[Drawing / Crossing] The Lines

"At some point, you have to make a decision. Boundaries don't keep other people out. They fence you in. Life is messy. That's how we're made. So, you can waste your lives drawing lines. Or you can live your life crossing them."

– Meredith Grey, Grey's Anatomy

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When pencil kisses paper and bleeds lead, magic happens; beauty flows; art is created. Even a simple line – be it crooked, bent or straight – tells a story. It carries with it meaning, perhaps only to be understood by few, but still, it's meaning nonetheless. But misunderstand me not, because understanding isn't the ultimate purpose of art. It's form over function. What's important is for every stroke to be appreciated for what it is... and not necessarily understood for what it's there for.


So I used to draw quite a bit when I was younger. Not so much paint, but draw. With a mechanical pencil sometimes. (I'm not really a pencil person.) And with black markers, back when I was in college. But for the most part of my grown-up years, I used pens – ballpoint pens. Usually blue-inked ones so they actually looked unmistakably like the ink they were, never to be confused for mere pencil markings on paper.


You see, I liked the permanence ink offered and lead didn't. I liked its smudge-proof-ness. And I also kinda liked the fact that there was really no room for error. That every 'oops' opened doors of inspiration for improvisation. That every mistake then be incorporated into the final work under the guise of a purposed stroke. Else... a starting-from-scratch is required.

But ahh, those days are gone now. Today, I ink corners of JRs with scribblings of due dates. I pick up pens to drop signatures on FAs. At most, I pen down headlines on briefs that I know will hit the bottom of my bin 3 months after. No more do I pen for beauty. No more do I draw for kicks. Not often, at least. And definitely not as often as I'd like to.

*blink blink*

Waaaait a minute.
Hmmm. I've digressed.

This post wasn't supposed to go this way.
Cos I know I had a story in mind when I began.

Let's start over, shall we?

*deep breath*

So, like any artist, I started off with an empty piece of paper. A blank canvas. White, pure and unadulterated by the stain of lead or ink. Clean, shameless and blameless from every side no matter how many times you flip it over.

Then, life happened.

I met people and saw things that made me want to pick up a pencil and start drawing. At first, it was awkward. I mean, with an empty canvas, where do you start? But ahh, when there's a need, you meet it. And I needed to draw. So, draw I did. First one line, then another, then another and another. After awhile, it just got easier.

I guess that's how it is with many things in life.
Practice makes perfect. And in perfecting my art,
I started hiding the real me between the lines I drew.

Each line brought me further and further away from the surface – further from the realities I should have faced at the time. Not because it was the right thing to do. But because it was the easier option to pick. And before I knew it, it became a habit. One I found difficult to break.

I told myself that it was okay.

A habit – so what? What could be wrong with drawing? It's not like I'm messing up someone elses canvas. It's just drawing anyways. Plus, I'm doing it on mine! That makes me totally innocent. So I excused myself for sticking with the pencil every time things got tough. It was my escape. My way out from my troubles. My quick fix to any problem. Life was good with lines.

But one day, I got distracted and stopped.

And in stopping, I realised... hey, I don't miss drawing all that much! To my surprise, life didn't end when drawing did. The world didn't stop spinning. The sky didn't fall. Things were actually... okay. And it actually felt good to put down the pencil and peel my eyes away from the canvas.

Right up till the point when
someone drew a big, ugly line
on my favourite pencil sketch
when I wasn't looking.

In ink.

Argh, how I cried, raved and ranted. I was hurt, frustrated and annoyed at myself. If I'd been drawing at the time, no way could that person have the ability to touch my canvas, much less leave a mark on it. How could I have been so careless to leave it unattended?


In an effort to right all wrongs, I picked up an eraser and tried erasing that horrid line. But all I succeeded in doing was to mess up my own pencil drawings more and more. The line stayed. Got more obvious from the lack of lead next to it, in fact. I took a step back to take in the sight and from that moment on, I swore I'd draw in ink, too.

So I picked up a pen, started to draw.

And didn't stop since.

I soon found an odd form of comfort in the constant sketching I was doing. I guess it's because it was my hand upon it. It was always a risk. But hey, risk or not, at least it was my hand at work and not someone elses. That way, I've got nobody else to blame but myself for any eventual screw-ups. I was the one in control.

And being in control is easier
than letting go and allowing someone else
a chance at the reins sometimes.

So, I kept drawing my way out of the messes in my head. I got so familiar with it that I knew where each line touched without opening my eyes. I knew exactly where they were. I knew where each stroke met the other. I felt the distance. And that distance felt good. You see, the lines, they made things simple. They boxed the parts I liked in and partitioned the parts I didn't out.


But that doesn't happen all the time. Sometimes, the lines made my sketch better – they gave an indication of space or room, and they added dimension to my drawing. Other times, they just messed up the work-in-progress I had before me – doing nothing but add clutter to the piece I was in the midst of producing.

The worst part is, you never
really know which it's going to be
till you start going at it with the pen.

But... oh well. All part and parcel of life, right? Girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do to stay sane around here. So... I chucked the thought, kept the blinders on and focused on drawing. I didn't know how or when to stop. I even think a part of me enjoyed doing it. It was something I did in my world. A world I was safe in. A place I felt protected. A place I felt more alone than ever in, too.

That's the problem with drawing.

It's not a team sport.
It's something you do alone.

And Alone isn't always
the best of places to be all the time.

Thing is... How do I put down that blasted pen now that I've held on to it for so long? And how do even begin erasing the ink lines I've drawn? I don't know how to do it. I don't even know if I really want to. Because to be honest, the thought of changing the way I am and all that I'm used to scares me like few other things do.

Fear's back. And like hell, it's real.


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Confused? Read Part 1 of the Saga: "Decide, Woman, for I'm Afraid of the Ice" (Thursday, October 19, 2006) and Part 2 of the Saga: "Guys Go Into Caves, Pam Song Builds Walls" (Saturday, June 07, 2008).