Singapore often gets a bit of a bad rap when it comes to being pet-friendly, and honestly, I’m inclined to agree. We pride ourselves on maintaining harmony in our wonderfully multi-cultural society and fiercely protecting that diversity. Sadly, I sometimes wish that same spirit extended a little further to the animals who share our spaces.
Yes, there has been an increase in pet-friendly places, and that’s definitely a good thing. But I think there’s still so much more that can be done, both by the government and the community, to make life a little easier for people who share theirs with four-legged family members.
But this isn’t a rant about pet discrimination. Far from it.
I’m just thankful there are still people and places that embrace the joy animals bring into our lives. And because I was lucky enough to experience that joy while Bibi and Piolo were still around, I get to relive a little bit of it through my drawings. Which I do with unabashed delight and, quite frankly, excitement.
Take this little fluffy cuteness of a dog.
He’s a Pomeranian I would bump into ever so often at the neighbourhood kopi tiam. His owner would secure him at the fringe of the area, get his kopi, and settle in with him for their daily morning ritual of watching the world go by. It was one of those simple little scenes that somehow makes a neighbourhood feel like a neighbourhood.
One morning, I walked up to the little pup and said to his owner, “So cute!”
In his best kopi tiam English, he replied, “Can touch, can play.”
And so I did. To my absolute delight.
I then asked if I could snap a photo of the pup, to which he nodded enthusiastically. “Can, can!”
At this point, I would normally get into a conversation with the pet owner about my intention of drawing their pet. But I’ve stopped doing that because I realised it can inadvertently create some sort of expectation. And I didn’t want to commit to drawing every pet I photograph.
Instead, I’ve decided to simply draw the ones that speak to me, in my own time and without expectations. It makes the whole process much more enjoyable for me — and, I suspect, a lot less complicated for everyone else.
There was just one tiny problem.
I forgot to ask for the pup’s name. Or gender.
I’m blaming this particular boo-boo on age.
Now, on to a little technical detail about the drawing.
Because I didn’t want this one to take up too much of my time, I opted for A5, which is smaller than the more popular A4. I chose Hahnemühle Skizze 190 (pictured bottom right) over Canson “C” à grain 180 (pictured upper left).
The difference, you ask?
Let’s start with “GSM”. It stands for Grams per Square Metre and is the standard measurement used to indicate the weight and thickness of paper. Generally speaking, the higher the GSM, the heavier and thicker the paper.
For context, your standard office printer paper is usually somewhere around 60–90 GSM. Watercolour paper, on the other hand, is typically much heavier — around 220–300 GSM — because it needs to absorb a significant amount of water without turning into a soggy mess.
The papers I use for coloured pencil work are much lighter. The Hahnemühle is 190 GSM and the Canson is 180 GSM, both of which are perfectly suited to the medium.
But a higher GSM doesn’t automatically mean “better”.
When you’re working with professional-grade coloured pencils — like the Prismacolor Premier pencils I use — the grain of the paper matters too.
Also known as the “tooth” of the paper, this refers to its texture. A paper with more tooth has more little valleys for the pencil pigment to settle into, which allows you to build up layers of colour and create that multi-toned depth that makes a coloured-pencil drawing look less like coloured pencil and more like…well, hopefully, the actual animal.
I tend to lean towards the grainier sort, partly because I’m a little heavy-handed when I draw. But for this particular cutie-patootie, I went with the smoother Hahnemühle.
And yes, I struggled a little with the blending.
Thankfully, that’s where my blending pencils came in handy. Those are the two pencils at the bottom of the photo.
Then there are the sharpeners. Sharp points are essential when working on smoother surfaces, especially when you’re trying to get all those tiny details in a fluffy face. I also use a soft brush to sweep away pencil crumbs without accidentally smudging or destroying hours of work.
And then there are the erasers.
Gone are the days when I collected colourful erasers — which we used to call “rubbers” when I was a kid — that came in the shape of every country, animal and random object imaginable.
These days, my erasers actually have jobs.
There’s the normal white block eraser for pencil markings and smudges. Then there’s the USB-powered electric eraser with a fine tip for getting into tiny spots and lines, along with a manual precision eraser that does pretty much the same thing without needing to be charged. Naturally, I have a healthy supply of refills for both because apparently I’ve become the sort of person who gets excited about eraser refills.
And then there’s the kneadable eraser — the one sitting in the square plastic holder. This one is particularly useful because instead of completely erasing a layer, I can use it to gently lift excess colour or pigment.
And just to make sure I squeeze every last bit of life out of my coloured pencils, I have pencil extenders. Short pencil stubs may look harmless, but try holding one for several hours while drawing and you’ll quickly discover that awkward and tiring are not words you want associated with your art session.
As a self-taught coloured-pencil artist, I’ve picked up most of these tools and techniques over the years. There was no formal art school syllabus telling me what I needed. A lot of it has been trial, error, experimentation and the occasional “Oh! So THAT’S what this is for.”
And I’ve learned that the supporting cast matters.
Just as a good movie can be made even better with an awesome supporting cast, these seemingly small tools can make a huge difference to the final piece. Of course, the quality of the coloured pencils and paper matter. But so do the sharpeners, erasers, blending pencils, brushes and even those little pencil extenders that rescue me from having to wrestle with a tiny pencil stub.
And that, folks, is what made this cute little fluff possible.
I still don’t know his name. Or whether he’s a he.
But I do know that, for one morning at the neighbourhood kopi tiam, he made my day — and now I get to keep a little piece of that moment on paper.
Or rather, I hope to give that little piece back.
I’m thinking of surprising his owner with the finished drawing the next time I bump into them at the kopi tiam. No announcement, no “I’m going to draw your dog!” and no expectations. Just a little “Hey, remember your cute little fluff? I drew him.”
Assuming, of course, I can actually find them again.
And assuming I remember which pup it was.
Okay, that last part should be easy. There aren’t exactly dozens of Pomeranians at my neighbourhood kopi tiam.
At least, I hope not.
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