This is a drawing of a photo I took, showing my house and a neighboring building.
#Swollen is the word for #inktober #day17. Because the city I live in is swollen from cars, buildings, humans, rats, pigeons, dirt and trash I considered the word to be proper for the problem of urbanization. Even if it's a natural transformation, it comes with a lot of issues. I see it as a concrete and steel monster eating the nature that stands in its way. © Maria!Bălan, 2018
I could have gone further, but I kind of lost interest in this one. Normally I would have put some texture indicating bricks and a bit more detail.
Malaysia is definitely a beautiful country. To see more artworks, follow my Instagram account the.rainmaker_ Link : https://www.instagram.com/the.rainmaker_/
This is one of the pages of my handmade picture book (made w/ watercolor paper, watercolor paint, color pencils, and pen & ink). I really wanted to focus on illustrating the beauty of the architecture and vibrant colors of the buildings.
This is a doodle of a number of old buildings in my city Zwolle. This was my view from my old studio.
This doodle depicts a transitional phase in my college years. Illustrating one of my favourite rappers, drinks, snacks and one of the iconic buildings in London; this doodle is full of colours varying in throughout the page and popping out with contrast.
I tried to stay very simple, flat and in a doodly style for this. As if it would be an entry scene into a story board.
I don't know why, but I had to make yellow buildings. I wish I had more time on this, but I took it as far as I could and hit submit with 1 to 2 minutes to spare. Why do I do that to myself? Anyway, I hope you enjoy.
Luminary Festival - Auren Farkis (Digital Portrait I did as a colour study) Crisp reverberating strings danced through the evening. Notes twisted and echoed up through the emerald, velvet tiers of Ridgedow Gardens. Dusk’s veil had long since darkened to a diamond-encrusted black, and Clarglow was alive with activity. Footpaths were choked with revellers that formed a river of light that coursed and pulsed through the park. Will-o-whisp spots of light also glowed among the neatly trimmed hedgerows and statues. Their magic-addled voices rose up, joining in with the music of the Luminary Festival. A young man, no more than a quarter of a century old, glowed brightest of all. A soft orange radiated from his eyes, and his veins pulsed a brilliant red. He was dripping in gold and gems. Over an outfit that somehow managed to be heavily layered and revealing at the same time, he wore a sheer cape, which was heavily embroidered with blood-red crystals that refracted his own light around him in dazzling, concentrated rays. It was such a dangerous colour of magic, but his expression was soft and dreamy. Excited laughter rose up as a clustered group shot metallic confetti skyward. Gold flake drifted down and settled into his silver hair, cheeks, and shoulders. No doubt he would discover the remnants of this festival in his home weeks from now. He increased his pace, stepping off the cobbled path to overtake the group, when one of their number split from the group. The coils of her dark hair were so saturated with gold that she looked like she belonged on a pedestal next to the other statues. She intercepted him, matching his pace. She snaked a long, slender arm around his waist and pulled him closer. She pressed her lips against his neck, leaving a wake of golden kisses up to his earlobe, where she leaned closer to whisper. — “Aurie, Luv, I know that look. Don’t tell me you’re headed home. The eve has only just begun. “ Her glowing eyes Locked with Auren’s, her grip tightening, slowing the both of them to a stop, causing a temporary blockage in the flow of people. “Overdid myself Mel.. you’ll have to –” –” Come with us to the reflecting pool.” She cooed, meeting his lips in an off-center kiss, smearing his inky wine lipstick. Momentarily, he allowed himself to relax. He considered saying yes. His heart pounding, he dipped his friend backwards gracefully, resenting that he had to leave. An itch in his left arm reminded his fuzzy brain that he was in danger. Gasping softly, he gently lifted Mella upright and spun her out towards her friends, who were growing impatient. He couldn’t make out their faces in the fuzz of the evening. “I can’t, I’m sorry Mel! We’ll talk later.” Before she could protest, he danced, spinning forward in a brilliant display of speed that ended in a stumble as he met a set of steep steps that coiled sharply upwards out of the park and onto the pink brick streets overlooking Ridgedow Gardens. The glazed windows facing the street were empty and blank… their occupants elsewhere, enjoying the festival. The empty buildings were like faces, judging