Not for the first time, I’m examining a picture my daughter has drawn. It’s an expressive piece, formed from purple marker, but presented in a larger format than her usual efforts. The effect is multiplying; there is a feral freeness in her strokes, a sense of passion at play, of creativity unbridled.
We are at my sister Maeve’s house, where she and her brother have been happily ensconced in a drawing session with their cousins all afternoon. Paper and markers and crayons are scattered in every direction, and each child’s own style is on display. For my son, the endless Minecraft characters and dinosaurs he can now reproduce with frightening speed and accuracy; for his older cousins Nora and Ardal, a menagerie of beautifully rendered characters from their favourite books and games. My daughter, however, has eschewed such figurative works, preferring to rely on pure expression.
