g i r l . t w e l v e

One hundred girls/days, day twelve. Pen on paper.

g i r l . e l e v e n

Day eleven of my One Hundred Girls in One Hundred days project. Pen on paper.

g i r l . t e n

One hundred girls in one hundred days: day ten! Ink and brush, digitally coloured.

No, thank you.
No, thank you.
No, thank you.

g i r l . n i n e

One hundred girls/days: number nine. First full body lady. Ink and brush/pen on paper. I love the way that ink smells, so soothing.

g i r l . e i g h t

One hundred girls in one hundred days: day eight! Pen, brush, ink and marker on paper. Polka dot face. I feel like I'm getting better at eyebrows; they're always been my nemeses.

g i r l . s e v e n

One hundred/one hundred days/number seven! I've made it one week, and I'm proud of that. I've finally used some colour too. Ink, brush and pen on paper, digitally coloured. Crazy eyes. 

g i r l . s i x

One hundred girls in one hundred days, day six. Ink and brush on paper (I'm in the zone).

g i r l . f i v e

One hundred girls in one hundred days, day five. Ink and brush on paper.

g i r l . f o u r

One hundred girls in one hundred days, number four! Ink and brush on paper.

g i r l . t h r e e

One hundred girls, day three: ink on paper.

g i r l . t w o

One hundred girls in one hundred days, number two. Pen on paper and digital coloured variation. Sour, angry face; I've been experiencing some of those moods lately; when you're mad, you're mad.

g i r l . o n e

One hundred girls in one hundred days begins: day one. Ink & brush on paper.

f l e s h . a n d . f o r m

Ink on paper.

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I remember being lectured on the difference between nakedness and nudity in art. Nudity is natural, innocent, unintentional: a goddess bathing or a mother nursing her child. Nakedness is purposeful, brash, powerful: the reclining Olympia in her shoes and jewelery, in charge of her body and willingly exposing herself.

I find that I'm drawn to that concept; I think about nakedness and comfort and strength; I think how, as I've grown more comfortable with myself I've grown more comfortable with my body. I think about clothing and the concealment of ourselves; I think about the beauty of flesh and form; I think about the feminist minefield that I may be unknowingly stumbling into.

•

Our bodies are the tools that we might use to achieve the plans that our spirits can only dream of.

c r i s i s

I found myself dealing with a minor crisis a few mornings ago. I've already mentioned my erratic sleeping patterns as of late; on this particular day, lack of rest caused me to sleep in later than normal. So, having overslept by five minutes (which is saying something, seeing as I habitually only leave myself a 20 minute window to shower, get dressed and run out the door in the morning...oops) I, stumbled briskly through my morning routine until finally I attempted to pull on a pair of tights (as per usual, uniform = dress, cardigan, tights!). I chose a grey pair which someone had given me and were the wrong size; the clock was ticking down as I struggled to pull these tight tights up my legs and they got all twisted and weird and I realized, panic stricken within two minutes of my necessary departure time that there was no way I could survive the day wearing them but no way that I could change them before leaving.

I stuffed another pair of tights in my purse and ran out the door; with every step I took they rolled a little bit further down my bum and wiggled down my legs...and let me tell you, there's no discomfort like being wedged into an overcrowded morning commuter train with sausage casings pinching you.

m e o w

After an early-childhood trauma, I spent some time attending both individual and group therapy. The counselors who lead the group sessions stand out in my mind like the hosts of Polkaroo; they were all smiles and friendly encouragement and their sessions seemed more like fun than anything. One day, our group took turns role-playing the members of a family (I realize, in hindsight, to observe how typical our notions of family behaviour were); other children in the group elected to be the 'mom' or the 'dad', 'brother'; etc...wanting no part of that, I asked the leaders if I could be the cat instead.

At the time, I was oblivious, but now, I'm embarrassed.

I wanted to be the family pet. What did those therapists think of me? What does that say about me as a person?

(Despite what I can only imagine must have been uncomfortable reluctance, the leaders let me make my choice and I proceeded to crawl around on the floor and generally avoided participating in their exercise as a normal person).

s n a p s h o t . i n . t h e . d a r k

j u s t . d a n c e

Crowds have become a crazy source of stress for me lately; I mainly blame the TTC for this and the daily hours which I now spend navigating stations in rush hour, getting trapped in turnstiles and shoved by strangers. It used to be that I'd shrug while someone else expressed their distress at visiting crowded locales — now I feel disoriented and slightly panicked when I'm faced with them.

It's not the being trapped that I fear; I think instead, it's the watchful eyes of people that I don't know and accidental collisions which make me nervous. I don't want to be the cause of displeasure; I don't want to be out of place or a nuisance.

Ironically, the crowd at a night club calms me; there in the darkness, I can lose myself amongst the bodies and pulsating noise. The semi-hedonistic ritual of dancing with reckless abandon is utterly freeing for me; albeit not foolproof, more often than not the mixture of obscurity and deafening music relieves me of every worry, every doubt and all of my unnecessarily self-imposed rules for polite behavior . In those anonymous moments, I can stop being the girl who ruins everyone's fun with her anxiety and simply be fun-girl.

•

I was a late bloomer in terms of youthful things like alcohol and partying. It wasn't until I was in my early twenties that I allowed my cousin to convince me to join her for a night out of drinking and dancing. I still remember the feeling of my awkward self-consciousness slowly abating as I stood at the edge of a room lit by red lights, watching as the crowd meandered in; there was a girl, dressed in schoolgirl blouse and kilt, dancing alone on the empty floor. She had her eyes closed and she moved with confidence and complete nonchalance; at the time I laughed, but now I am that girl.

o h

I've been working on prints lately; getting ready to hand-colour these ladies soon.

f i s h i n g

Voila, new illustrations. Click here to see more fishing fun!

s t a r s

Digitally coloured drawing, 2013.

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She is who she wants to be, goes where she pleases, achieved all of her dreams—when her eyes are closed.