I marvel at her talent. Not just that she can draw, lots of people can draw. Her drawings are so different from the rest. Not just because she’s my daughter. I like her drawings. Not because I have to…but because I want to see them and I can’t wait to see what she does next and what the world will make of them.
She started when she was four. She didn’t scribble like most children. She drew. Simple figures…at four. She would see something in a cartoon and she would copy it and then, she’d make it her own. I was so impossibly proud of her. It was more than just being her Mother. I encouraged her and nurtured her love of art. Books, videos and anything I could find to help her when she struggled with something. Art manuals that spoke about color, composition, faces, body angles, whatever she needed to keep growing and moving forward.
Her imagination and her style grew and developed before my eyes. My daughter was an artist. She didn’t draw happy little houses with flowers in the yard. She drew characters, she created creatures that lived only in her head. Some of the images were beautiful…some were disturbing. They were all breathtaking to me. As she grew she drew people that I knew and more importantly, she drew what was in her head and in her heart. She made me laugh at the ridiculous and weep at the heartbreaking images that flow from her at the drop of the pen or the pencil on paper or the swish of the brush on canvass or the stylus on the tablet. She cannot be defined. She cannot be pigeonholed. She cannot be stopped. She is art to me…the only creation that I can hold a claim on.
All images used property of Kayla McCoy, used with permission.