Recently, I was asked to illustrate the Discworld as imagined in Terry Prachett's work. The illustration (24 "X 24") was printed on a self-adhesive vinyl and applied to the mandator's car.
These illustrations are part of an ongoing series on anxiety I started in early April 2018, as part of #The100DayProject. (See @helloanxiety_illustrated on Instagram to see more complete stories of each individual). This project is an extension of the fear illustrations I've been creating since 2012 (www.fear-illustrated).
This is one of my daily contributes to the 100 days project. I am doodling over a fashion magazine and documenting my journey on Instagram. Anyone of you are participating to this challenge?
This is the first little 'Thumbodies' character that I designed during the holidays. She has many other kind, creative & adventurous friends! Online comic & doodles @ doodletowncomic.com
"Girl & Death". What started out as two separate pieces for Upfest in Bristol, slowly merged into one collaborative painting. On the left my part, on the right the artwork by Luke Gray (http://lukegray.net)
Creating a doodle mural on wall with craft paint and brush. For more details, visit my blog here http://dharmakarmaarts.blogspot.com/2017/01/art-on-wall.html
I always tell students to start a project with quick sketches to develop a shape language. Plus research, then you can start to generate ideas. This is one of who knows how many small sketches I'll do to start this project. #ideation #designsketches #pilo
Pen and pencil tattoo design of my lucky cat, Ariel. This drawing was inspired by maneki-neko cats, neo-traditional tattoo style, anime styles, and my love for my Ariel.
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.
