Latest / The Culture Club: Books, Art, Film, Music & Entertainment / Drawing Comics About Houseplants When No One Is Watching | The Culture Club
Transcript
- There is a specific kind of silence that happens at 2 AM when you are staring at a fiddle leaf fig and realizing it is judging your life choices. It’s in those quiet, unobserved hours that we discover who we really are, usually while holding a charcoal pencil and trying to capture the exact shade of loneliness in a spider plant. Let’s be honest for a second. We all have that version of ourselves that only comes out when the house is asleep. The one who doesn’t care about aesthetics or productivity or being seen. The one who just wants to make something messy because it feels good to move your hand across paper. I used to think this was a flaw in my character. I thought if I wasn’t creating content, if I wasn’t posting it, if there wasn’t an audience waiting in the wings, then what was the point? But lately, I’ve been spending a lot of time with my plants. And not in that performative way where you water them for the ‘gram. I mean really talking to them. Sitting on the floor with them. Drawing them. When you draw a houseplant in private, something shifts. You stop trying to make it look perfect. You start seeing its true form. The droop of a leaf that’s thirsty. The stubborn curl of a new shoot pushing toward the light. These comics I’m drawing aren’t meant for anyone else. They’re just me and the plant, having a conversation in graphite. What’s the texture of this feeling? It’s quiet. It’s intimate. It’s like writing a diary entry but without the pressure to be clever. You’re just witnessing life. And let’s dig into the velvet of that idea. There is so much comfort in witnessing something that doesn’t need you to perform for it. Your fern doesn’t care if your lines are clean. Your succulent doesn’t judge your composition skills. They just exist. And by drawing them, you join them in that existence. You slow down enough to actually see them. I remember back when I worked in those small theater productions, we had this concept called 'found objects.' Sometimes, the most powerful moments on stage came from things that weren’t supposed to be there. A prop that broke. A line forgotten. Those imperfections were human. They were real. In a world obsessed with the highlight reel, with the curated feed, with the perfectly lit selfie, choosing to create art for no one is a radical act. It’s saying, 'I am here. I am making this. And that is enough.' I started drawing these little comic strips of my houseplants during the pandemic lockdowns. Just quick sketches. Me watering them. Me talking to them. Me looking tired next to them. I never posted them. For years, they lived in a sketchbook in my closet. And last week, I pulled them out. I looked at them and realized they weren’t failures of creativity. They were successes of presence. They captured a moment in time that no filter could ever replicate. There’s a funny thing that happens when you document the growth of a plant over time. You realize that growth isn’t linear. It’s messy. It’s full of setbacks. A leaf might die. A stem might bend weirdly. But the plant keeps going. It finds a way. When I draw these comics, I’m not just drawing a plant. I’m drawing resilience. I’m drawing the quiet persistence of life. Tell me more about that feeling. That feeling of watching something grow slowly, patiently, without any guarantee of success. It mirrors our own lives so closely, doesn’t it? We want to see results immediately. We want to see the harvest right after the planting. But nature operates on a different timeline. It reminds us that some of the most important things happen beneath the surface. In the dark. In the quiet. Where no one is watching. This is where the roots strengthen. This is where the story begins. I know some people will say, 'Why bother? If no one sees it, does it matter?' And I say yes. It matters because it changes you. Creating for an audience changes you too, often in ways that aren’t positive. You start shaping your voice to fit expectations. You start editing yourself before you even begin. But when you create for yourself, you reclaim your voice. You learn to trust your instincts. You become unapologetically subjective. And that is a superpower. I encourage you to find your own private practice. It doesn’t have to be drawing. It can be cooking a meal you’ll eat alone. Writing a letter you’ll burn. Singing in the shower off-key. Find the thing that makes you feel alive when there’s no applause. Because that energy, that pure creative spark, it fuels everything else. It gives you permission to be imperfect. To be messy. To be human. So here is my invitation to you. Tonight, put down the phone. Turn off the notifications. Go sit with something living. A plant, a pet, a garden, even a potted herb on your windowsill. Bring a pen. Or a camera. Or just your eyes. Watch it. Really watch it. Notice how the light hits its leaves. Notice the shadows it casts. Let your hand move. Draw what you see. Not what you think should be there. Not what looks trendy. Just what is there. And if you mess up? Good. Keep going. The mistake is part of the story. This is your time. Your space. Your secret garden of creation. Don’t share it unless you want to. Share it only when it feels right. Until then, let it be yours. Let it be messy. Let it be real. Because in those quiet moments, you are not just creating art. You are creating yourself. And that is the most beautiful work of all. Stay curious, stay messy, and keep drawing your truth. I’ll see you in the next one. Bye for now.