At the age of eight, my parents finally succumbed to my desire to be with horses. They signed me up for riding lessons at the only stable within an afternoon drive. I was excited until I discovered that this was a place where horses weren’t all that happy. Row upon row of horses were standing, usually alone, in tiny smelly corrals. People taking them out for exercise, yelling at them, and cracking whips. Where was the joy? Where was the freedom? 

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Riding lessons were no better, as I found myself kicking at a horse who didn’t want to go because the teacher told me to. My only good memories of that place was the time after the riding lessons when I had the afternoon to just be with the horses. I was given permission to clean the corrals of the school horses. Since there were no adults around, I was able to spend time with them during quiet moments when their surroundings didn’t seem so mundane. In these magical moments, nature made herself known, and the horses were able to be themselves. I discovered my love of horses was less about where they could take me physically, than the way I felt when I was with them.

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During that time I drew mostly unicorns and horses in fantasy realms because at some level I wanted to believe that the real horses in the world were capable of that kind of magical power – but I couldn’t reconcile that belief with the impressions of the horses I had encountered.

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SO HERE IS THE STORY...

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Fast forward to age twenty. It was spring break at art school, and I had an assignment to fill my sketchbook. I was visiting a family friend named Geska who owned Arabian horses. Geska was an artist, so she understood that the first thing I wanted to do was to draw the horses. Little did I know I was about to have an experience that would change my life.

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I went down to the barn. The horses were dozing in their stalls. I tried drawing them, but I had forgotten how to be with horses in that peaceful reverie. Geska realized my dilemma and suggested she could let the horses out into the arena. 

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I had never seen horses at liberty before. They transformed. Their stillness turned into motion. They cantered and tossed their heads with their tails up in the air, twirling and dancing. It took my breath away. I realized that they enjoyed showing off for me as much as for themselves.

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I began to draw them. At first, I was frustrated, I couldn’t get them down fast enough on the paper before they would turn or move and I’d lose the pose. It wasn’t until I started to breathe, and admire their spirit, and feel the emotion, only then could my fingers capture their energy. My sketches began to form wild wispy lines, overlapping and swirling together as quick gestures of motion, which was all I could remember when I looked down at my pad.

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When the horses became calm I was able to see what I had just drawn, and I knew these drawings were different from anything I had ever done before. I had never been with horses in this way, and I realized it was in their freedom that they were most beautiful to me.

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Geska admired my drawings and she said they were something special she had never seen before. She pointed to one drawing and said, “Is that Hala?” I replied, “Yes, how did you know, it's just a few scribbled lines.” She said, “Because it feels like him.” I realized then that my drawings were somehow an imprint of the emotional energy of the horse rather than merely a drawing.