(Gel Fineliner on A5 Paper) The central image is small because it is that small (about 4cm). It's the first of five which represents that point every artist gets to where they say to themselves: "I really CAN'T BE ARSED doing this!" and casually knock out anything. I thought it was apt for the "encouraging" nature of Inktober ;P
Jane Austen (1775–1817)
Austen never lived alone and had little expectation of solitude in her daily life. Her final home, a cottage in the village of Chawton, England, was no exception: she lived there with her mother, her sister, a close friend, and three servants, and there was a steady stream of visitors, often unannounced.
...
Austen wrote in the family sitting room, “subject to all kinds of casual interruptions,” her nephew recalled. She was careful that her occupation should not be suspected by servants, or visitors, or any persons beyond her own family party. She wrote upon small sheets of paper which could easily be put away, or covered with a piece of blotting paper. There was, between the front door and the offices, a swing door which creaked when it was opened; but she objected to having this little inconvenience remedied, because it gave her notice when anyone was coming.
“Composition seems to me impossible with a head full of joints of mutton & doses of rhubarb.”
From Daily rituals by Mason Currey
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This poignant black and white pencil and ink drawing captures the essence of a dark, broken man with sand slipping through his fingers, symbolizing the passage of time and lost hopes. A hole in his chest reveals his heart, while beside him stands a similarly broken woman. In the foreground, withered flowers and a shattered hourglass accentuate the theme of decay and loss. The background features a forgotten playground, representing the loss of innocence, and a swirling vortex with lightning in the sky that engulfs the man's illusion of reality. This artwork speaks to the emotional turmoil and fragility of the human experience.
Sigmund Freud (1856–1939)
“I cannot imagine life without work as really comfortable,” Freud wrote to a friend in 1910. With his wife, Martha, to efficiently manage the household—she laid out Freud’s clothes, chose his handkerchiefs, and even put toothpaste on his toothbrush—the founder of psychoanalysis was able to maintain a single-minded devotion to his work throughout his long career.
Freud’s long workdays were mitigated by two luxuries. First, there were his beloved cigars, which he smoked continually, going through as many as twenty a day from his mid-twenties until near the end of his life, despite several warnings from doctors and the increasingly dire health problems that dogged him throughout his later years. (When his seventeen-year-old nephew once refused a cigarette, Freud told him,
From Daily rituals by Mason Currey
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Hello, my name is Oscar, 
