How to Draw A Horse (Poorly, But Sincerely)
In which I realize drawing horses is not actually about horses.
For centuries, human beings have been drawing horses. Some of them have been quite good at it.
There are the breathtaking paintings discovered deep within the Lascaux caves.
There are Degas’ racehorses, the massive bronze of Marcus Aurelius on horseback.
And, of course, elaborate fan art of My Little Pony.
And why?
Because horses are awesome.
Horses are symbols and myths and metaphors and modes of transportation. They thunder and whisper. They carry kings and kids. HORSES. ARE. AWESOME.
There is a problem, though.
The problem:
A canyon-sized gap exists between my ambition and my ability.
I can picture horses perfectly in my mind. I can describe them in words. But when I try to draw them? When pencil touches paper? Mistakes are made. What emerges looks less like a horse and more like a potato.
A startled potato.
Possibly a cursed, startled potato.
So I gave myself a challenge: Draw 100 horses!
Drawing 100 horses would be an attempt at doing something not because I thought I’d become great at it, but just because I wanted to see what might happen.
An experiment. A discipline. A dare.
What it led to, strangely, was a kind of unexpected therapy.
As someone who can be an insecure overthinker, I often live in my head more than I’d like. Drawing horses … a thing I knew I wasn’t great at … gave me permission to loosen up. It wasn’t about proving anything. It was about playing. Pure and simple.
Sometimes the drawings looked like horses. Other times, they looked like a dog in disguise … drawn by a child … during a bumpy car ride.
Yes, frustration did set in. Yes, I did crumple up many of them.
Still, I settled in and learned not to do this for applause. Not for achievement. Just play and peace.
The monotony got to me somewhere around Horse #37, so the horses started getting really weird.
A horse with eight legs.
A horse taking a selfie.
Creative excuses to not have to draw a horse.
Perfection never arrived, but play did. Joy and play can lead to some of the best places.
A few other things I realized somewhere in the middle of all the mess:
Repetition doesn’t guarantee improvement, but it can bring discovery.
The middle is the messiest part, which probably means it’s working.
We don’t get better without getting braver.
Yes, the journey was … mixed. But if you squint or stand far enough away, some can appear horse-like or Equestrian-esque. I even noticed something as I started stringing the drawings together: they almost looked alive.
In sequence it looked as though they were galloping away. Right off the page. So, I played around with animating them.
My awkward little horses could run! Sort of! Wobbly and weird, but moving!
The horses ran to the edge and well beyond the page. The horses went further than I ever thought they could. I went further than I ever thought I could.
It turns out this had very little to do with drawing horses. I see that now. I was actually just practicing being a person. Practicing the ridiculous, glorious act of showing up. Trying again and again. Being. Playing.
Maybe that’s what making art is. Maybe that’s all it’s ever been. You keep showing up. That’s what creative work requires. That’s what life requires.
Creativity usually isn’t some ladder you climb. Often it’s a tunnel you dig. You don’t always know where it’s going, but if you keep showing up (and keep shoveling), eventually light breaks through in some strange place you weren’t expecting.
My goals are no longer about nailing the perfect drawing or chasing some shiny result. My goals now sound more like this: keep showing up, keep trying, keep caring, and keep creating. Keep going even when it’s uncomfortable. Especially when it’s uncertain. Especially when you don’t know what happens next.
All 100 horses are now on display.
I am a little sad to say that the final piece, 100 Horses, does not contain a perfect horse. It does, though, contain 100 sincere attempts. 100 playfully present tries from a weird little human. Maybe that’s enough? Maybe that’s always been enough.
Failure isn’t always the thing you pass through to get somewhere better. Sometimes, failure is the thing. It’s the art. It’s the story. It’s the thing that sparks something better for someone else. It’s the motion that proves we were here. That we tried. That we left something behind.
You don’t have to be perfect to keep going. You don’t have to be great to matter.
Just be. Draw. Make. Care. Share.
Badly. Sincerely. Weirdly.
Let the horses run.
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What a delight. Please keep drawing horses. (Also, your 100 horses would make a wonderful Zine once they’re no longer on display!)
This is heartwarming Brad, and here are some horses from me 🐎🏇🎠🐴🐪. I realise the last is a camel, but for some reason, it appeared as an option when I searched for a horse emoji so…..