Warrior Women and Dragons

When I was around thirteen, I drew warrior women and dragons. Not princesses waiting to be rescued. Warrior women.

Most of the dragons belonged with them. They weren’t necessarily pets, either. They were part of the same world. There was one drawing I remember where the woman was actually battling a dragon, but usually the women and dragons were on the same side.

I drew them with markers and crayons. I had one of those huge boxes of crayons, and back then I knew the names of all the colors. Not just blue, green and yellow. I knew exactly which blue I wanted and which green. I knew how the colors blended together.

Some of the names have gotten jumbled in my head over the years. Now my brain is crowded with the names of acrylic and watercolor paints too.

But I still remember Goldenrod. Cerulean. Hunter green.

I would sit and draw these elaborate fantasy scenes, and sometimes I had a problem.

I would run out of paper.

Not because I ran out of paper in the house.

I ran out of page.

The drawing wasn’t finished, but I had reached the edge. So I would get another piece of paper and tape it to the back of the first one.

And keep drawing.

I didn’t think anything profound about it at thirteen.

I didn’t look at the edge of the paper and wonder whether I had planned poorly. I didn’t decide the dragon needed to be smaller. I didn’t erase the warrior woman and start over so everything would fit neatly inside the boundaries.

I needed more room. So I added more room.

Somewhere along the way, growing up makes things like that more complicated.

Now there is always something else I could be doing.

Laundry.

Cleaning.

Exercise.

An errand.

Something useful.

Something responsible.

Even when nobody else is in the room, all of those things can come into the room with me. And then there is that other voice, the one that wants to know whether what I’m making is any good.

I don’t remember thirteen-year-old me worrying nearly as much about that. She had markers. She had crayons. She had warrior women and dragons. And apparently she had tape.

Lately I’ve been thinking about what kind of art makes me happiest.

It’s art that is a little abstract. Lines and swirls and dots. There can be a main subject, but everything doesn’t have to be exact. It doesn’t have to be perfect.

I like to put on music when I make it. The music drowns out that critical voice in my head. Sometimes it drowns out everybody else’s voices too. And when that happens, I feel more like myself. Maybe even a little like that thirteen-year-old girl again.

Not because I want to go backward. I don’t.

I’ve learned things she didn’t know yet. I’ve changed. My art has changed. Even my imaginary warrior woman and her dragon have changed.

If I drew them today, they would be friends. They would both be strong. They would fight their own battles, but they would defend each other too.

And when there was nothing left to fight, they would rest.

I can picture the warrior exhausted, leaning against the dragon until she finally finds the right spot. The dragon’s tail curves around her. She sleeps.

The dragon rests too. But one eye is open.

Maybe I’ll draw them. Maybe I’ll use paint instead of the crayons I used when I was thirteen. Maybe there will be swirls and lines and dots where there once would have been carefully blended crayon. Or maybe I should buy myself another ridiculously large box of crayons.

I’m beginning to think recapturing something from childhood doesn’t mean trying to become the person you used to be.

Maybe it’s remembering the things that person already knew.

Make things because you love making them.

Know your colors.

Show what you create to people who understand why it matters to you.

Turn up the music sometimes.

Draw the dragon.

And when something you love becomes too big for the space you’ve been given, don’t automatically make it smaller.

Just add another piece of paper.

Today.. I painted