What does my art smell like?

Here’s a couple depressing ink drawings I did about 15 years ago back college.

The first one is like the second draft of a larger concept I did later on. It’s supposed to be the iterations of me I could have become, like falling off the branches of a fig tree (if you know the fig tree metaphor in the bell jar, Sylvia plath’s character couldn’t make a decision and they all started falling off the tree and rotted as seasons and life went by until all the figs were gone). By not making a choice, the opportunities made the choice. For me I regretted my choices, they are the versions of myself I killed by deciding to do the shit I did. Thankfully I never actually killed the me I wanted to at the time. This fig I call my life ended up being a yummy one. Idk if the others were sweeter, but this one is sweet enough for me. :)