Latest / The Entertainment Conversation: Pop Culture, Media & Ideas / Comics About Houseplants: Finding Art When No One Is Watching | The Entertainment Conversation
Transcript
- I have a confession to make, and it involves a succulent named Gary who is currently judging me from my windowsill. I am drawing him, poorly, in the margins of a grocery list, and honestly, it is the most honest thing I have created all year. Let’s unpack that for a second, because I think we often misunderstand where creativity lives. We imagine it happening in grand studios with high ceilings, or perhaps on stage under spotlights, where the applause is immediate and the validation is loud. But what if I told you that some of the most potent artistic expressions happen in the quietest, most invisible corners of our lives? Specifically, I want to talk about the act of drawing comics about houseplants when absolutely no one is watching. Not for Instagram. Not for a portfolio. Not even for friends. Just for you, and the plant, and the sheer, ridiculous joy of turning a photosynthesizing organism into a tiny, inked character with feelings. It sounds silly, I know. It sounds like something you’d do while waiting for a bus or hiding in a bathroom stall during a work meeting. And yet, there is a profound liberation in creating art that has zero market value. When you draw Gary the Succulent looking particularly shriveled because you forgot to water him for three days, you aren’t trying to sell that image. You aren’t optimizing it for engagement metrics. You are simply bearing witness to the slow, silent drama of domestic life. You are acknowledging that this leafy friend has an existence that continues whether you notice it or not, and by drawing it, you are saying, 'I see you. You matter, even if only to me.' That is a radical act in a world that demands constant visibility. Think about your own plants for a moment. Really look at them. Have you ever noticed how they seem to hold grudges? A fern will turn yellow just as you start ignoring its need for humidity. A cactus will lean aggressively toward the window, almost mocking your inability to rotate the pot. These aren’t just biological responses; they are narratives. They are stories written in chlorophyll and soil. When I started this little practice of sketching these green companions, I realized I was essentially writing a sitcom without a laugh track. There is the drama of the new acquisition—the unboxing, the repotting, the hopeful placement. Then there is the tragedy of the overwatered monstera, whose leaves are drooping in a way that feels deeply personal. And the comedy of the snake plant that survives everything, including my neglect and my bad moods, standing tall and judgmental in the corner. By giving them speech bubbles or just expressive faces, I am anthropomorphizing them, yes, but I am also connecting with the part of myself that craves companionship in solitude. We live alone more often than we admit. We spend hours staring at screens, isolated in our digital tribes. The houseplant is the silent roommate who never complains, never asks for rent, and occasionally drops a leaf on the rug as a subtle reminder of entropy. Now, let’s be clear: my drawings are not good. They are stiff. The proportions are off. Gary looks less like a healthy Echeveria and more like a lumpy potato with aspirations. But here is the magic of doing this when no one is watching: nobody knows. There is no critic reviewing my technique. There is no algorithm deciding if my shading is trendy enough. This freedom allows me to play. It allows me to be terrible. And being terrible is essential for keeping the creative spirit alive. We spend so much of our adult lives polishing ourselves, refining our skills, and presenting a curated version of our competence. We edit our emails. We filter our photos. We rehearse our conversations before having them. But in those margins of the grocery list, I can draw a stick-figure plant wearing sunglasses. I can write a dialogue where the plant is complaining about the draft from the window. It is low-stakes. It is safe. It is pure, unadulterated play. And play is not frivolous. Play is the mechanism by which we explore possibilities without the fear of failure. If you cannot fail when no one is watching, then you are truly free. That freedom bleeds back into the rest of your life. It makes you braver. It makes you willing to try that recipe, to send that email, to wear that outfit, because you’ve already practiced failing in the comfort of your own kitchen. There is also a meditative quality to this specific kind of creation. Drawing requires attention. You have to look closely at the curve of a stem, the texture of a leaf, the way light hits the waxy surface. You cannot doodle effectively while scrolling through your phone. You have to be present. In a world that fragments our attention into a thousand shards, forcing yourself to sit with a plant and observe it is a form of mindfulness. It is a grounding ritual. I remember reading about how artists in the past kept sketchbooks not just for ideas, but for observation. They drew birds, flowers, street scenes. They were recording their experience of the world in real-time. My comic strips of houseplants are exactly that. They are records of my attention. They mark time. Looking back at a month of sketches, I can see how the seasons changed. I can see when I was stressed (the lines were jagged) and when I was calm (the shading was soft). The plants became mirrors for my internal state. When I was anxious, the plants looked chaotic and unruly. When I was at peace, they looked lush and serene. By drawing them, I was externalizing my emotions, giving shape to feelings that were otherwise formless. It was therapy, but cheaper than a session and with better lighting. This brings me to a broader point about our relationship with things. We live in an age of disposability. Digital images are endless, easily deleted, easily replaced. Physical objects are cheap, mass-produced, and meant to be thrown away. But a houseplant is different. It is alive. It grows. It changes. It dies. It has a lifecycle that spans months or years. By engaging with it creatively, I am resisting the urge to treat it as background noise. I am treating it as a subject worthy of study and affection. Consider the alternative: we ignore our surroundings. We walk past trees without noticing their shapes. We glance at the sky without registering the color. We become numb to the beauty right in front of us. Drawing comics about houseplants forces me to slow down and notice. It trains my eye to see the extraordinary in the ordinary. It reminds me that life is happening everywhere, even in the small, quiet spaces of my apartment. And that perspective shift is vital. It helps us appreciate the mundane. It helps us find wonder in the everyday. Because if we can find wonder in a potted fern, we can find it in a conversation with a stranger, in a cup of coffee, in the sound of rain against the glass. Creativity is not just about making art; it is about seeing the world differently. Finally, I want to touch on the idea of legacy. We often think of legacy as something grand—a book published, a painting hung in a museum, a career defined by a single masterpiece. But what about the small joys? The private moments of creation that leave no trace? Are they worthless? I would argue they are priceless. They build a reservoir of joy within us that sustains us through harder times. Those drawings might be lost, or discarded, or forgotten. But the feeling they gave me—that spark of connection, that moment of focus, that burst of laughter at the absurdity of a talking cactus—those feelings remain. They become part of who I am. So, to anyone listening who feels like they haven’t created anything 'real' lately, I invite you to start small. Draw your coffee mug. Sketch the shadow on the wall. Write a haiku about the cat sleeping on the keyboard. Do it when no one is watching. Do it badly. Do it messily. Let it be yours alone. Because in those private acts of creation, you are affirming your own humanity. You are saying that your attention matters. Your perspective matters. Your joy matters. And that is enough. It is more than enough. It is everything. Thank you for spending this time with me. Go draw something terrible. I’ll be right here, judging Gary from my windowsill. Stay curious.