Learning to Draw Again

What drawing with my daughter reminded me about creativity

My daughter Cecilia was recently gifted a set of Crayola crayons. There’s something about crayons in particular - the smell, the waxiness, the way they blunt almost immediately - that feels immune to adulthood. Our days since have been filled with creativity, chaos and experimentation. I’m very happy she’s showing a creative spark so early, but I’m less happy that my brand-new Levi’s have become an unintended canvas.

As much as possible, we’ve tried to confine our mark-making to a specific Moleskine notebook. It’s now completely full. Every page is a collision of scribbles, shapes, animals, letters and numbers - a living document of a collaboration where neither of us is really in charge. Leafing through the pages has made me realise the disparity between Cecilia’s childlike instinctiveness and my own crippling perfectionism.

Cecilia will grab a crayon in her chubby little hand and just draw whatever she’s feeling. Sometimes she’ll stab the page repeatedly, other times she’ll draw long, flowing strokes. When I take a crayon, I immediately feel the pressure to produce something recognisable, something that earns its place on the page. Even before I draw, I’m already editing.

I might start by drawing a simple shape and getting Cecilia to guess what it is. Then I might try something more advanced, like an animal. This exercise has made me massively doubt my drawing abilities. Often, I’ll be able to picture an animal, but when putting crayon to paper, it comes out all wrong. My wife, on the other hand, can casually produce three very similar yet unmistakably distinct depictions of a yak, a bison and a buffalo, on demand and without hesitation.

Our little afternoon art sessions have made me realise that I could stand to learn a bit more from Cecilia’s approach. She doesn’t have anything in mind when she starts drawing, and the results are always brilliant - and I don’t just think this because I’m a proud father. Somewhere between learning to hold a pencil properly and learning to fear getting it wrong, something vital slips away.

Looking at these pages, I couldn’t help thinking that this would make a great campaign for Crayola. I played around with different taglines, but in the end, I thought the pages on their own spoke more than words ever could. Crayons are the vehicle that allows us to become reacquainted with our inner child. In a world saturated with polish, prompts and optimisation, how incredible would it be to encounter a huge billboard filled with what looks like chaotic, unfiltered outsider art? No copy. No explanation. Just proof that creativity existed before optimisation. And still does.

For now, I’m just grateful that Cecilia handed me a crayon and reminded me how to use it: badly, confidently, and without asking permission.