I can't draw, but I can walk

And why these two seemingly unconnected things are important

I can’t begin to tell you the number of interactions I’ve had with people who tell me that they can’t draw.

I’ve been telling myself this for years, too, so I really sympathise with the sentiment.

I occasionally speak to friends who knew me from my school days and none of them are surprised that I’ve ended up as an artist - even though I continue to find it relatively amazing! On my good days, I feel comfortable with, and sometimes even proud of, my work; and on the bad days the imposter syndrome is crushing.

I can’t really pinpoint when I crossed over from being a child who loved to draw into an adult with a hyper-critical inner voice. I certainly didn’t have any of the experiences other people tell me shaped their belief that they can’t draw, which usually seem to be connected to remarks by an authority figure (teacher/parent/relative) that undermined the quality/realism/skill of a childhood drawing or artwork. I do, however, come from a background (with two teacher parents) where academic and formal learning was valued above all else. The fact, therefore, that I stopped my art education at GCSE-level, in favour of more ‘academic’ subjects is probably the reason that I now can’t resist an online or in-person class, workshop or programme - I’m constantly searching for the validation of a ‘qualification’. A piece of paper that says ‘Yes, I can draw. This exam board says so!’

Some of my sketchbooks full of practice pieces and notes from workshops and courses I’ve taken over the past few years.

Of course, I know logically that with art - as with so many other things - it isn’t enough just to ‘learn’ the subject in an academic setting. As I’ve transitioned into my new career as an artist and illustrator, I’ve made friends with people who’ve been to Art School, and who still bemoan that they weren’t taught the right things, or took years to develop a style, or approach that is right for them and for their work. And they often still have days when they think ‘I can’t draw’!

I started to recover a sense of perspective in relation to my artistic abilities about a year ago, when I got myself a copy of The Green Sketching Handbook by Dr Ali Foxon - a self-proclaimed field guide for helping people relax whilst rediscovering the joy of being in nature. Amongst other things, the book reinforces the understanding that drawing is a skill that can be learnt and not some sort of inherent ‘talent’ that some people have and others don’t. A bit like watching things grow in nature - you start from the appearance of there being nothing there. Except that there is - there’s the germ or seed of the ability that just needs the right conditions to flourish, whether that is time, patience, water and sunlight/warmth in the case of a plant, or some basic art materials in the case of drawing.

Seedlings emerging from the dark soil. Photo by Elly Endeavours on Unsplash

I found that this made me view my daily dog walks as less of a ‘chore’ to be hurried out of the way and more of an opportunity to really enjoy some regular time in nature. I began to notice more around me and to experience small thrills of joy when I was able to get close to a blackbird pecking at rose hips in the bare winter hedges, or admire new patches of wildflowers and grasses as they began to appear along my route. I became more connected to the small cycles of emergence and disappearance, as well as more familiar with the natural world around me on my doorstep. And because my natural inclination was to sketch these objects, flora and fauna - either bringing home a small treasure to study in more detail, or working from a photograph - gradually, they became easier to depict on the page in a way that I was happy with.

See the difference from a strawberry flower and fruit study I drew in 2020 to a blackberry study I created three years later, after oodles of practice?

It hasn’t been a linear journey and it is only with some hindsight that I’m able to appreciate the slow and steady progress I have been making. This in itself can be frustrating. My yoga teacher regularly reminds our class that the brain likes to take the fastest route, going from A to B in a straight line; it can’t be doing with curves and detours and adjustments. But developing the ability to draw (and our self-appreciation of the art we create) requires that we reject this tendency to arrive as quickly as possible. I have found that it is much more like going on a hike. I set off full of enthusiasm (and a bit too fast - just me?!) before settling in to a manageable pace. There are gentle inclines, steep hilly bits, false summits - the works. What I have discovered - in both walking and drawing - is that the most important thing is to enjoy the journey and all of the views along the way, rather than striving to reach the top of that final peak.

Of course, with something like drawing, there is no real ‘end’ to the journey. There will always be something new to notice and be inspired by, another skill to practice. Keeping a sketchbook can be really helpful for this, as you can look back at some of your earlier work and be able to recognise the progress you’ve made (just like when you’re climbing the mountain and you reach the end of a really steep bit, but when you pause at the top of this incline, you can see just how far you’ve come).

But keeping a nature sketchbook can also just be an exercise in being present in the moment and fully experiencing our lives. We’re all so used to being able to whip out our phones and snap a quick photo of something that has caught our attention. But such a fleeting glance through the camera’s eye means that we don’t really look at, or appreciate, the subject. Science has shown that we’re also less likely to remember it - it will simply be consigned to the digital rubbish dump of our phone’s archive. What if instead we took the time to stop and look at a flower, a bird, a tree, a view? To ask ourselves why we have been drawn to it, in this particular moment? And then to break down what we are seeing into simple shapes, using our hand to create a physical representation of our subject. Enjoying the process of making marks to capture texture. Of jotting down notes on where, what, how and why, if the fancy takes us. A sketch just for ourselves and not for the endlessly hungry maw of social media sharing.

[NB This is not my ‘secret’ sketchbook - this is just an example of the sorts of things that catch my eye and that I immediately want to record]

This is why, in addition to my more measured, studio-based nature sketches and artworks, I’ve started keeping a ‘secret’ nature sketchbook. It is one that I take with me, in my pocket, with some simple drawing tools (often just a pencil), to quickly bring out, mid-walk, when something catches my eye. I have no intentions to share any of the work inside it with anyone - which means that I’m more easily able to quiet the inner voice that constantly strives for perfection, or seeks external approval and validation. I find that I come back from walks with this sketchbook in a state of quiet contentment - I feel grounded. Peaceful.

So if you think that you ‘can’t’ draw, can I recommend the ‘secret sketchbook’ approach to you? Let me know if you’re intrigued, but still feel unable to start (and why). Or if you’d like some additional support or resources, or a ‘challenge’/set of prompts to motivate you.