There was a time I would challenge how well my art has progressed over the years. I’ll take an illustration I’ve done (and hopefully dated, which was also inconsistent) and see if I could better recreate it.

I loved doing these illustrations.

It was not just the art that improved; I had a ideal backstory and solid reasons for making the design changes. And my improvements were hard NOT to see.

Each of these shared drawings were done a few years apart from each other. I hate I forgot to write the date of completion on each.

As I look at them now, I ponder where I would be creatively had I continued to draw more often. If not every day, where would five hours a week take me after sixteen years?

The Demon Woman with Wings was lacking necessary texture design on her outfit and a dynamic posture, but I improved greatly on her proportions. I wanted the self-portrait drawing style to be simple, but my face could’ve looked more like me with practice. These are weaknesses that would’ve corrected themselves within the years I stopped drawing.

I lost a lot of drawing time. Time I’ll never get back. A celebrated artist with an admirable body of work are the ashes of what could’ve been.

Regret has taken its place. I’ve lost more to memory of backlog of ideas compared to what I remember. I am the man in the parable where he buried his talents in fear of losing them. I feel the call of the Master ready to examine what work I done with the talents he gave me.