Bor-d to Draw

Everyone is born to draw. We all start out drawing and communicating in pictures–even before our words have a chance to catch up with us. We represent; on paper what we feel, think, and see at a very, very young age.¬† Not of all of us stick with it. Some of us just happen to evolve on to different communications, but sometimes we leave, we stop practicing drawing for different reasons; maybe we discover something else to engage ourselves in–instead of drawing. But more often than not–we stop because someone tells us we’re not very good, and to try something else.

Anyone who sticks with drawing is someone worth rooting for. Anyone who gets through all that rejection and continues to draw and to create needs to continue.

In university I was consistently told that I wasn’t ‘developed’ enough to have a style. Every teacher (with few exception) I enjoyed the company of: I slowly grew to dislike because of the fuel they fed the notion that art students haven’t developed enough to know their own mind.

But I did not go to university, for art, to be told not to develop in my own way. I went to learn how to better myself from a business standpoint. I went to art school to learn how to develop a brand, seek out networking, practice business and create a name for myself.

I’ve had a style for six years now. It’s a notable one; it influences all of my work. That, to me, is not a bad thing. I am a living example of how practice can evolve you into different ways of expressing yourself.


What Gets You Through

Sometimes I forget what it was like to be a kid. Sometimes memories of childhood are all that I can think about. Life was so much more fun when we didn’t have to pay bills, worry about the world killing us, or focus on trying to find a partner for life.

Money went to ice-cream, germs were everywhere and nowhere, and cooties were there to persuade us to follow other worldly pursuits (such as giving Barbie a new hairdo or making GI Joe scale the baby kitchen). Mothers reminded us to run the hot bathwater and then add bubbles, to brush our teeth and wash our face every night and to ‘leave it better than you left it.’

But then…we became adults. Oftentimes we run a bath full of cold water and don’t remember to add any bubbles. Sometimes we’re too drunk and/or lazy to brush our teeth before bed, we wear our makeup to sleep so in the morning we don’t have to apply it again, and to leave a room is to leave a trail of ruin that screams of your presence.

‘Cause that’s just how it goes. All the time. We forget to care. The ‘now’ becomes the worries about our future–how are we going to live, how are we going to survive? What happened along the way to create such disillusionment?

We forget that in order to consciously live our lives. In order to remember who we are–we need to look at the most pristine and perfect part of ourselves–the time before the world tainted us and told us what the rules were.

We need to sit down and reminiscence–because sometimes reclaiming our childhood is the only way we’re going to make it.

Post your favorite memory of your childhood. What do you remember of your unpolluted child-like wonder?

It Comes in Waves


Some days it seems like it would be amazing to not have to deal with them. Really. I think I need to change my television-watching philosophy.

Let me explain.

So I’m a beginning artist. I’ve been drawing for awhile now, and in order to keep myself focused, I play a little bit of music or a show in the background. Lately, it’s been Grey’s Anatomy. Naturally, I have gotten nothing done, considering that I have the attention span of a gnat and enjoy sparkly things.

But man, since the characters of that show all work within a hospital; where they see the miracle of living and the ugliness of death on a daily basis–both segments of life struggle for prominence with often terrifying results.

What results? My tears, that’s what. You see, my family is ridiculous. We cry at everything. Birthdays, anniversaries, weddings (once, I gave a speech at a wedding, made it three sentences into my speech and bawled my eyes out, not pretty), baby showers & friggin’ Easter Sunday. Nevermind that we cry at the normal stuff; wakes, funerals, disasters, flat tires, clogged sprinkler heads, frozen ipods…the list could go on forever.

With a genetic history like that, screaming for my compliance, pretty much every thing sets me off. Waterworks, all damn day. Grey’s Anatomy is no different. Three minutes into my magical episode of endorphine-imbued fantasy of ‘not actually drawing’–my gnat-like tendencies have my attention glued raptly to the screen.

And since death is the strand that seems to hold the miracle of life together–you can bet your bottom dollar I’m bawling like a baby every Hollywood-milked second of traumatic dialogue.

I’m a nighttime television baby; and it definitely comes in waves.



Got a show that you think I should watch? Leave a comment on the what & why below;

I’m always prepared for something new to change my sphere~

Thanks reads.

