These are just some random paintings I had done a while ago when I was experimenting a lot with watercolor and I wasn't too thrilled about them at first. I have since looked back on them and actually think they are quite nice.
Hello again, Gale. I've mailed a photograph of the window with this letter. I hope both reach you safely on Par Tritus. Eclipse City thrives, contrary to Luncara's beliefs. Tell James that I've missed her. But the Jagged sets and my light is spread thin, so I must conclude this letter. Best wishes to you, James, and the king. Sincerely, Cyrus
I have been feeling art blocked and unmotivated lately, so here's a simple Monika. If you have any tips for getting out of art block, please let me know! :) I really would appreciate it.
The dog who I saw in Koh Rong Island, Cambodia. He was looking in a restaurant with sparkle eyes. I'm sure he realized something smelled good and was looking for someone who give him that
This is my second shot at a full page floral abstract. “Trippy Forest” is my extra-colorful one, but this one is focused on details done in red, blue, black.
butterfly #4: The Clouded Yellow.
The hardest part here is the background! It would be too easy just to paint a cloud...I have about 5-6 different backgrounds, but only uploading one here is my fav of the bunch
I asked 13 Indian young adults, suffering from a mental health issue, what words do they wish to never hear again with respect to their mental health problem.These responses are words spoken by their colleagues, friends, or family members at some point or the other.
I am an art teacher with a master’s degree—trained by brilliant professors who believed that art could do more than decorate walls. I offer safe spaces for teenagers to grow—nourishing soil where their imaginations can take root.
And yet… I am assigned to hallway duty.
This is compulsory education, after all.
So I sit—posted like a sentinel—watching young lives stream past.
“Get to class,” I say with a smile and a nudge.
The system wants attendance; I’m hungry for presence.
Armed not with a whistle or clipboard, but with a pen—
my scribble’s soft insurgency.
The hallway stretches out like a geometric hymn.
Columns and corners chant structure.
Teenagers swirl past—half-formed galaxies of limbs and laughter—
their orbits chaotic, their gravity pulling time forward.
I begin to draw.
Not their tardiness, but their motion.
A shoulder. A blur of sneakers.
A tilted head chasing freedom.
Feet flickering like seconds.
Each mark a pulse.
Each smudge a breath.
My paper becomes a seismograph of seeing—
trembling gently through the mundane.
This isn’t about making art for a frame or a feed.
It’s about refusing to leak away in the fluorescent hum of obligation.
It’s a quiet mutiny against the clock.
I do this on long car rides, too (passenger side, mind you).
Letting the lines grow wild, jagged, and unapologetic.
Not for polish—
but for presence.
This is how I remember I’m still alive.
Still growing.
Still watching.
Still choosing to see.
Because sometimes mental health looks like
a piece of scrap paper,
a moving pen,
and the simple, sacred act of
marking time with wonder.
