I'm pretty much a dinosaur in the studio. I like things

The artist and storyteller Walt Dohrn, known for his creativity and humor, once confessed with both humility and pride: “I'm pretty much a dinosaur in the studio. I like things hand-drawn, even today. The story artists use Cintiqs, but I'm the only person who hasn't completely converted to computers. I like the Cintiq, but there's something about the raw emotional power of using paper and pencil.” In these words lies a truth far deeper than mere preference for a tool—it is a declaration of faith in the human touch, in the sacred bond between artist and creation. For though technology may advance, the soul of art is still born in the motion of the hand, in the trembling of a line drawn by heart rather than machine.

In the ancient days, before presses and pixels, the masters of art and word worked with their bare hands and simple tools. The sculptor’s chisel sang against the marble; the poet’s quill danced across parchment; the painter’s brush whispered color upon canvas. These humble instruments carried more than skill—they carried spirit. To draw upon paper, to carve into stone, was to enter communion with the material world, to give form to emotion itself. Walt Dohrn’s love for paper and pencil is a continuation of that sacred lineage, a refusal to let the living pulse of creation be replaced by the hum of a machine.

He calls himself a “dinosaur,” not in shame, but in reverence for what is enduring. The dinosaur is ancient, yes—but also mighty, a symbol of power that once ruled the earth. In this same way, Dohrn’s devotion to hand-drawing stands as a noble resistance to an age of automation. His words echo the cry of every artist who has ever feared that speed would eclipse sincerity, or that perfection would devour passion. For the computer, though wondrous and efficient, can never quite replicate the warmth of imperfection, the uneven stroke that reveals the heartbeat of its maker.

Consider the story of Michelangelo, who, when carving the statue of David, was asked how he created such lifelike beauty from cold marble. He replied, “I saw the angel in the stone, and I carved until I set him free.” Such words reveal the mystery that Dohrn speaks of—the emotional power that comes only from direct touch. The artist does not simply design; he wrestles with matter, coaxing out its soul through contact. In a similar way, when the pencil touches paper, it is not just graphite marking fiber—it is the soul impressing itself upon the world. Each stroke carries intent, doubt, energy, and truth.

And yet, Dohrn does not reject technology entirely. He admits his respect for the Cintiq, that glowing window through which modern artists dream. But he recognizes that the digital screen, for all its brilliance, is still a barrier between hand and heart. It smooths the edges, corrects the flaws, tames the wildness of expression. The paper, by contrast, is alive—it resists, it absorbs, it remembers the weight of the artist’s touch. A single smudge, a trembling line, a grain of dust—these are imperfections that speak of humanity itself. To Dohrn, these are not flaws to be erased, but fingerprints of the soul.

In every age, the march of innovation threatens to silence the old ways. The scribes feared the printing press, the painters feared the camera, and the musicians feared the machine. Yet what endures is not the tool, but the human heart behind it. Dohrn’s words are a reminder that progress should not mean forgetting. The ancients understood this balance well: they embraced new forms but never abandoned reverence for craft. The master’s tools may change, but the master’s spirit must remain untamed.

So let this be the lesson: cherish your craft more than your instruments. Do not let convenience dull your creativity. Whether you draw, write, build, or dream—touch your work with your hands, feel its resistance, and let your imperfections breathe life into it. The machine can perfect the image, but only the soul can perfect meaning. To the artist, to the craftsman, to the thinker—remember that your truest power lies not in the tools you hold, but in the pulse that guides them.

And thus, Walt Dohrn’s wisdom stands as both a confession and a call. In a world rushing toward the mechanical, he urges us to slow down—to remember the sacred joy of creation that comes from touch, from patience, from imperfection. The ancients would say: “The hand is the servant of the spirit.” So keep drawing, not only on paper but upon the fabric of life itself. For in every true stroke—of pencil, of heart, of will—there lives the timeless art of being human.