There’s something strange about looking at a drawing of your own life.
Not a photograph. Not a painting someone did from memory. A drawing — where someone sat down, listened to you talk, and then put your story onto paper with their hands. It feels different. More honest, somehow. Like the things you’d struggle to say out loud suddenly have a shape.
Not a photograph. Not a painting someone did from memory. A drawing — where someone sat down, listened to you talk, and then put your story onto paper with their hands. It feels different. More honest, somehow. Like the things you’d struggle to say out loud suddenly have a shape.
There’s something strange about looking at a drawing of your own life.
Not a photograph. Not a painting someone did from memory. A drawing — where someone sat down, listened to you talk, and then put your story onto paper with their hands. It feels different. More honest, somehow. Like the things you’d struggle to say out loud suddenly have a shape.
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