It wasn’t often I presented my art anywhere, to anyone - let alone at any sort of contest. My art pieces doubled as pieces of myself. I wasn’t the most confident individual, and inviting in criticism has never been a strong-suit. So to ask that my “pieces of self” be judged was entirely out-of-character.

But this drawing was different. Generally I didn’t think much about the technical appearance of my projects. Art is expressive; it’s supposed to make you feel something. It’s not simply supposed to be pleasing to the eye. Thus, whether or not someone might find my art ‘pretty’ was never high on my priority list.

I enjoyed illustrating fantasy scenes - fairy-tale creatures of myth and legend. For some reason, the dainty wings of a pixie held my attention well. Often I could find myself being lost in the scales of a siren’s fin. Such magic was held in the stories of elves and of griffons. Even if I tried, I could never quite get myself to draw anything else. I found more comfort in the stories these worlds could hold than I ever found in any the material world did.

This piece by far surpassed the rest, though. It was a sylph - a creature in legend depicted with large, white feathered wings. Akin to an angel, I suppose, though I’d never seen either in person, so one could only assume. The one I placed on paper was radiant. Her hair was golden, cascading in waves over warm-olive skin. She seemed to emit rays of pure light - practically glowing off the page.

The woman’s eyes were comprised

of layers of sea-moss green and crisp, sky-blue. They held oceans of mysticism within their depths. Her lips and cheeks hued with the same dusty, peach-rose. Both were plump and filled with life, and a tad playful to say the least. Though she was clearly a divine being, and pure in love and light, she had a slight grin pulling up the corners of her mouth. She looked as though she had perhaps just played a prank on her lover. Perhaps she was giggling at their response. But her actions were never of malice.

She was clothed in white - a robe, almost. It was a tad reminiscent of Grecian clothing in the ancient times. The front tied closed with a golden, chord-rope. Tassels, in a way, which had two single, crystal beads at the end of each strand. She was immensely elegant, but not at all gaudy. A perfect image of natural beauty, grace, and purity.

Often my process in drawing was the same. All my pieces seemed to come from some deep recess of my mind. I never began to sketch with a full concept in mind. It could be that I knew I’d want to illustrate a mermaid. Or sometimes it could be that I knew the piece would be dark in nature. But the art always flowed from me like water. It was never forced - never planned or premeditated. But this piece was even more filled with soul than any others I’d ever made.

I wasn’t going to present her. I was going to keep her hidden away inside my home, so that only I could gaze upon her beauty. I was going to contain her light, so that it may keep my life more playful or joyful.

But as I sat and stared, the drawing seemed to dim. I began to feel guilty. A drawing she was, yes. But, even if others couldn’t view her the same way I did, I believed she was a sight to behold. It was almost as if I had created some sort of being. A divine, and beautiful one of that. A muse. Who was I to decide who would get to gaze upon her beauty? If she could bring anyone else even an ounce of what her image brought me, I thought she deserved a chance to shine.

So, I didn’t care about the critics. I didn’t care about reviews, positive or poor.

I didn’t care if they thought she was ‘pretty’.

I knew she would make them feel something.