Article by James Artimus Owen

“What did you do as a child that made the hours pass like minutes? Herein lies the key to your earthly pursuits.”  ¬– C.G. Jung

The Studio where I work and live – a century-old, renovated church – is very large, and mostly full: full of books, and art, and sculptures, and toys, and all manner of things both cool and inspirational. One room is devoted to comics; another to graphic novels; another to Star Wars. The library is in what was once a huge cultural hall. But one room, my private office, which we call the Sanctuary, is different. It’s also full – but the contents of this room are different than those in any other, in a way I never noticed until it was pointed out by a friend. She was seeing the things in this room for the first time, but her husband, a childhood friend, had known me far longer, and during a time when we were two of the only guys in this area who shared the same enthusiasms: Tolkien and Terry Brooks; Groo the Wanderer and The New Teen Titans; George Perez and Frank Miller; Greek Mythology and Ray Bradbury; and many more.

She commented that in this room, I had an enormous personal investment in a very specific and narrow set of interests. And for the first time, I looked around at the room where I spend most of my time, and saw it through someone else’s eyes. And I realized, she was right.

The majority of the things in this room are the things I loved in my childhood and teenage years, when I decided that being a writer and an illustrator would be, to quote Robert Frost, “both my vocation and my avocation.”

 The books and comics, art and toys, and personal memorabilia in this room are the same ones I had in my bedroom studio all those years ago. In a vast workspace, where there are literally thousands and thousands of comics, and books, and works of art, the ones I keep closest are not the ones with the greatest monetary value; they’re the ones with the most nostalgic value. They are, in a very real sense, the connecting threads to everything I loved most in my youth, and love still today. And I think there’s a lot of value in knowing that and understanding what effect it has on the work that I do, and the enjoyment I have in doing it.

In moments of doubt, revisiting the stories that I loved as a child restores and rejuvenates my spirit; in moments of weakness, studying the art I loved rebuilds my strength; in moments of fear, being surrounded by objects of affection and comfort makes me brave. And all of it, every last piece, helps me continue to improve as a creator and as a human being. 

It needn’t be a thousand books, comics, toys; one single object of great personal meaning can be enough to bolster your spirit when the weight of the world pulls you down. There are reasons you look at those things from your youth with nostalgic affection – and that exact feeling is the one from which great stories flow, and with them great hope, great ambition, great love. Because a child’s love is pure – and nostalgia is the echo of that love. Keep it close. Lean in to that feeling. Let it swell and reverberate and inspire you to great things – or to small ones with great meaning. I doubt many great careers ever came about from loving something less – but nothing that’s truly meaningful will ever be lessened by loving something more, or still.

See Jamesowen.com.