🎨 A Brief History of Artistic Drawing: From Fire to Touchscreens ✍️

KimJungGi displaying his ink signature: large scenes, without a prior sketch.

Artistic drawing is as old as humanity itself. More than 30,000 years ago, someone traced with charcoal in the Chauvet Cave (France) or Altamira (Spain). They created the silhouettes of bison, hands, and deer. They didn’t call it art—but they were drawing the world.

In ancient China, masters like Gu Kaizhi (4th century) used brush and ink on silk to depict human figures. They illustrated landscapes with a unique poetic sensibility. Meanwhile, in Japan, centuries later, artists like Katsushika Hokusai (1760–1849) emerged. He explored drawing as a form of printing. His famous Thirty-Six Views of Mount Fuji reflects his contemplation in art.

In the West, drawing became a pillar of artistic education during the Renaissance. Leonardo da Vinci, through his anatomical studies and machine designs, transformed drawing into a tool of knowledge. Michelangelo, on the other hand, sketched figures with almost sculptural power, preparing the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel.

Later, Rembrandt mastered chiaroscuro with pencil and ink, while Ingres displayed elegant precision in his portraits. In the 20th century, artists like Egon Schiele and Pablo Picasso broke away from academic norms. They demonstrated that expressive lines could be more powerful than perfection.

Today, drawing has migrated to the digital world. Artists like Kim Jung Gi (South Korea) amazed the world with their prodigious visual memory. They created complex scenes without preliminary sketches. Artists from every corner of the planet now share their work on social media. This restores drawing’s place as a universal language.

🖼️ Drawing isn’t dead. It has simply changed its skin. And it keeps telling our story—line by line.

A fabulous artist

Screenshot 2025 07 06 at 10.07.50 AM
Published w/o permission.

Sometimes you come across a surprising artist. One who leaves you speechless. In this case, it happened to me with an artist named Alexander Boytsov.

I’m amazed by the way he handles shadows, even the faintest ones. It’s as if he could make the pencil transparent. As if the light could obey him in the drawing.

Sometimes I fall into a healthy envy. I see things that are impossible for me. I wish I could do them. Then I fool myself. I think that “I don’t have the patience.” As if that were the reason and not my limitations, as harsh as anyone’s.

Other times I fool myself into thinking there’s no need to be such a perfectionist. That what matters are deeper things than that preciousness. A lie.

These are all falsehoods. I tell myself that I don’t draw as well as he does because I don’t want to. It’s not for any other reason.

Go see him. You’ll be amazed. He’s magical.

I publish an image without permission, I don't think it bothers you, if so I will remove it instantly.

The Unseen Olympians of Drawing

(Benedict Dylan | George Androutsos | Vadim Torbakov)

In a world where anything can be called art — and too often is — true drawing is quietly vanishing. But every once in a while, you discover artists who remind you of what drawing really means. Raw. Brave. Human.

There’s a hidden Olympus out there. It’s not in galleries or trendy biennials. It’s inhabited by artists no one talks about. Yet, they’re producing some of the most astonishing work of our time.

Three names. You probably haven’t heard them, and that’s the tragedy: Benedict Dylan. George Androutsos. Vadim Torbakov.
Each one represents a different frontier of what drawing can be.

Benedict Dylan is a master of chiaroscuro — but not in the academic sense. His figures emerge from darkness like wounded animals, filled with fragility, violence, and beauty. These are not portraits of people; they are portraits of pain, and they burn into your mind.

George Androutsos dares to “break” the drawing. His faces fall apart, explode into gestures, refuse to hold still. The chaos is the message. The like is not just contour — it’s rupture, fragility, and the constant threat of disappearance.

Vadim Torbakov, on the other hand, creates drawings that vibrate with life. His distortions are subtle but disorienting — like a memory that’s slipping away just as you try to recall it. His strokes are rhythmic, cinematic, always moving, as if the subject is dissolving before your eyes.

These three men, without fame or spotlight, have reached the peak of a discipline. Many think this discipline is obsolete: drawing as revelation.

If you care about drawing, take five minutes and look them up. This doesn’t concern drawing as a technique. Rather, it’s about viewing the human condition. Let their work confront you, challenge you, and maybe even change the way you draw or think.

They belong to the top.

Whether the art world knows it or not.