I was a child, almost new to the world, ignorant of the worlds pain and evil. Not saying that I ever suffered greatly, this is a tale of determination not angst. My father was an artist, he'd sit outside beneath the sunlight, his back faced the house and faced the tall trees that laid behind the property. He stay in his chair for hours, his hand gripping a charcoal pencil and he'd sketch the world he saw with his bright blue eyes. His black hair would look golden brown in the sun's light, and he would sit hunched over his sketch pad. He was my role model, I wanted to become an artist like him one day.
"Dad, teach me to draw."
"I can't teach you to draw, you must learn for yourself."
"But can you help me?" He let out a long sigh then looked at me.
"Get a piece of paper." He showed me a few tricks but it wasn't there where I was challenged to draw, no it happened later in life. Years passed, and I found myself sitting in the living room floor, sweltering in the blazing heat of summer. It was my last summer before I would find myself attending middle school. My father didn't draw anymore, claiming that he had lost the time, patience, and the 'feeling' needed to draw. Art isn't all about technique and details, its about feelings and emotions. In the mist of my boredom I looked around the room to find a picture of a woman staring at the camera. It was then that I had the 'urge' to draw.
I ran to my room to grab a light lined pink sheet of paper and a chewed out pencil. I ran back and began to draw the woman on my pink paper. I don't remember why I started drawing realistic people, perhaps I saw it as a challenge, a worthy opponent. About an hour later my drawing was finished, I ran over to my father and showed him my drawing hoping for his appreciation and applaud. He looked at it for a moment before criticizing it harshly. Deep down I knew he was right, the drawing of the woman was horrible. Everything was off, it didn't even look like the woman, far from it. 'It' looked like an alien who's face was reconstructed with fire and metal.
Realizing that my father was right only angered me. I was furious and I was determined to show him that I will out beat him. The next night I held the picture of the same woman and another sheet of paper. I drew her again, only this time I was concentrating on everything and anything. After I was finished, again, I ran to my father to show him my work. And again was it mocked off, he pointed out everything that was wrong with it. His words didn't hurt me, it only strengthen me.
I was fully determined to one day make him give a good comment on my art. And so every night for a week I would draw the same woman then go to my father for approval but never getting it. Though at one point he said that with each drawing I was getting a bit better. I began to notice things when I kept drawing the woman over and over again. I realized the definition of art, I awoke my real abilities in the artistic world. I gained patience and the 'feeling' that my father would often describe of so fondly.
Years passed from then where I had increased my abilities in the drawing area, but even then my father criticized my work but to the minimum. He now gives me the applause that I wanted and I see the pride in his eyes. I realized that my father has in a way helped me, he gave me a gift. A profound gift but a gift non the less. He often gives me advice on techniques that are used, I remember the words that he'd say ripple inside my head. Though it's taken years to catch my 'marlin' I've seen it's head in the ocean. It just broke the surface and started to circle my boat. The heavy tugging reeled it near my boat, and the harpoon is in my hands, ready to strike. This is the tale of my greatest challenge, so far.
