jammed? Will I show up everyday, even when it hurts? – especially when it hurts?” -Elle Luna

 

These exact thoughts were running in my mind as I joined the challenge. It was a last minute decision mixed with excitement, fear, doubt, and a whole lot of mixed emotions. Knowing myself, I am aware that I tend to lose my sense of excitement in doing creative things or maybe anything in particular that requires my attention everyday. It makes me think if it will make me a slacker artist in the future. But this weakness was actually the reason why I jumped into the challenge – to develop discipline in handling my creativity. Art takes time and practice and patience. Excitement may die but I hope that my desire to improve in this craft won’t.