cat

Markers on sketchbook paper. Late 70's early 80's...

The clutter on my drawing table.. I tend to use pencils the most, with pens a close second and sometimes brushes. This is the neat look---when everything is put away in its box. More often than not, they are a bit more scattered on the surface. Micron pen drawing.

This is my family crest

Practice swatch. Pastel on PastelMat.

Illustrated with Ink and Ink-Pens on Paper. Urh.-Nr:1811955 Copyright  by Carolina Matthes

Morning yoga. https://www.instagram.com/p/CZILyI5pn1A/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link

Drawing by ink on paper.

Joseph Cornell (1903–1972) Cornell worked nights at the kitchen table, sorting and assembling materials for his boxes. It was not easy going. Some nights he felt too fatigued from his day job to concentrate on his art and would sit up reading instead, switching on the oven for warmth. In the mornings, his quarrelsome mother would scold him about the mess he’d left at the kitchen table; without a proper workroom, Cornell was forced to store his growing collection of magazine clippings and dime-store baubles out in the garage. In 1940 Cornell finally mustered the courage to quit his job and pursue his art full-time—and even then his habits changed little. He still worked nights at the kitchen table, while his mother and brother slept upstairs. In the late morning he would head downtown for breakfast at his local Bickford’s restaurant, often satisfying his sweet tooth with a Danish or a slice of pie (and lovingly cataloging these indulgences in his diary). - From Daily Rituals: How Artists Work by Mason Currey #dailyrituals #inktober #JosephCornell @masoncurrey

The last page of 2020 Stio Catalog, my morning drawing session.

Furrball from "Tiny Toons" gets a semi "rubber hose" treatment.

I genuinely can't believe it's already March (I also can't believe it'll be a year since the pandemic really started). Yesterday also marked one year since I started journaling, which isn't an actual major thing, but still. How quickly time flies and how big of a difference a year can make. "And when it rains, the rain falls down Washing out the cattle town But she's quite safe up far away in her eiderdown And she dreams of crystal streams Of days gone by when we would lean Laughing, fit to burst, on each other."

Cat's list of gripes was very extensive today. https://www.instagram.com/p/CZaPESMJoLn/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link

I'm working on a sketchbook for the Brooklyn Sketchbook Project (a library of art), and this is the first drawing I did for it. Little orange cat carrying a crystal with purpose.

I wanted a fierce pose and landed on a good side-eye. Used really strong colors and a digital oil application

Show me close. Show me far. https://www.instagram.com/p/CaCuPD5LVaD/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link

This painting was derived from a collage of my own photos. The location is just south of Wawa Ontario Canada

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.

Bad Cat gets the woven blanket treatment. circa 2019

Brush pen on paper.

Magic marker, sketchbook. 1970's

A page from a book I made about dogs and cats.

Sleepy cat, charcoal

Watercolor of multiple views of a friend’s cat. Felt good to use a paintbrush again

Sometimes cats can be vengeful creatures

Where do I begin with this one? This is a drawing of my dad and I; the picture was taken back in 2006, a happier time, I suppose. I don't commonly think about my dad, I don't necessarily think about how much I miss him or how I wish I could see him again, so it was odd for me to sit and look through old photos. I don't really know my dad; I do, but I don't. My dad was physically part of my life for 10 years, the second half of those were not the best. Mental illness, self medicating for years, debt, heroin, arguments, threats, uncertainty. I feel like I remember the negative more because I was older, my parents couldn't hide it from me like they used to. At the same time, when he was sober and stable, life was good. Life was great, things felt complete. So here I am, 6 years since he died. I don't want to say his image is fading, but I know less of who he was than I did before. I see the good from some (the ones who praise him, who act like he was a saint), and I see the bad from others (the one who felt the pain). I suppose I no longer see my view, my memories aren't there anymore. I don't necessarily feel sad, the anger has faded, and I can't say I'm happy. Maybe I'll figure it out one day, but, for now, it is what it is.

I’m starting a pastel series of the flowers in my neighborhood. Here’s the first one. These tulips are located in Toronto on the Esplanade