Thirty years ago in a snug kitchen of formica and linoleum I proudly showed my
grandmother a picture of Snoopy on his doghouse that I had copied from the front
cover of a book she had given me the Christmas before. I thought it was one of my
best efforts but she just smiled and pointed at a doodle of a rocket on the bottom
corner of my page.
"I like that much better," she said.
I was shocked and confused. Snoopy looked like Snoopy. The rocket was bent and
looked more like a tube of toothpaste than something capable of propelling
adventurers into space.
"Yes, but that rocket is you," was her response. "Those are your lines. They came
from your head. That is your ladder and your raygun."
"That's an engine," I grumbled.
For a long time I thought my grandmother was nuts. Not crazy-go-nuts but sweet-
doesn't-understand-art-nuts. On her next visit I showed her a picture I had copied
of Huey, Dewey and Louie. This one was a masterpiece. I was convinced it looked
as good as the real thing. She agreed it looked like the original. And then she
asked if I had drawn any rockets recently. I decided at that point not to show her
anymore drawings.
Thankfully, the penny dropped not long after when the thrill of creating authentic
copies of other people's artwork faded and was replaced by the heady rush that
accompanied explorations of the imagination.
Since then I have not been happy unless I have had a pencil in my hand and I don't
expect that to change anytime soon.