where i'm from  

lindsey piller


He noticed the furrow in my brow, and the way my hand glided across the page. He noticed the concentration that took over my features. Because of this, he wanted to know where I was from.

If I said I was from a small town in Delco where everyone knows everybody, and all the teens congregate on Saxer to get their Wawa fix, I wouldn’t be wrong, but he still wouldn’t know where I was from.

Where I’m from, other worlds materialize in my mind when a fresh pack of Faber-Castell's is torn open and a virgin Canson pad is placed in front of me, just waiting to be marked up.

Where I’m from, paintbrushes reek of stale linseed oil from past projects. They patiently wait to feel the cool, smooth texture of paint to render their next story. They learned quickly to follow the dance of my hands.

Where I’m from, the soft thud of a skeleton is heard over roaring guitar riffs, trenchant vocals, and whiplash-inducing beats. Another hour, another thud, followed by another angle and a new sketch. This goes on until sundown, eating up my Saturday and the pages of my sketchbook.

Where I’m from, having calloused and graphite stained hands is a rite of passage. It shows talent, passion, and layers of dedication to the art of art. Draw. Fixative. Repeat. Draw, fixative, repeat, until the taste of chemicals occupies my mouth and nose and sends me into a crazed frenzy.

Where I’m from, stains and dents riddle an isolated wooden desk, each an echo of a lost, completed, or forgotten project. Where I’m from words are not needed or spoken. Images and ideas take over, becoming my second language because all I need is a nicely sharpened HB pencil to tell my narrative.

Where I’m from, creativity dances around the air, sparking my mind into action. My hands move from muscle memory, familiar with the pressures of a sturdy pencil, smooth paper, and the bottom side of my hand.

Where I’m from, it’s dangerous to never carry a sketchbook because of the slight chance that imagination—the purest sentiment one can experience—will strike and take over, leading me to furrow my brow in concentration and ignore the life that takes place around me.

Lindsey Piller is a senior Graphic Design and English double major with a concentration in writing. She has a deep love for drawing, Teen Wolf, and all things superhero related.