“Why do you do this, anyway?”

Drawing is pretty cool

Perched on a folding stool across the road from a building, I look up from the half-finished drawing.

An older man is approaching. Thick coat and gloves. Scruffy beard. He starts talking, but he’s hard to understand. He tells me his dad used to work in that building.

We talk about its gradual decay. About how it could use a paint job. And about the weather. Cold but sunny.

He says my drawing looks nice, and hits me with a big question made of little words.

“Why do you do this, anyway?”

I pause.

It really is a pointless activity.

I could tell him that drawing is always a fun challenge. A problem-solving exercise that I enjoy, where there’s always something new to learn.

Or I could say that these little books end up filled with memories. I could tell him about the row of time machines on a shelf in my studio.

Or I could talk about how drawing makes me notice things I wouldn’t otherwise notice, like the hot water bottle nailed to a pole I bike past every day.

Or that drawing in a little book has led me to countless friends, and connected me with strangers all over the world.

Or tell him that drawing makes me into an explorer of the world - not in a Big Trip way, but in an “I wonder what is down this side street” way.

Or I could even talk about how, when I draw, the world feels quiet and peaceful. That it sometimes feels like I am watching a drawing make itself.

Or that I can focus really hard on something, and it turns into a kind of meditation that is really good for my mental health.

All that stuff is true. Drawing is so important to me. I know I’m an obsessed weirdo, but I don’t want to reveal that to a stranger.

So I shrug, “Dunno really.”

Happy drawing,
Andrew