Sometimes I find it really sad that photography translates the illogical beauty of human emotion a lot better than drawings through its realism and simplicity. Of course, it may just be my stubborn way of avoiding saying that my drawings are really shitty and that I cannot help but using a lot reference from photography instead of pure imagination.
In my own defense, (how grateful and at same time annoying that I am for the piece of advice my mother said to me) my drawing is dry without those links to reality, in other words: get the damn out of my room and my daydream and draw outside....
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Drawing in Progress
As much as I am frustrated and amused by my mom’s attempt to chase out of house (how she arrives at the idea that I could at same time doing some physical activity and drawing is beyond me), I find myself missing the days when I could bicycle along the riverside of Saint-Laurent.
The dream of one day take on a yelling match with the incoming wave, forever letting go all the pain of whatever emo kids suffer at age of 12~17, is nothing but faint ,faint dream.
The dream of one day take on a yelling match with the incoming wave, forever letting go all the pain of whatever emo kids suffer at age of 12~17, is nothing but faint ,faint dream.
It is going to sound weird, but I find myself attracted to the world on the other of the mirror. After all, nothing is more fascinating and exasperating than the mystery you find in yourself.
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