Fat little birds make me smile! The Eastern bluebird is a North American migratory thrush. My subject is a male with the most luxurious neck rolls! Drawn in Prismacolor soft core colored pencils on toned tan sketch paper.
The man with a vast red hat met a flower on the pad and asked, "Are you my dad?" The flower said, "No. I'm not the one, but I'll pretend I'm your dad if you'll pretend you're my sun."
I've been seeing lots of new bird species around my neighbourhood, like robins and magpies!
I like to think this bird is watching me from the sea of uncertainty, and looking at all the things I will create in the future and secretly telling me to go on, without me knowing how they will turn out. And strangely, that is some kind of motivation for me. : .
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?
i am so happy that i just found this sketch on my ipad. my grandfather and my family love cars like this. drawing this was so much fun, because it reminded me of all the great memories we had while travelling in the lovely car of my grandpa. thank you for reading & hope you have a wonderful daay!:)
If it wasn't enough that Ernest Shacletons ship Endurance was crushed by the ice in Antarctika’s, some kind of weird Space Weather phenomenon appeared into the sky(drawing tip:if your drawing looks flat and dull , try to transforming it something different ).
At first I planned on keeping this drawing realistic. But over a week ago I learned that a dear friend lost their sibling in an accident. Then this past weekend I worked on a small project that really struck a chord with me. I helped a friend and her son record a song she dedicated to her father, who had recently passed away as well. They sang "Let it Be" by the Beatles. There was so much emotion in the air. And for the first time ever I was brought to tears after I mixed a song. For the rest of the weekend I thought about my family a LOT. Especially my Parents. They've done so fucking much for me and my brother. It sucks that, only as an adult, I realized that every fiber of who I am, and where I am now is due to their love, support, and sacrifice. This piece goes out to the people you can count on. They're there for you no matter what the cost... No matter the pain, even if it's literally killing them. It's Purely out of Love and they wouldn't have it any other way❤️.
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
FATHER OF EIGHTEEN ELVES
From Favorite Folktales from Around the World by Jane Yolen.
This stranger gives the child a loving look, and says to the mother, “We don’t act fairly by one another; I cuddle your child, but you beat my husband.”
Another watercolor I made from observation. This is a quiet place near my father's home, where I use to go with my friends when I was a child.
I am painting those in a 5x8 very convenient moleskin watercolor book. I previously eyeballed the dimensions of this book at 4x6 when I had no ruler to verify but I was slightly wrong. Now the info is exact. :)
In folklore, a will-o'-the-wisp, will-o'-wisp or ignis fatuus, is an atmospheric ghost light seen by travelers at night, especially over bogs, swamps or marshes. --Wikipedia
11” x 17” Original ink and watercolor painting on Arches 140# hotpress watercolor paper.
Signed by the artist. Unframed.
Cette année encore, Sylvette s’est portée volontaire pour assister son grand-père dans sa tournée.
Joyeux Noël à ceux qui le fêtent, bonnes fêtes aux autres !
—
Once again, this year, Sylvette volunteered to help her grandfather in his rounds.
Merry Christmas to all who celebrate, happy holidays to everyone else !
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Print available on my redbubble!
https://www.redbubble.com/fr/i/carte-postale/L-assistante-du-P%C3%A8re-no%C3%ABl-par-kineko/42728934.V7PMD
Keep thinking about a story about Kismet (one of my cats) and Rocky (a friends dog I just met). I don’t know what they would both do in it, but there would be much shivering and tail wagging.
Ps. Kismet is not fat. She is actually very svelte. But I had two blobs on my page and she was destined to be one of them
https://www.instagram.com/p/C7mUq3BggSy/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link&igsh=MzRlODBiNWFlZA==
Dragging through the snow
On a one-girl open sled
Over the hills we go…
“Why aren’t we there yet?”
PenguinGirl can never say NO to chocolate, and Fatty McPingoo (the fat penguin with the Harry Potter scarf) knows it all too well!
I drew this in the afternoon on Christmas Eve, imagining PenguinGirl and her friends traveling in the snow to a Christmas party
helloo :). my grandfather and my family love cars like this. i drew the first version a while ago. it was so much fun. it reminded me of all the great memories we had while travelling in madagascar in the lovely car of my grandpa. thank you for reading & wish you a wonderful daay!:)
Some more practice with crosshatch shading and the proportions are a bit off. I also somehow made the left side of the bottle fat and it drives me nuts. ヘ（。□°）ヘ Other than that I think it came out ok.
based in the METABARON series by Moebius n J.Jimenes, A.Jororowsky script,,,,,i didnt copy i did my own caracter but the style its very similar to taht graphic nobel,,,,,,well Hope you like!!!!
Meet Dr. Lorna Breen. She was in the trenches of the front line inside the New York hot zone during the first wave of the pandemic. She saw the massive influx of patients she knew she could not save (29,000 deaths reported in April, 2020). She contracted the virus and after recuperating, went straight back to work. A week and a half later, the hospital sent her home. Her family intervened to bring her back home to Charlottesville, Virginia. During her visit with her family, she seemed “detached.” She passed away April 26, 2020 at the UVA University Hospital in Charlottesville from self-inflicted wounds.
"She tried to do her job, and it killed her… Make sure she’s praised as a hero. Because she was, she’s a casualty just as much as anyone else who has died."
—Dr. Philip C. Breen, Father
