TouchMyself

TouchMyself

不改头像是为了说这句话:我其实不是T

Drawing is a joyful activity.

I'm actually not very good at drawing, I just try my best to depict the beautiful scenery in my impression. But in the fine strokes, I can feel the charm of these landscapes more deeply, which is a deeper communication that cannot be felt with just the eyes.

What I want to say is that although I put my heart into it, the result of my artwork often does not match the real scenery, and honestly, I have no control over the outcome of my drawings. I just make a wish for what I want to draw, then choose a brushstroke, and after that, it's actually out of my hands. When the artwork is finished, I will look at it as if seeing it for the first time and admire it for a long time.

Choosing a brush, the style of the painting will be generated by the canvas itself, just like in a rebirth dream, choosing different directions at the crossroads, and after that, it will continue uncontrollably until the final result emerges. Just like in a dream, although the results may look different due to the choice of brushstrokes, the artist hasn't changed, and the artist's ability hasn't changed either. It will be like an exam paper, where the impressive parts will still be impressive, and the regrettable parts will still be regrettable.

Also, it doesn't matter if the landscape painting is not accurate, but when it comes to portraits... Although my good friends haven't cut ties with me, they bought me a sketchbook and urged me to practice. Here, I can only show a picture of a stranger. I'm sorry, stranger. But it's okay, actually no one can recognize anyone.

I also often use a brush to tie memories:

I sit next to you and paint this painting when we finish wandering the streets and take a rest. I keep adding details without stopping, I can even spend a week drawing your sneakers. Finally, finally, the moment of farewell has come, and I have been painting for a whole month. There is no sadness or reluctance as imagined, because we have tried our best and cherished the time we spent together. Inevitably, what remains is the crazy nostalgia: every real moment, every past detail. Buying flowers and splitting them in half; drinking cocktails on the outdoor table even in the middle of winter; my shorts fluttering in the highland mountains with the evening breeze, your hair...

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