Drawing in times where I have felt sad, or lonely, or depressed was always my saviour. It was my way of ‘finalizing’ or coming to terms with things. I could always express my feelings with art, more so than with spoken words. When my grandfather passed away, drawing my favourite photo with him was therapeutic. It made me realise that whilst he was no more in physical form he was always with me - living inside of me in forms of memories, in forms of my habits and my blood.
When my god-mother died, I think that hit me the hardest. She died of leukemia, a fight that took several months. She had a period where she beat cancer into remission and I saw her in that period. And I’m glad that I did. Her smile that day I carved into my heart so that when I need it, it will always be there. I decided to draw her, but it is the hardest thing for me to do. My hand is literally shaking as I’m drawing her. It’s like … it’s like my body doesn’t to accept that she has gone, that she has passed away.
I am scared that I won’t do her justice, that in the end my drawing would … not portray her as I want her to be portrayed.