I used to try to draw my girlfriends. I think one of the most

The words of Nick Carter shine with a tenderness that recalls the devotion of lovers across the ages: “I used to try to draw my girlfriends. I think one of the most romantic things that anybody can do is draw a portrait of the person you love.” In these words, he reveals that true romance is not merely found in fleeting gifts or casual pleasures, but in the effort of the hand, the patience of the eye, and the attention of the heart. To draw another is to see them deeply, to study every line, every curve, every flicker of light upon their face, and to say without words: “You are worthy of my time, my devotion, and my art.”

In the traditions of old, the act of portraying a beloved was seen as a holy thing. Long before the invention of photographs, kings and peasants alike sought to preserve the memory of those they adored through portraits. To draw or paint one’s beloved was not simply to capture appearance, but to seek the essence of their being. In Carter’s confession of youthful attempts to sketch his companions, we hear echoes of this eternal longing: that to love someone is to desire to hold their image, not in possession, but in reverence.

Consider the story of Dante Alighieri, whose vision of Beatrice inspired his immortal works. Though he saw her but rarely, her image was engraved upon his soul, and he carried her likeness through words as an artist carries it through lines. Just as Dante’s poems gave Beatrice a place in eternity, so too does the act of drawing a portrait immortalize the beloved in a way that time cannot erode. When one lifts the pen or brush in love, one does not merely trace features—they attempt to grasp eternity itself.

Nick Carter’s words also remind us that true romance lies not in perfection but in effort. He admits that he “used to try,” which reveals humility. For perhaps the portraits were crude, perhaps they did not perfectly resemble the beloved, but the beauty was not in the skill—it was in the attempt. This, too, is an ancient truth: the heart speaks most powerfully through effort, not ease. Even the rough sketch of a beloved, made with trembling hands, carries more weight than a thousand polished jewels bought without thought.

In this, there lies a deeper wisdom: to draw someone requires presence. The artist must stop, look closely, and notice what others overlook. This is what love demands—to see not only the face, but the soul; not only the form, but the essence. When Carter speaks of drawing as one of the most romantic gestures, he reveals the truth that love is attention, and attention is the rarest gift in a distracted world.

The lesson, therefore, is clear: do not measure romance by cost or grandeur, but by sincerity and presence. To love is to see, and to see is to honor. Whether by drawing, writing a poem, composing a melody, or crafting with one’s own hands, the beloved must feel the weight of your devotion. Let the labor itself be the gift, for it speaks of a heart that invests not only wealth, but time, effort, and soul.

So let all who hear these words take action: Find a way to create something for the one you love. Take up a pencil, even if your skill is small, and sketch their likeness. Write words, even if they falter. Sing, even if your voice trembles. For the ancients teach us, and Carter reminds us, that the greatest offering of love is not perfection, but truth. And truth, when given from the depths of the heart, becomes eternal.

Thus, remember: the most powerful portraits are not those that capture every feature with accuracy, but those that capture the spirit of devotion. To draw the beloved is to say, in silence, “I see you, I cherish you, I hold you in my heart.” And there is no gesture more romantic than that.