How I became an illustrator. 1/3 Hope

“You fear to go into those mines. The Dwarves dug too greedily and too deep. You know what they awoke in the darkness of Khazad-dûm.”

— Saruman, The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring

A year ago IlloGuild (a critique group I am a part of) asked its members a question "How did you become an illustrator?”

Somehow trying to internalize my response I stopped drawing for a year.

Why am I still posting the answer now? Honestly, because I still like what I wrote. Maybe it will inspire someone to question why they do what they do. Might change them. In a good way. Not in the Balrog way. 

There are three parts.

Part 1/3 - Hope

I remember the exact moment when I first felt a sharp longing for being able to draw. I was a preteen staying at my grandma’s smallholding in picturesque Ukrainian countryside for the whole summer. 

My gram was a spitting image of Aunt Fidget Wonkham-Strong from Quentin Blake’s story. And if you haven’t read, the name speaks for itself - a woman of colossal inner power, high moral standards and a dominating silent presence. She was born in 1931. “Play” was a word 40s made her forget.

Summer passed missing my Moscow city life, not having a single fellow kid to play and due to certain circumstances not being allowed to go off the property. I was stuck with my silent grandma in a loop of sunny boredom, monotonous garden work and summer reading  - no tv, no cell phones, no radio, no music and no nature walks to top it off.

On a surreal plane where time hang in vacuum chopped by sunsets in even blocks of mature gloom.

It was somewhere there that I lost my feeling of time - I often slept past noon or at night sat for hours imagining monsters in the dark. I had no activities tied to the clock and could do whatever I wanted out of my meagre menu - watch the clouds, pick berries, read. 

I could draw but I only had pen and maybe 5 leftover hard, cracked coloured pencils to boost, uninspiring. Also no picture books somehow, except for some illustrated poems about Lenin. No, really.

It was in these shallow waters of tedious analog content that I mined a somewhat seventh sense of transcendent nature’s sensual beauty. 

From personal archive

My anchor became the two daily cow parades passing by our property. The first - cows going to the pasture around 11 am in the hot sun. Amidst my quiet solitary hours this spectacle was a celebration of moving bodies and life. Healthy, hungry, mooing all the cows were one by one let out from the gates of different households of our village and slowly gathered into one fragrant swaying river. 

For about half an hour the broad street filled with sensual desires, milk aroma and motion - those warm beasts clashed horns, wagged tails, flashed pink udders, tried to snack on flower borders, nudged each other, made attempts at mating and enjoying the freedom of movement dropped splatting flapjacks of field smelling poo on the go. Life was pulsating. 

Then the river dried out, the rare late cow caught up with the rest, gates closed, people returned to their daily chores and all settled into the deafening quiet again.

The dynamic show would repeat itself at 8pm, now with a backdrop of orange smouldering sunset. Adjust for weather.

One night after an evening cow spectacle was over and sunset faded from orange to lilac to blue I felt particularly lonely. I walked into our vegetable patch field that ran up to a forest. I watched the monochrome shadows of veg stalks, the sombre silhouettes of black oaks. I listened to the distant dog barks and an occasional faraway moo. This evening felt sad as if the few joys of the day were smothered by twilight in layers of gradient greyish blue.

I took in the cold quiet but then stopped sharp as a lonely spot lit this gloom. It was a freshly blossomed poppy. Silky red bobbing in the night. The colour shown in contrast. It felt like the fiery sunset returned, like movement and life. Vibrant life I felt I was denied by grown-ups. 

This was the first time I felt an acute need to draw. To document this moment of happiness.

I had no real art supplies in the village - so I just sat there crouching in the twilight patiently caressing the flower’s form with my eyes, paying attention to chroma, tone, drawing in my mind the crevices and contrasts.  Contrasts I feel I remember even now. 

This moment I felt how powerful art was - Ability To Own A Dream.

To be continued in “How I became an Illustrator. 2/3 Escape”