What would jesus doodle (WWJD)?

by Isabel Ledezma

About a year and a half ago, I sat at the register at work behind a sheet of plexiglass wondering when my seemingly endless shift would be over. The Catholic bookstore I was currently manning was suffering from the events that shall not be named which persuaded the majority of the population to simply make do with the Jesus-themed tchotchkes they already had at home. There was only so much scrolling I could do on the ancient desktop running Windows 7 that sat collecting dust in front of me. 

As I sat in my plastic chair (just uncomfortable enough to persuade the user to stay alert in God's presence, perhaps), I eyed the set of Post-Its in the shelves beneath the computer. I picked them up and thumbed through the stack a few times, contemplating the tiny blank slates. Suddenly, as if eating Proust's madeleine, I saw myself sitting in yet another plastic chair, but this time in my 7th-grade French class with sheets of loose-leaf paper awaiting my eager hands. I drew and drew and drew, filling the margins with doodles and inside jokes. What I produced was no masterpiece, but I now realize it was crucial to me as an artist anyways.

Doodling as a craft. It was so easily forgotten as I not only forced myself to pay attention as my classes became more serious, but also to start seeing my art as something that always had to look presentable. My sketchbooks were not filled with my meandering thoughts, but rather what I hoped would not bring me shame when I flipped to the wrong page in class. Everything had to be a finished work of art. 

Perhaps not surprisingly, I began to take to the page less and less. I felt the weight of the sky crushing my shoulders every time I opened my case of expensive German pencils. Everybody around me seemed to be able to produce the most beautiful things while barely even trying, while the things I worked at for hours seemed to crush me in a tidal wave of anxiety over every little imperfection. It wasn't always like this.

With the stack of Post-Its in my hand, I remembered that art used to be fun. That I dedicated so many hours and course slots to art because I enjoyed it; that I filled countless margins because my love for creating was so strong that I overflowed into the corners of my papers. For my remaining time in the silence of the empty store, I finally let go of that crushing weight that had been following me and made…some absolutely mediocre art. But the doodles made me laugh when I assembled them all together on a spare sheet of printer paper, and more importantly they were proof of my efforts. Maybe they weren't the most skilled portraits I had ever produced, but making art requires muscle–physical and mental. As I looked at the messy pen strokes, I realized that I had been neglecting that muscle for years.

No matter what you think you see in others, no one comes out with award-winning creations 100% of the time. If nothing we made was bad or silly, I don't think we would be able to appreciate the good. I still have those doodles, and I love looking at them. They remind me of the way art is supposed to make me feel. If I learned anything from my doodling fugue state that day at work, it would be the importance of having fun in everything I do. Because most of the time, my art is for me. I don't need to impress anybody else or present myself a certain way; I have to do what makes me happy. And one day, if we're lucky, what makes us happy also becomes something we're proud of.