him for his lack of zeal. Auren wound his way through streets and side streets, his pace increasing as he grew more and more alone. Finally, he was climbing a set of steps to his own front door. Smirking at the sight of it he reached down into the front of the bodice that held together the layers of his outfit pulling free a loop of keys that were on a long chain looped around his neck. Aligning it to the keyhole he struggled with the lock, cursing softly under his breath as it initially failed to cooperate with him. In the quiet black of his foyer, he latched the door behind him and stumbled forward, tearing at the ribbon that held the gleaming cape that draped from his bare shoulders. He let it drop on a black lacquered table. He reached up to unclasp an elaborate choker and tore his single, crimson glove down from his elbow. He pressed a gilded fingernail against a band of red ink encroached upon by a spreading corruption. Marginally extending beyond the band were sinews of mismatched muscle and skin; even his hair had begun to glow red. Pulse rising, he wrenched his rings from his fingers, casting them into the ever-darkening room. Precious jewellery piled under him until only the dimmest glow from his own veins remained.. Slumping onto the steps, he tightened his grip on his arm and twisted it ninety degrees. A sharp click of crystal against porcelain met his ears. The room was enveloped in black as his final stone slid away from his arm, rendering the prosthesis inert. He slid to his side, the sounds of the party below overtaken by his own gasping breaths, panic refusing to subside alongside his magic.
This looks simple, but i spent days researching to get the buildings and clothing right. There was also a lot more layers than i planned for. This buildings are still in use, there are different shops in them now. Sadly they no longer have those colorful decorations,
Another beautiful illustration of imaginative style and earthly tones! This is not a real scenery it just combines sea and mountains with buildings and creature like mountains with fishy style elements or wings and this into a night sky.
Take the Rymans, for instance. There is Robert Ryman (1930 – 2019), the patriarch whose paintings are indisputable icons of the modernist canon. Then there are his wives and children. Ethan Ryman (b. 1964) is the oldest of Robert’s three artist children. Though his mother was not an artist, Lucy Lippard (b. 1937) was still a scrappy and eloquent art critic, a feminist, a social activist, and an environmentalist. Ethan’s meticulously considered and crafted artworks might be characterized as somewhere between photography and sculpture, the abstract and the (f)actual. Though Lippard and Ryman divorced just six years after their 1961 marriage, their son is arguably the closest to his father’s methodologies if not his medium, and was certainly the last to become a visual artist. Robert Ryman went on to marry fellow artist Merrill Wagner (b. 1935) in 1969 and they had two sons. Though Wagner is more quietly acknowledged than Ryman, her boundless practice includes sculpture, painting, drawing, installation, and more. With an emphasis on materiality, her sites are indoors and out, her styles alternating. Will Ryman (b. 1969) is the elder son of Robert and Merrill. He started out as an actor and playwright though he too eventually assumed a visual art practice to become a sculptor. He is best known for his large-scale public artworks and theatrical installations that focus on the figurative and psychological, at times absurdist, narratives. Cordy Ryman (b. 1971) is the youngest, and the only one of the three who knew that he was going to be a visual artist early on. His work is abstract, the sophistication understated, and his output is prolific. With his mother’s DIY flair, his homely materials seem sourced from the overflow of construction projects, lumberyards, and Home Depot. Ethan Ryman said that, when he was young, he didn’t want to be a visual artist. Instead, he pursued music and acting, producing records for Wu-Tang Clan, among others, getting “my ears blown out.” But he was always surrounded by artists—Sol LeWitt, Carl Andre, Jan Dibbetts, William Anastasi, and countless others at his mother’s place on Prince Street in SoHo and at the Rymans’s 1847 Greek Revival brownstone on 16th Street in Manhattan, where everyone was often seated around the family dinner table. He would spend part of most weekends in the highly stimulating chaos that reigned there—birds, dogs, plants, toys, art, people, everywhere. “While nowhere near as overwhelming, I was also constantly exposed to artists, writers and other creative folks at my Mom’s place.” “While nowhere near as overwhelming, I was also constantly exposed to artists, writers