I remember sitting cross-legged on the floor of my balcony. Having finished all my studies and the usual power cut preventing me from sitting on my computer, I would end up there with my brown artbook and a lap full of crayons.While my unfocused eyes stared blankly at the jackfruit tree in front, endless ideas would rush past my head zooming away like a swarm of bees. All I had to do reach out, grab one and put it on the page.
But that was back when I was nine. With time, the swarm of bees became thinner and thinner until it reached a point where I would sit staring at the white canvas for quite a while before I could come up with something to draw; it seemed to me that age had caged a large part of the swarm.
Worse still, the quality of my drawings has degraded as well. As I flick through the initial pages of my brown notebook, I find things as complex as walking Ferris Wheels in a whole carnival of living rides, while the best my 16 year old mind could come up with was a pair of scissors fighting a rock.
Today, I realize that time has not only robbed me of my ability to draw but has drastically limited my creativity. I would put a knife through its heart if time had a living, physical form. But it does not, and so I am helpless to it. It saddens me deeply to agree with Picasso when he says,
“I could draw like Raphael when I was young, but it will take me a lifetime to learn to draw like a child.”