Silly Susan Sings a Silent Summer Song

You know those completely random things that happen in the background? Basic things: crickets chirping, bi-planes strolling in for a landing, leaves rustling, and fans which spin like drunken salsa dancers? Those sounds that play in the distance, even if they’re coming from something nearby?

Those sounds make my daily day…a daily day. Eerily silent jams just don’t equate with my eardrums. Today, while sitting in my room (and munching on some lightly salted pretzels) I realized how important those background noises can be.

Obviously these sounds can be anything really; obnoxious but effective taxi cabs hails, wailing sirens, waves crashing into a walls of eroded rock and soil, the hum of your neighbors’ questionable musical selections, or the lowing of barn fauna.

It’s easy to forget about them. But the second you jump into a new climate or environment; the difference takes a little time to become a part of yourself.

I grew up in a gorgeous rural town, lush pastures (sometimes solidly filled with weeds), tall trees strung with rope and tire swings (super fun but occasionally life-threatening), gorgeous views (sometimes be speckled with wildfires), and friendly town-folk (when they weren’t associating themselves with gangs). It was a nice childhood, riddled with smells, tastes, sights…and sounds.

I still remember the swaying sound of the willow tree’s tentacled branches in the back of my grandparent’s yard. The sound of shuffling as we curled up on the trampoline at my cousin’s house after a splash in the pool. I also remember the peace in listening to my mother turn the pages of her novels.

It’s hard when the sound is gone, when the background noises change. I’ve been in my own apartment for two years now, and the sound I miss the most are the comforting ones, the little ones–and the subtle peace they brought me.

Close your eyes and listen.
What plays during your silence?

Art is a Vision–Let it be Your Guide

Today’s Bramble is based on a rant. Just a rant of seemingly no importance: but to this completely objective observer–it friggin’ matters:

There are two types of artists; most of us, and few of us. Somehow–that’s how the world branches.

We all claim we live to create, but most of us will do what’s been done before. While there is no shame, but great skill in that, there is oftentimes a lack of creativity in borrowing or “revitalizing” the works of those great artists who dared to dream before us. In this, there comes a time when we borrow enough to make our living unfaithfully. We shamelessly use and re-create what another has worked hard to make unique and different; the call it our own, our “masterpiece.”

But this should be a true artist’s worst fear; to become famous with an artwork which did not come from from their own personal imaginings.

For whatever the reasons: personal gain, professional standing, to earn favor, or the prove one’s talent…to be leashed to a style of art that is not one’s own is bottom rung for any artistry. But–some artists are content with this; and do not esteem to drive above to any place of personal art. To do that, would be to open your own art to another’s skepticism, critique and censure. and that is a world that few can bear.

But that–that is where the true artists lie. Where the imagined and the fuel of life meet. Where the brain propels the hand to skew perception and introduce another faucet of thought.

The world is full of two different types of artists. Who will you be?

Work, Play & all that Dangerous Stuff that Makes Life Great

My daily bramble hasn’t been so daily, and that’s mostly because life is a crazy kaleidoscope of never-ending crap–all day long.
It might not seem that way after a good honest days toil, but nevertheless it’s true. If you end up not getting all the ‘to do’ tasks that need doing…it’s going to be a bad, bad day on the next go around.

I didn’t really realize that until I got into college you see, here it’s an extremely delicate balance of work, play, and homework.
For example:

A) If you are an above reproach student, completing your work to the best of your ability should be time consuming but not daunting. Your over-the-top work has enough time to be both created and finished in a timely manner. But if you’re average–like the majority of the students in this nation–you focus more on the social aspect of things, and your schoolwork can suffer for that.

B) The same can be said for work; sure, you’ve given a certain amount of in-house time to complete your various tasks and ‘assignments’ but in the end, if you don’t get your jobs done for said day, you end up taking things home with you. That’s just how it goes.

Now play, for most people–fits into the cracks of time you have between those segments of life: easily labelled section A and section B.
These of course can include the most popular of activities: camping or hiking some god-awfully tall mountain, paddling around in potentially shark-infested waters, sharing some fine outback cuisine with your uncle Jeremiah and aunt Persephone & singing some drunk karaoke with your equally non-sober friends until 3 in the morning.
But these, my friends, all lie down the road most travelled.
For if you show up to either college or work at 8 the next morning wearing yesterday’s clothes and smelling of that eighth shot…

You eyeballs will burst into flame.