I saw a movie recently about a little boy who loved to draw. The boy's life wasn't like mine in many ways except for that. While all kids who draw use it as an escape, the boy in film had fair cause to flee his circumstances into the solace of his art. I, on the other hand, was supported and encouraged at every turn. Nonetheless, I found an elemental familiarity in the boy's closeness to paper and line, and the sound and texture of those things. I drew ceaselessly from the time I could hold a pencil until I reached my mid-twenties. At that point it dwindled, and then it stopped.

There is something in this song about adulthood and the deconstruction of wonder as the antithesis of the feeling I had when I drew. Today, I make pictures on a computer for work. I like making them, and they look nice, but they're also pretty sterile. I can still find the wonder lost to my visual practice when I play music. Perhaps this is because of the deep physicality of sound; its liquidity and vibration work their way into my body in a way I can't turn from. But at some point I learned to see the world as a grownup sees it, and I lost some of the sight I once had. This song laments a loss, but also celebrates having had the thing to begin with. I'm so happy I drew, and I hope I draw again some day when the time is right.

~M.E.

P.S. The picture here is a detail from a piece by Harold Lindsey, who is my nephew, and perhaps a budding artist in his own right. It is on our refrigerator and I like to look at it while I cook.