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I started drawing comic art in earnest relatively late, as I entered 10th grade. It was a completely new venture to me, and quite a hard one at that – although I had a year’s worth of experience in watching and reading such art, I had no prior experience in the field, and most hobbies and activities I picked up over the years were generally oriented around some evident strength of mine – I played the violin, I read whatever science journals or magazines I could find, I played Shogi. In contrast, the visual arts were mysterious, ritualistic subjects where esoteric rites and arcane tools somehow conjured brilliant works of art.

Of course, I soon learned – the hard way – that beautiful drawings do not magically appear; pencils don’t automatically dart over the intimidating blankness that was the paper on my sketchpad to create elaborate graphite constructs. I was, however, painfully unaware of just how incompetent I was. While I intuited that something was wrong, I decided to ignore it.

Following social norms, people politely complimented my drawings. “Good job”, they would say, or “Nice drawing”. Lapping up the praise, I thought I was recognized by my colleagues.

But there was always this annoying, nagging little voice at the back of my head. It was a malicious little voice, constantly ridiculing whatever sketch I had in front of me, dismissing praise I received, effortlessly debunking any sort of defense or protest I made in relation to my drawings. I knew that I didn’t produce quality art, the superficiality of the acclaim I received evident from the lack of proper critique. So, armed with a natural inquisitiveness, I was determined to find the secret formula to drawing.

In the end, I invested quite a large amount of time in this pursuit. I gradually learned the nature, the essence, of artistic expression, after pouring hours after hours into the craft, regularly, every day after school. I drew...