How to Draw (Yourself), Redux

Revisiting our illustrated avatars and how they change over time. Plus: The self-portraits of John Byrne and Tillie Walden, hex #F1F3F, and more.

Sep 25, 2024

Howdy, friend.

As I type this, we’re a week away from the first day of fall, and I couldn’t be more ready. Here in Nebraska, it’s been one hot spell after another. I’m tired of my outfits. Of my skin showing. I want to pull out my one-season clothes that live in the back of my closet, those chunky sweaters and scarves and medium-weight jackets.

Way back when, in my first How to Draw newsletter, I discussed how the winter makes me reevaluate my body. That’s true, but it begins with the fall.

Let me back up. Summer is a bell curve of comfort.

By the end of June, I’ve begun appreciating shorts and tank tops, liking my body more, reminding myself of the joys of the sun on my skin. But by August, I’m done. I want to hide in layers. We often talk about social batteries; this is my body battery. I only have so much comfort in allowing it to be out there before I need to hunker down.

This first newsletter has also been on my mind because I needed a new avatar, so it got me thinking: Why not revisit it officially and examine how our avatars change over time and the larger conversations our self-portraits can spark. As we grow and evolve, so do the ways we choose to represent ourselves, and these shifts in our avatars can reflect deeper transformations in our identities, values, and perceptions.

If this is your first time visiting How to Draw, a hearty welcome. You can check out our archive of posts here. And if you haven’t already, please consider subscribing so you don’t miss a thing.

The countdown to chunky scarf season has begun, friends. Ready yourselves. ♡

– RJR

“Do we continually have to prove to ourselves that we exist?”
—Jean Baudrillard, America

As I mentioned, in my first-ever How to Draw newsletter, I spent time discussing how important the creation of our avatars is in our comicsmaking. They are a lens through which we, the artist and creator, decide to interpret and present our identity, blending both who we are and who we aspire to be.

This is where I ended in that post from January 2023—two versions of my avatar that, at the time, I’d been using regularly.

But we shift and evolve; not just our craft, but our self-image. The character on the right, Robbit, came to me organically as I began to work on some emotionally-difficult material. He was a way for me to put some distance between myself and the work. Unpacking trauma on the page day after day can be hard. Robbit is a way to help me safely get through the labyrinth.

Fast-forward. Robbit is still an integral part of my book, Hard Body, but where once he popped up in the majority of my autobiographical comic work, I’ve recently found myself going back to my human avatar again and again.

Why?

I think, maybe, it’s as simple as my continued hike into middle age. Each year, I soften towards my visage, despite the complicated history I have with it. My body dysmorphia may never completely fade, but as I age and count the days left on this mortal coil, I’m reminded: There’s so much more than this form of mine.

I find myself often returning to the (gratuitously violent) self-portrait by legendary comic book illustrator and writer John Byrne. A head full of ideas and nowhere to keep them? An unchecked ego breaking free? The intense demands of the comics industry too much to handle? You be the judge.

And then there’s self-portait by celebrated cartoonist and graphic novelist Tillie Walden, showing a calm repose as she works on comics. Simple, effective, reflective.

Tillie Walden’s self-drawn author portrait.

Self-portraits like these are what pique my interest and invite me back to rethink my own. So, a year and eight months later, with lots of fun projects on the horizon, I want to explore how my avatar has changed and where it’s landed recently.

In 2024, I began working on some smaller, slice-of-life comics as a way to (1) practice my craft and (2) document my life instead of keeping a traditional diary or journal.

Here, a panel from a short comic I made for my forty-third birthday.

I was still clinging to Robbit when I made this. And, really, by default. Aging, random pains, my body changing…it was just second nature to have my rabbit avatar stand in for the real thing.

Shortly after, I began making weekly(-ish) comics. I adopted a looser style as a way to shake off the cobwebs. I wanted to record some of the banality of my life but not spend a ton of time creating. Ultimately, I wanted to get comfortable drawing myself as a human again.

This was my very first of these strips, and…choices were made. (Goodbye, chin, I suppose?) But I pressed on. Who would I be on the page going forward?

Even just a week and some change later, you can already see an evolution happening in how I draw myself.

But what is not being presented in these images? For one, my tattoos, a crucial part of my identity. Or my nose ring. Or that, typically, I wear contacts every day, yet tend to draw myself wearing glasses.

Why?

I’m locked, I think, in this idea of myself from 7th grade. Here, a panel from a comic in progress sums up who I was then:

In middle school, I was gangly and tall and stood out in ways I wished I didn’t. My oversized glasses made me feel nerdy. Uncool. I didn’t know how to do my hair. I had no fashion sense. I was uncomfortable not just in crowds but alone, too. In my skin.

These days? I’ve never felt more comfortable in my skin. Letting my gray hair grow out had an unexpected effect on my body dysmorphia and my self-image: I’m not hiding any of myself anymore. I’m all out there. And there’s a power in that. A confidence. Same with my tattoos: They are how I take control of my body and its narrative.

And yet, there’s a certain self-depreciation when drawing myself. I’m more mature and more assured, yes, but I’m still that thirteen-year-old. Still hovering on the fringes, afraid to participate. To be mocked for not belonging or saying the wrong thing.

I don’t know if this will ever change. And that’s okay, I reckon. I will always hold onto that boyhood even in my adulthood. My tattoos are…mine. My physical presence is…mine. I don’t need to share that in comic form to be able to tell my stories. Or, as Scott McCloud, author of Understand Comics, writes:

“By stripping down an image to its essential ‘meaning’, an artist can amplify that meaning.”

I don’t need to show all aspects of myself. A pared-down Rob is still Rob.

Recently, I decided I needed a new profile pic/drawn portrait. The previous one I’d been using for “official” things was outdated in many ways (haircut, drawing style, etc.):

My first attempt? Showing only the back of my head, my face not visible at all.

I’m not the first to draw a comic avatar facing away from the audience, and I like the idea of them, but it felt like fifteen steps backward for my own mental health. My goal is to be confident in representing myself in human form. This was a hiding.

As I pushed forward, I knew I wanted to incorporate nature, something crucial to my identity. This is how the next version of my portrait turned out.

I was happy with this! I am a smiley human. I love hiking and being outside. I value my gray hair. But…it felt too ordinary. I wanted a statement piece, and this just felt like any other drawing. I stand by the quality, but it’s just…boring? No: expected.

Then, kismet. I was playing with layers and accidentally turned off some of the colors, left with a see-through Rob—which took my breath away.

An accident, but a happy one. I loved the built-in narrative. Here, I see hope and love. I see passion and purpose. Maybe for the first time on the page, I see…me.

What I’m reading:

Graphic: Shubeik Lubeik by Deena Mohamed
Graphic: You and a Bike and a Road by Eleanor Davis
Graphic: Suffrage Song: The Haunted History of Gender, Race and Voting Rights in the U.S. by Caitlin Cass
Graphic: In by Will McPhail
Graphic: Beneath the Trees Where Nobody Sees by Patrick Horvath
Nonfiction: Why Art? by Eleanor Davis