"Contemplation of the Jump" - drawn & colored in Escape Motions Rebelle.
My drawings are pretty random, but after I make them I think about them a bit... like... what is that girl in that cave room thinking and why is he going to jump?
I should probably know the answers... but I don't.
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.
To draw is to notice.
To notice is to pause.
And sometimes, all it takes is a barefoot boy in a camping chair, chasing the drips of a popsicle, to remind us what it means to be here.
This is Popsiclence—a sacred kind of focus.
It’s where observational drawing leads us: out of the swirl, into the now.
And in that now, we heal.
Whenever I’m channel surfing, I often find myself stumbling into a film midway through it’s running time, and tend to stick around if there’s elements that pique my curiosity and just catch my eye etc. My Girl 2, of all films, was one of them this time around.
A line about “barbaric customs” or roundabouts prompted me to pick up my drawing kit...and here we are!
