Posted the sketch of this earlier, but I thought the ink looked nicer, so here you are! I love dragonflies. Deadly hunters, slaughtering their prey without mercy, yet beguiling enough to somehow convince humans they are harmless as butterflies. They have their own sort of deadly, sleek beauty.
This is my death, Fae Dimitri. He is a psychopomp. meaning he guides the dead to their afterlife. I was playing around with non-standard ears, in this case, using damselfly wings. And... If you're worried that he's judging your outfit. Yes yes, he is.
“Following the sun, to find the one / Who's giving you the wings to fly… / Following the sun, like everyone / Searching for a sign of hope…” — Song lyrics by Enigma. Watercolor, ink and colour pencil on watercolour paper
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 started by thinking up the most awful things I could, which wasn't particularly difficult. When I had made things as awful as possible I took a run and bounced off the floor and flew away from everything, leaving it all behind me in a deep well. Down there the whole town was burning. Down there Poppolino was padding around in the studio in the dark screaming with loneli-ness. Down there sat the crow saying: it was your fault that I died. And the Unmentionable Thing crawled under the mat.
But I just went on flying.
- Sculptor's Daughter by Tove Jansson
#dailydrawing #tovejansson
