“Whirlwind 1”, an original drawing. Micron pens on archival paper. Size: 4” x 6”. Title, signature and date in the back of the drawing. This drawing is the 1st in a series of drawings that were posted over a period of 100 days. The original post date on this drawing was September 1, 2020.
This was inspired by portraits from the 1920's. I've read that some girls who adopted the flapper style only wore one earring because their hair covered the other ear.
Finally done! I worked on this for most of the evening and well into the night yesterday. I was so excited to finish it. I did stencil in the letters, but it took so long to paint them in. I bought the board a couple days ago at Hobby Lobby and finished the sign around about 10 minutes ago. Let me know what you think in the comments. (I am aware that the girls foot isn’t hanging down. I’m kinda leaning towards leaving it the way it is.)
I lost my momentum after being out of town all weekend and now I'm just doodling pretty faces. And I know I'm the queen of taking bad pics of them. Oh well. At least you get a peek, right? .
I am an art teacher with a master’s degree—trained by brilliant professors who believed that art could do more than decorate walls. I offer safe spaces for teenagers to grow—nourishing soil where their imaginations can take root.
And yet… I am assigned to hallway duty.
This is compulsory education, after all.
So I sit—posted like a sentinel—watching young lives stream past.
“Get to class,” I say with a smile and a nudge.
The system wants attendance; I’m hungry for presence.
Armed not with a whistle or clipboard, but with a pen—
my scribble’s soft insurgency.
The hallway stretches out like a geometric hymn.
Columns and corners chant structure.
Teenagers swirl past—half-formed galaxies of limbs and laughter—
their orbits chaotic, their gravity pulling time forward.
I begin to draw.
Not their tardiness, but their motion.
A shoulder. A blur of sneakers.
A tilted head chasing freedom.
Feet flickering like seconds.
Each mark a pulse.
Each smudge a breath.
My paper becomes a seismograph of seeing—
trembling gently through the mundane.
This isn’t about making art for a frame or a feed.
It’s about refusing to leak away in the fluorescent hum of obligation.
It’s a quiet mutiny against the clock.
I do this on long car rides, too (passenger side, mind you).
Letting the lines grow wild, jagged, and unapologetic.
Not for polish—
but for presence.
This is how I remember I’m still alive.
Still growing.
Still watching.
Still choosing to see.
Because sometimes mental health looks like
a piece of scrap paper,
a moving pen,
and the simple, sacred act of
marking time with wonder.
Taking some inspiration from some things me and my girlfriend talked about regarding old highs in one’s past and asking yourself if revisiting them later on in life is worth it… the usual stuff I guess.
