I miss grapefruit. Doesn't it just figure? The only medicine I take and it has to have that limitation. It could be worse. Stop whining Jim. At least you made it to the World Series of doodling. Well...in my mind anyway.
Original Pen & Ink Cartoon Drawing of a Mouse in a Tea Cup by Ivan Camilli.
Pen and ink drawing of a little mouse cartoon character inside a tea cup on Canson's acid free illustration board.
signed ad dated '31August - 2019' Suitable for framing.
Part of a series of drawings following characters on a journey through strange and chaotic zones of a gigantic metropolis. I really enjoyed using the Sakura brush pen for this one.
Ice Dream. There’s some strange references going on in this one. If I don’t explain it won’t come together. Back in my day the Europe 72 3 record Dead live album had a crazy kid on the back cover smashing a cone on his head. Later an ice cream truck company called Weaser ripped off that art and would visit my mid Jersey neighborhood daily. Google it if you care. Flash forward to 2019. The ice cream truck that hits my neighborhood EVERY DAYS has a loud obnoxious song and no Greatful Dead connections. It drives me out of my mind so here is the result. I always try to turn my pain into gain. What a long strange explanation it’s been.
Morning sketch. So I was waiting for a go ahead on a 20 illo project. One of the illustrations in the project is a pair of “Chucks” so in the meantime I did a much crazier than they will be wanting version. Sometimes you just have to please yourself without all the boundaries.
There are some things I’m so grateful for in 2018 and then there was a lot of stuff that I would love to go away. So this is my farewell art. There’s nothing random in this doodle but I’ll keep most of it to myself. Let’s hope for a way better 19.
An article/rant/annotation to an illustration. A #Hackney bar and its flies.
This picture is not as sad and blue as it might at first seem, I promise.
It is early in the week and the pub becomes the territory of the most outspoken drinkers. Raised somewhere between Churchill and Harold MacMillan, a night such as this is time for them to spin out a yarn of nostalgic fantasy. Encouraged by the lack of a crowd and with space to fill, statements start to fly.
In the opening rounds the barman athletically hits back with factual blocks and reality-check haymakers; statistics and personal experiences are given. Two histories cross examined, one where 1982 means Thatcher and the Falklands, the other renders Reagan and the AIDS crisis. Stoicism and national pride vs mental health and realism.
In the latter rounds the barman is fatigued, swaying on the backbar, glasses begin to stack up as form begins to drop. The older men seem stronger than ever.
The barflies come in close now, they scrutinise his generations work ethic and make wild political comments on poverty, immigrants and the minimum wage.
The barman is close to sheer bloody despair, he maintains his defence and focuses on breathing while maintaining his professional stance.
But at the end of the night the barman knows HE will ring that bell, they will politely leave and they will return again in a week and maybe, just maybe there will be a change, common ground or maybe at least polite silence.
But what these interactions have given despite the salt in the eye is community and an exchange between generations, culture and class of those participating. No home is ever straight forward, no relative without their good and bad traits and in a world where we often slide into echo chambers online or in our physical environments, the pub is still a place where society is family, face to face, pint to pint. Or maybe it's just a room with alcohol on tap?
