CHAPTER ONE: BLUE CRAYON BEGINNINGS

CHAPTER ONE: BLUE CRAYON BEGINNINGS

by Constantino Kouyialis

The page before this one, if there even was one, doesn’t matter. This is where things begin. Or rather—this is where I begin to understand the beginning.

Every parent-teacher meeting was the same. My mother, all polite smiles and pressed shirts, would walk in and sit down across from yet another concerned face. “He’s a fine boy but…” they’d say. The “but” always hung in the air like the smell of a blown fuse.

I was never bad. My grades were fine—A’s mostly, with a consistent C in Religious Studies. Not because I didn’t believe in something, but because I believed in too many things at once. Stories, especially. Myth, maps, monsters. I was busy building worlds.

Drawing was how I got away. Away from here, from now, from being told to sit still. I’d make maps of made-up continents where stick-figure civilizations—red versus blue—fought wars over imaginary treasures. I never needed a reason. Just the right pen.

Years passed. I didn’t outgrow it—I just grew into it. The fire never left; it just got smarter. So I left too. Crossed the Atlantic and ended up in that sprawling soup of neon and ambition they call America.

First year, first art class—ART 001—they brought in alumni to speak. One of them, leaning too far back on a plastic chair, said, “If you were the kid drawing in the margins of your textbooks growing up, then you’re in the right place.” And right there, without applause or signs, I knew. That I was home. That this—whatever this was—was the only thing I wanted to do.

People say that kind of moment is cliché. Maybe it is. But clichés only become clichés because they happen so often they start to feel inevitable.

I always knew. Since that first day someone handed me a blue crayon and told me to draw my family. I gave them big eyes and wide arms and we were all smiling. I was four, maybe five. I’ve strayed a few times. 1986—Top Gun—I wanted to be a fighter pilot. Or an insurance salesman. I don’t know why. But eventually, I always came back to the page.

And here I am again. Asked to write something—anything—and that means turning the mirror inwards. Looking for myself again. That same old echo chamber: Who am I? Why am I here? What do I want from life? Some days I have answers. Most days, I don’t. But one thing never changes: the craving. For art. For creation. For connection.

For me, art—and writing—isn’t about the final piece. It’s the search. Every line I draw, every sentence I chase down, is a breadcrumb on the trail back to myself. It’s soul-work. Quiet, patient, often uncomfortable. But always worth it.

Kavafis told us about Ithaca. Coelho gave us the alchemist’s path. Different maps, same truth: the journey matters more than the end. The end comes anyway. The only thing that matters is how we get there. Who we become along the way.

And for as long as I can remember, I’ve been traveling with art by my side.

Maybe I still am.

Maybe this article is just the next step.