Lately, I’ve been thinking about courage—not in a grand or heroic sense, but in the quieter ways it shows up in a creative life.
I came across the work of Antoine Cossé not long ago, and it’s stayed with me. His comics and illustrations are sparse and moody. His drawings are loose. His use of color is minimal. At first glance, they might even seem unfinished. But look longer, and they open up—rhythmic, suggestive, full of atmosphere and restraint. He uses comics the way others might use poetry or jazz: for suggestion, for rhythm, for evocation.
It’s artwork that is quiet and unassuming, but that takes hold somewhere in your subconscious. It seems to say, “Rather than impress you with my skill, I’m going to maximize expression with the most minimal means, and let that be enough.”
While a single image by Cossé can be arresting (see the New Yorker illustration below), it’s the totality of his visual world– his shape language, cinematic design sense, and understated knowledge of the human figure– that make him such a standout artist, in my opinion. Only one person in the world could have created a drawing by Cossé: and that’s Cossé.
It couldn’t have been easy to forge the path he did. Unlike more utilitarian approaches to drawing or painting, there is no formula for this, and no guaranteed result. Rather than chase “perfection,” he’s built a visual language out of what most artists are taught to avoid: looseness, ambiguity, sketchiness.
This suggests a deep internal shift—from trying to impress others, to trusting that your sensibility is enough. That takes time. And it takes courage: a characteristic I feel we would do well to remember in our assessments of artists and their work.
A spread from ‘Metax’ by Antoine Cossé (2022).
Not everyone will respond to work like Cossé’s. One reviewer, for instance, described Metax as “too conceptual,” with art that was “muddy and hard to follow,” and characters who blurred together in a story that didn’t land. And that’s fair. Another reviewer went so fair to say that “the story was boring and the art wasn’t even really good.” Not every eye will see the same thing. Not every viewer will connect with the same rhythm.
This is something I’m still learning to sit with.
For a long time, I’ve worked in a mode that feels relatively safe: careful graphite portraits, tightly rendered drawings. They’re the kind of work that people tend to respond to quickly and positively. There’s a visible skill there that’s easy to recognize. But lately I’ve found myself wanting something else—wanting to loosen, to experiment, to risk making things that don’t immediately “land.”
That shift is uncomfortable. And it’s slow. And my work kind of sucks right now. But I think it’s important.
What artists like Cossé remind me of is that developing your own voice often means stepping off the well-trodden path. You may not have a formula. You may not always be understood. But you keep showing up anyway, letting the work teach you as you go.
And the hope is that the audience that’s meant to find you will recognize something real in what you’re doing. Not because it’s perfect, but because it’s true.
Illustration for the New Yorker on an article about a woman who spent five hundred days living in a cave in Andalusia. (Antoine Cossé, 2024)
Shifting Gears
This idea of courage—of trusting your own sensibility—has been reshaping how I work.
Most mornings begin with loose figure gestures—15 to 30 minutes just to move the hand and eye in rhythm. These warm-ups are quick, fluid, and unprecious. I’m trying to feel the motion more than construct it. It’s a way of shaking off the stiffness, of practicing responsiveness over control.
From there, I’ve been spending more time on observational drawing—often going straight in with pen, focused on line. No erasing, no scaffolding, no rendering. Just looking and responding. It keeps me present and honest, even when things get awkward or off. There’s something valuable in that directness.
I’ve also started making small composition studies to stretch my narrative thinking. Simple thumbnails where I explore space, mood, and shape relationships—asking what makes an image feel like a moment, not just a rendering.
New this week: watercolor. Just quick washes and color notes added over drawings. I don’t really know what I’m doing yet, but that’s part of the point. It’s a way to stay in motion, to add tone and atmosphere without overthinking. Color is still new territory, but I’m trying to approach it the same way I’ve been learning to draw—freely, without too much pressure.
Example of a direct drawing (pen only) from reference in my sketchbook, with a bit of stylization thrown in.
None of this is about creating finished pieces. It’s about showing up with honesty. Some drawings feel clumsy. Some feel like doors. Either way, I’m trying to keep going with my eyes open.
Another direct drawing in brush pen from the sketchbook (TWO if you include Jackie the Eagle).
Putting things in boxes. Starting to get used to narrative composition by doing film frame studies. These are from The Getaway (which I have admittedly never seen 😂). I use www.film-grab.com - it’s great!
Early attempt at a line and wash doodle with watercolor & ink. Embracing my cartoony, wobbly side while putting my figure studies into practice (finally!).
I’m not making a lot of finished work at the moment, so the most I can offer to show you are the sketches and doodles like the ones above. However, I’m really proud of these in the sense that I know they are just small bits and pieces currently boiling together in the stew that I’m cooking up in the background while I am opening myself up to new things in service of finding my authentic path. I’m truly, truly enjoying this journey, which is teaching me so much about myself, where I’ve come from, and who I really am when no one is watching.
An Offering
If you’re in a place of transition or doubt—or just feeling unsure about what your art “should” be—consider this:
What would it look like to make work from a place of trust, not performance?
What would happen if you loosened your grip?
Maybe courage is less about pushing hard, and more about letting go. In what ways have you had to reinvent yourself or your art practice? Have you ever switched mediums entirely? What does it mean to you to trust your own instinct, over any outside or societal pressures? Drop me a note or leave a comment because I’d love to talk about it.
Housekeeping: A Slower Rhythm
One last thing! You might’ve noticed this letter arrives less often than before. That’s intentional.
I’m a slow processor. My ideas often need time to marinate, shift, contradict themselves, and settle again. I’m learning to embrace this about myself, that I do a lot thinking and processing before I feel ready to say anything, and want to respect both myself and you by providing a bit more time to sift before I speak, as well as take a bit of pressure off myself to crank out newsletters bi-weekly.
So this newsletter will now follow a monthly rhythm.
Easier for me to maintain. Slower, but more honest. When I write, I want to be sure I mean it. And when you read it, I hope it feels like something worth sitting with.
Thanks for being here. See you next month! 🐊
Kevin Scott Davis
This Substack is reader-supported. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
