I'm impressed by the way some illustrators develop their images

In an age where light and pixels shape the world’s imagination, Anthony Browne, the master of children’s dreams and colors, once spoke with the tenderness of a craftsman and the dignity of a sage: “I’m impressed by the way some illustrators develop their images on computers, but it’s too late for me to start, and I’m still in love with paper and paint and pencils.” In these words, we hear not resistance, but reverence — the voice of one who honors the old ways, who understands that creation is not only about progress but also about presence. Browne speaks for every artist who has ever touched the raw materials of beauty and felt in them the pulse of the soul.

The meaning of his words lies beyond the tools themselves. It speaks to a deeper truth: that art, like life, is not only about mastery, but about relationship — the bond between the creator and his medium. Where the computer offers precision and power, paper and paint offer imperfection and intimacy. In that imperfection lies warmth, the trembling of the human hand, the whisper of touch upon texture. The digital screen hums with endless possibility, but the sheet of paper listens. It bears the mistakes, the sweat, the revisions — the story of becoming. To love paper and pencils is to love the tangible memory of one’s own humanity.

In the days of the ancients, there were artists who carved their visions into marble and others who brushed them upon wet plaster before it dried. Michelangelo, painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, lay upon his back for years, enduring pain and darkness, his body strained, his eyes burning with dust and pigment. He too could have envied ease — a quicker path, a lighter tool — but he chose labor because it was sacred. For in the meeting between effort and creation, between hand and material, the artist discovers himself. Browne’s devotion to his craft carries that same sacred echo: he is not refusing modernity; he is guarding the soul of art from being lost in the rush of convenience.

There is a melancholy beauty in his admission — “it’s too late for me to start.” It is not the resignation of one left behind, but the peace of one who knows his place in the river of time. Every generation stands at a bridge between the old and the new. The elders carry the torch of memory, and the youth, the fire of innovation. Yet each has their wisdom. The young may create worlds of light that span the digital heavens, but the old remind them that the heart of creation is not in the tools but in the spirit that wields them. Browne’s confession is a benediction — a passing of the brush, a whisper that says: “Build upon what we loved, but do not forget why we loved it.”

There is, too, a lesson here for all who create — whether they craft images, words, or ideas. In a time when machines assist every thought and algorithms predict every choice, we must remember the holiness of touch. The brushstroke, the smudge of graphite, the scent of paint — these are not relics; they are remnants of our communion with the real. The artist who still holds a pencil holds more than wood and lead — he holds a line that stretches back through centuries, to the first hand that drew upon a cave wall. Technology expands the horizon, but the hand keeps us human.

The story of Browne’s words is not a tale of refusal but of love — a love for the simple tools that once brought the imagination to life. He honors the craftsmanship of generations who came before the digital dawn, who learned patience through paper, discipline through line, and wonder through color. He reminds us that even as the tools of creation evolve, the heart of artistry remains unchanged: it is a dialogue between maker and material, a dance between the seen and the unseen.

Thus, let his words be a teaching for all who stand at the crossroads of change. Embrace the new, but do not abandon the old. Learn the precision of the computer, but cherish the imperfection of the hand. Let progress be guided by remembrance. And above all, keep love at the center of your craft — for it is love, not technology, that breathes life into art.

So, to the creators of today and tomorrow: whether your canvas glows or gathers dust, let your heart guide your hand. For as Anthony Browne reminds us, tools may change, but the soul of creation remains eternal — painted not in pixels or ink, but in the timeless colors of devotion, labor, and love.