Meadhbh in front of wall of plants. 2024, Ballpoint pens on 5” x 8” (10” x 8” Double page spread) acid free Moleskine sketchbook paper, Adobe Photoshop.
"Whirlwind 20”, an original drawing. Micron pens on archival paper. Size: 4” x 6”. Title, signature, and date in the back of the drawing. This drawing is the 20th in a series of drawings posted over a period of 100 days. The original post date on this drawing was September 20, 2020.
I've already made stylized Jester, so I figured I'd make stylized Dellusion, too. This one is a full body. I did a full body because I need to develop more as an artist, and part of that is to start drawing things I'm not entirely sure of. Like, legs, or perspective, like how his claw is bigger than the rest of his body because it is closer to the viewpoint. I had a lot of fun with this, though, and I hardly ever draw something so exaggerated. Anyways, Dellusion is a private vessel for a specific soul, who works alongside Jester. They both run the pizzaria, but Dellusion is more of the co-owner. Only Jester and Dellusion are sentient, because they're both sort of possesed. Drawn with FireAlpaca.
Here's a drawing I made of pinup model Lalla.I used black ink, color pencil (black and grey) graphite pencil on watercolor paper. Many thanks for looking.
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.
