MAN OF CLAY

When I was young, a pencil and a piece of paper were all I needed to be in control of everything. I was in control of my classroom education doodling in margins of notes, on my homemade brown paper bag textbook covers, and on the back of virtually every test and ditto sheet given to me in Elementary School. I was in control of the choir and the baby crying at church, drawing on the Sunday program. I controlled when day turned into night, when I fell asleep clutching a pencil in mid-stroke on a sketch pad. I created real things. I knew they weren't alive, but they were close to it. Characters came into existence and into being and as far as I was concerned, they were one step away from being a three dimensional toy in my hand. They were the icons of a video game that should have been made. They were maps of my dreams and nightmares, but most of all, they were cool.

Soon I started having more patience with anatomy and form in my drawings and the lines began to take a familiar shape. "...those look like your hands...," my mother would say. they were. these things I drew now had my hands. Hair, facial structure and body type followed suit. even clothing. The curious part of it all is that sometimes it was a different me; An older me. A different hairline here and a different clothing style there, they were still me but less familiar.

I've noticed these traits bubble to the surface in reality just as randomly as they did on the page. My hair receded the way 'old' Justin's hair looked. The knuckles on my hands and the corners of my eyes aged accordingly. Is it possible that all along, my drawings were blueprints? Did I become what my preteen-self decided I would become? Not only do I believe it's true, but I've matured enough to realize that there isn't just one step between the drawing and the final product. There are many steps, and I'm going to continue to be in control.

Lichtenstein