Crowns are one of those symbols I hardly ever use, and I couldn’t really tell you why. I think the polar bear in Polar Court had a tiara, but that’s the only one I can think of off-hand. They may just be too Fraught With Symbolism for my taste. I prefer eggs to roses. Nobody’s ever sure what’s up with the egg.
Possibly it’s that I never went through the princess phase as a little girl. I wanted to be a shapechanging Vulcan diplomat. (Come to think of it, adult me still thinks that would be pretty cool…) No crowns for me, thanks.
I also find it amusing to reflect that I can do these little guys now, and I couldn’t have ten years ago. Not because they’re particularly complex or difficult, but because they aren’t. Ten years ago, while I could have done the drawings, I would have been terrified that if I did something so minimal, somebody might think I didn’t know how to draw!
So I would probably have hung it all over with swords and knapsacks and pouches and given it detailed muscle-y bits and whatnot, because lord knows, my self-esteem could not have handled some stranger on the internet thinking for a second that my skills were not up to snuff.
Like so many things, it took awhile for me to beat into my thick skull that short stories could be as valuable as epics,* and small images are worthwhile in their own right, and the art doesn’t really care about my ego, sometimes it just wants to exist as what it is.
I still have no idea what these things are, or why this one has a crown. Perhaps he is the prince of small odd things, or maybe he just found it somewhere and is not entirely sure why he is wearing it.
*Case in point–I can’t remember a damn thing about Robert Jordan’s books which I slogged through for weeks of my life, but I still occasionally mutter to myself about how somebody deserves to be sent away to the cornfield, and don’t get me started on yellow wallpaper.