This is about the sensation of finding some hope. He hated his life so much. Got frustrated about the life choices. This boy here is looking for some HOPE in his life.
Then the sun shines. Looking at the beauty, he refreshes himself
In time for the holidays, Gfox,Kixxy Kittles Brandon Bunny,Stripes the Dog and Kippie the dalmatian kitten enjoy some yummy candy canes. The holidays are sweeter with friends. :3
Dave Miller picking up Foxy and tossing him into the Grand Canyon. Uhm, I think this was the first Dayshift at Freddy's, but correct me if I was wrong. Drawn with FireAlpaca. You guys seem to really like Dave, so have more! #It'sfreakingDave
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.
Lino cut print over pastel. The story goes: The bird fell in love with the whale the first time she saw him break through the ocean’s surface, sunlight dancing on his back. From high above, she sang to him, and deep below, he answered with a song as old as the tides.
She longed to dive, to join him in the rolling blue. He wished to rise, to fly beside her in the endless sky. But air and water would not trade places.
So each day, at dawn and dusk, they met at the edge of their worlds—she on the wind, he in the waves—singing a love song carried by the breeze and the tide, never together but never apart.
As far as things that I can’t seem to shake off are concerned, it’s this fact that a place like Edinburgh where I live is akin to a village where everyone (artist folk in particular) seems to know everyone, and the patterns or quirks that emerge from this said thought process. In most collectives I’m a part of and/or are associated with, there’s what seems like an endless sense of crossover and overlap with fellow artists etc for lack of better words, which is lovely as it is insane... you know? All in all though, even if it drives me mad it does so in a strangely positive way and I’ve learned to live with that. So yeah, make of that what you will. :-)
I keep seeing the word 'binary' crop up a lot in various discourses I’ve caught a glance at recently, whether it pertains to discussions around things like cancel culture or countless other things too numerous to mention. Funny what the lack of a middle ground these days does to certain people, irrespective of their political/ethical viewpoints...
Model Portrait Art by Oz Galeano
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