For a long time, I dreamed of becoming a comic book artist. It felt like the natural path, combining all the things I love into something alive and visual. But back then, my parents weren’t too encouraging of the idea. They worried—maybe rightly so—that choosing art would mean struggle, instability, and a harder life. I can’t blame them for wanting to protect me, but looking back, I do wish they had been more encouraging of my dreams. Maybe then I would have stepped into my art with more confidence, more comfort in who I was and what I wanted to create. So I decided to teach myself. If I couldn’t have formal training, I would carve out my own path—studying comics, sketching endlessly, and trying to shape my own style and skills. But it wasn’t easy. My body wasn’t always on my side, and neither was my mind. Between the weight of my health, the scars from years of bullying, and the lack of proper guidance, frustration began to creep in. The more I drew, the more I seemed to hate what I created. I hated the imperfections. I hated how dark everything looked. I hated that my drawings felt like mirrors of the pain I carried rather than the joy I wanted to find. Little by little, that anger consumed my love for art, until I used the excuse of ‘artist block’ to step away entirely. It was easier to abandon drawing than to face the disappointment I felt every time I picked up a pencil.
Words stuck with me. For so long, I had only associated art with frustration, rejection, and doubt. I thought every drawing I made was a reminder of my flaws, of everything I couldn’t get right. When I was about to graduate high school, I was still adamant about choosing illustration as my major, though deep down a part of me was wavering. I didn’t want to admit it—I was too stubborn—but uncertainty was already there, quietly gnawing at me. Around that time, some friends told me about a bazaar happening in the city, where a popular comic book artist would be hosting a workshop on drawing panels and writing scripts. Reluctantly, I joined them. I still remember sitting at that table, sketching nervously, when the artist walked over to observe my work. My mind was racing: ‘Shit, he hates it! He hates it! It’s ugly!’ But instead, he looked at my drawings and said, ‘You know, you have a really keen eye for capturing perspective and atmosphere.’ His words caught me off guard. Especially when he asked what I planned to do in the future. I told him—hesitantly—that I wanted to be an artist, though I didn’t mention my parents’ disapproval. He only smiled, encouraged me to pursue it, and then offered another thought: that I might also consider being a storyboard artist, a film director, or working in media, since many comic artists eventually move toward those fields. His encouragement planted a seed.
For so long, art had felt like a battle between me and my insecurities, but here was someone I admired who saw potential in me. It made me realize that maybe my love for storytelling didn’t have to be confined to comics. Maybe it could grow in different directions. So when the time came to choose, I decided on Media and Communication Arts as my major. At first, it felt like a compromise, almost like betraying my younger self who swore I’d work hard to be a comic book artist. But looking back, it became a turning point—a chance to rediscover storytelling in new forms and carry my creativity into spaces I had never imagined before. Feel free to check out some of my work so far, on my social media platforms: Signed, Christie.
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Saturday, 20 September 2025
Superheroes and Storyboards.
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