Elias Rosenshaw 10/5/2023
Filtered digital collage of archival ink pen & gel pen on paper, gears (one with acrylic paint), manipulated photography, and digital colours & patterns.
Elias Rosenshaw 11/29/2023 (Originally taken 11/23/2023)
Filtered photography bordered with gouache on paper.
(Note: In case there's any confusion, I have changed my name.)
All Done! I’m pretty happy with how it turned out, but a few of the proportions are way off... but oh well. And I absolutely suck at manes(hair) soooo ya. Also I was curious, I’m thinking about getting some prints made of my artwork to sell, do any of you think you or someone you know would be interested in prints? Just curious, thanks! Hope you all are healthy and well! Photo by: Photography by Kelly and Kelly
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.