and other creative folks at my Mom’s place.” Ethan Ryman Lippard was “a powerhouse.” She took Ethan on her lecture tours, readings, conferences, galleries, studios, wherever she had to go. And while that almost always breeds rebellion, at some point, he began noticing all the art around them—both what it looked like and how it was made. He began to take photographs of buildings and realized that “abstract color fields were all around us.” He also began to notice his father and Wagner’s work more carefully—how sensitively it was executed and how reactive it was to its surroundings. “Once you’re interested, you notice. When I asked my dad questions, I would most likely get a one-word response. I had to go to his lectures for answers where he broke down modern art for me. After listening to him, it seemed to me we should all be painting, otherwise what were we doing with our lives?” Will Ryman, on the other hand, said that all his work has a narrative component. His background is in theatre and his interests have always been film and plays, his narratives about New York City and American culture and history. “It’s a city I love,” he said. “I try to observe culture in a bare-bones way and I’ve always been interested in telling stories—we’re the only species that tells stories to each other. It comes from an intuitive, cathartic place in me. I want to stay away from preconceived notions, although that’s not completely possible. I have no plan except to do something honest, with a little bit of a political bent and humor but I’m not an activist. I’m interested in exploring a culture and its flaws as an interaction between human beings.” His interests and his work are very different from his last name. There is no connection to minimalism. He didn’t go to art school, drawn instead to theatre workshops and theatre troupes. “I didn’t become involved with the visual arts until my mid-thirties. It’s easy to say what I make is a reaction, but I dismiss that. And I also wouldn’t say it’s rebellious after twenty years.” Of his family, he said, “we’re a normal family, a close family, with all the dynamics and complications that go along with that. And while everyone who came to 16th Street were artists, they were also just family friends. I have no other measure for how a family interacts. It was just the way it was.” Cordy Ryman was the only one of the three who went to art school, earning a BFA from the School of Visual Arts, but it was reportedly awkward for him, since all his teachers knew his parents. “When I started making abstract paintings, it was kind of push and pull but it became more interesting to me than my earlier figurative or narrative work. That’s when I started to know where I came from. I realized that I had a visual memory, and the language was there, a language I didn’t know I knew. We all had different ways of working; our processes are very different and it’s hard to compare us. Ethan and I use a similar inherited language but he thinks about what he does more. I work very fast, the ideas come from the process itself. I work in two or three modes simultaneously and bounce around.” At home, they were around Wagner’s work since her studio was there. “Will and I were always in her studio, helping her, going to her installation sites with her, adjusting her boulders or whatever the project was she was working on. That was special and made a deep impression, but I didn’t realize it then.” All five Rymans have in common an acute consciousness of space and of place as an integral component of their work. For the brothers, part of that consciousness might stem from their parents, but also from their attachment to their family home, which was a crucible of sorts for them, where everyone was an artist. To Cordy, the house was a “living, breathing thing, and the art in it felt alive, growing, and occupying any space that was available. It was the structure of our world. When I’m making work, it doesn’t need to be the most beautiful thing ever, but it needs to have its own life, its own space, like the art we grew up with.” And the next generation of Rymans, also all sons—what about them? Will said his son is still too young to know. Cordy thought the same about his two younger children; his oldest is in the art world, but not as an artist—so far. Ethan perhaps summed it up best: my two sons are artists; they just don’t know it yet.
Both buildings and trees are things I'd like to be better at... I'm going to have to branch out from leafless trees and decrepit structures eventually but for now the trees stay leafless
Another house that I found interesting, this one is across from the library in my local town. I love drawing all the vegetation detail - how the buildings decay and are slowly taken over by plants.