A Thousand Times Over
One of my sharpest childhood memories goes back to my kindergarten days. I was a very shy and mousy kid, and didn't feel comfortable being the center of attention. I was frightened by the idea of being in the spotlight, but I didn't seem to care when one day I was drawing dinosaurs for my classmates. We watched Jurassic Park in the classroom that day, and the teacher asked us to make drawings of our favorite parts of the movie (now that I think about it, Jurassic Park is not a good choice for a 4-year-old boy). It wasn't my favorite part, but the scene that stayed with me (and caused me nightmares for several weeks) was the one when the T. rex escapes the paddock and lashes out at the car with the kids inside; I was in awe watching that scene, and so that's what I drew. This is my earliest memory of drawing something, although I had probably been using a pencil for a while because my skills were noticeably better than what you'd expect from someone my age. Every kid around wanted a T. rex drawing, and I ended up facing a line of kids waiting for their dinosaur, as if I were an artist at Comic-Con. I was suddenly the center of attention, but I felt important... and it felt good. Other than that moment, I have no clear memory of what drawing was like at that age. But I kept doing it, and it became my safe place and escape from my fears in life.
My childhood was shaped by movies, cartoons, and comics, so I was a very imaginative kid. My favorite show was the '90s Spider-Man animated series (the one where he never actually beat the shit out of his enemies, but just shoved them around instead), and then came the live-action movie directed by Sam Raimi, who was responsible for this little dummy's several attempts to get bitten by a spider. I naturally drew everything I liked, effectively making me the first undiscovered, pint-sized comic book Spider-Man artist working out of Mexico on Scribe lined notebooks. I used to spend my time drawing comic strips about characters fighting made-up villains, or watching cartoons and sketching my best representation of that day's episode. When I remember that time, I always see myself drawing quietly. I didn't care as much about the outcome of what I was making as I did about the process, and I believe that's something I lost along the way.
My aunt is the only person who still has probably the oldest surviving drawing of mine, laminated and displayed on the wall of her small business as if it were the Mona Lisa. It was a drawing of La Virgencita de Guadalupe, and I recall ripping up several earlier attempts because I was starting to become critical of my own work. Around that time, I was known as the timid, awkward artistic kid of the family, and many of my relatives wanted to get a piece of my coveted art. Everyone told me I was going to be famous. This put pressure on me, since I didn't want to let them down, and drawing started feeling more like a job than something I actually enjoyed. That was a major shift for me. Up until then, I didn't really care about preserving my drawings at all. Every single notebook I filled went right into the trash, even though many of them were packed with detailed, fully painted illustrations. And I didn't give a shit. It wasn't because I was ashamed of them, but because I trusted my own skill. I knew I could draw the exact same things all over again, a thousand times over, if I wanted to.
I was sure I was going to be an artist. I saw myself drawing all my life, and many people thought that was the obvious route I'd take. I didn't like thinking too much about the future, and I had this certainty that no matter what direction I took, every path would lead me to artistic creation. I burned through books and comics, not just for the stories, but to lose myself in the artwork. I waited excitedly for the newspapers my grandmother bought because there was always a comic strip section on the back page, featuring strips like Garfield, and Trino's Policías y Ladrones. My friend and I put out a weekly comic with a grand total of two loyal fans who always read it (him and me). It was called Megakuman, brought to life through the ingenious mashup of his favorite character, Mega Man, and my massive obsession with Dragon Ball's Goku. Yet, looking back, I recall feeling secretly embarrassed by the thought of anyone else discovering what we made. I genuinely believed we were creating the next big series, but as I became more hyper-aware of criticism, I was terrified someone would find it cringey and utterly ridiculous. It was, actually, a cringey thing, and they were silly stories that made no sense, but I was trying to create something, and I was dreaming and caring deeply about my creations.
In my early adolescence, I started to "take this seriously." I discovered the German artist Armin Mersmann, and then felt drawn to hyperrealism. At that time, that was the absolute pinnacle of art I could ever achieve, and so I set to work. I don't know exactly why I was attracted to that style of drawing, but I believe people's opinions played a huge role in it. People who commissioned me wanted exact replicas of photos. They handed me photos they wanted rendered in pencil, and I tried my best to replicate them. I was even making a little money from it (grossly underpaid, of course) and spending it all on art supplies, comics, and video games. I was improving a lot with each new drawing, but I was also growing increasingly frustrated. Before I knew it, I was throwing my notebooks into the trash out of shame. I was never satisfied with what I did, and I became my harshest judge. Each piece became a test of my abilities, and every outcome only confirmed my inadequacy.
Since I was a very timid boy, both at school and within my family, the only way I found to be noticed was by showing off my drawing skills. I'd usually draw in class and wait for someone around me to discover what I was doing. It worked most of the time, and that's how I made some friends. By then, I wasn't drawing dinosaurs anymore; I was attempting more detailed, realistic work. Because that trick worked so well with my family, too, I felt a constant need to refine my skills just to keep their eyes on me. I became very good at observation, and improved my technique through that alone, without taking any art classes. But I think my creativity, the stories I used to make, and that sense of playful, exciting creation started to shut down. I don't blame hyperrealism for that, but rather the pressure I put on myself to fulfill the expectations I thought everyone had of me.
Gradually, my creative spark started to fade, and drawing became a chore. I stopped enjoying it, and day by day, I drew less and less. I remember feeling guilty about it, like I was betraying who I was, but I couldn't bear being hunched over a sheet of paper anymore. The final blow to drawing came when I found a new outlet in music and the guitar, and by the age of fifteen, I shifted my focus completely toward it (only to find later in life the exact same harsh self-criticism and sense of inadequacy... but that's a story for another time).
Years and years have passed, and I've grown nostalgic, wondering what would have happened if I had pursued drawing as a career. I wonder if I could have made a living out of it, just as I dreamed when I was younger. I still draw, though not with the same wide-eyed passion; it's become a quiet refuge instead. I wonder where I’d be if my teacher had just shown us a normal cartoon instead of exposing a room full of toddlers to prehistoric carnage.