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?
55 mins
“I Never Noticed The House Was On Fire” This is a painting for an upcoming group exhibition about memories. When I was a kid I grew up in a household where my parents were functioning alcoholics. They gave me toys, put me in front of the tv, and sent me outside to play to keep me distracted from what was going on. When I look back almost all of my childhood memories revolve around these things. I became obsessed with these imaginary worlds and I learned to draw by copying my favorite cartoons and characters from children’s books. It was not until I was much older, that the truth could no longer be hidden from me. The imaginary world of cartoons and books kept me shielded from the harsh realities of home. As I grew into an adult that form of coping grew with me as I created my own imaginary places inspired by the ones I loved as a child. A healthy place to escape.
In July of 2022, Brianna Grier died falling out of a moving police car while having a mental health breakdown. Since Brianna passed, I have been heartbroken for her twins and family but also reflecting on my struggle with mental health. Mental health needs compassion and empathy, not police and punishment. The brunch strokes are purposeful, but I completed them with empathy in mind. I want to keep the composition simple but filled with meaning. The color theme represents vastness and loneliness, but also kinetic energy found in warm orange tones.
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
as an artist I manifest my emotions through my doodles. I was going through a rough spot with my mental health back in 2016. This doodle would always light me up. I hope it does the same for you
Health matters. A healthy person can have several goals. A sick person has one goal. Make good choices, because they will make you. Easy to say. Not always easy to do. Eat well. Move with intension. Read to learn. Meditate and pray, and receive from that. Do what I say, not what I do. This writing is for me, not you.
Immanuel Kant (1724–1804)
Kant’s biography is unusually devoid of external events.
As Heinrich Heine wrote: The history of Kant’s life is difficult to describe. For he neither had a life nor a history.
In actual fact, as Manfred Kuehn argues in his 2001 biography, Kant’s life was not quite as abstract and passionless as Heine and others have supposed…. If he failed to live a more adventurous life, it was largely due to his health: the philosopher had a congenital skeletal defect that caused him to develop an abnormally small chest, which compressed his heart and lungs and contributed to a generally delicate constitution. In order to prolong his life with the condition—and in an effort to quell the mental anguish caused by his lifelong hypochondria—Kant adopted what he called “a certain uniformity in the way of living and in the matters about which I employ my mind.”
This routine was as follows: Kant rose at 5:00 A.M., after being woken by his longtime servant, a retired soldier under explicit orders not to let the master oversleep. Then he drank one or two cups of weak tea and smoked his pipe. According to Kuehn, “Kant had formulated the maxim for himself that he would smoke only one pipe, but it is reported that the bowls of his pipes increased considerably in size as the years went on.”
- From Daily Rituals: How Artists Work by Mason Currey
#dailyrituals #inktober #ImmanuelKant @masoncurrey
Project for my health class. It's supposed to be a fingerprint, and the words written in are all postitive things, whether they are quotes or things I like. Thought this would be fitting for the "doodle" aspect. Drawn with FireAlpaca.
To work on yourself knowing you are already whole is difficult. What blooms and helps you flourish as a result can bring you to a place where you can look at yourself with compassion and empowerment.
Shortly after graduating in medicine doctor Illness concluded that the treatment of people does not make sense since he constantly coming new ill patients. The great desire to explore the state of the disease, he began his patients exposed to hazardous situations contagion and infection. Curious and eager for knowledge about the most serious illnesses, supported and developed the existing disease in their patients. He did not hesitate to post the wrong diagnosis, prescribing the drugs that have not been treat difficult health situation, on the contrary, they encouraged further development of the disease. After several years, he was arrested and charged with numerous deaths. Very indignant, told the court that great scientists have never been properly accepted by a society full of prejudices and petty soul.
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.
This piece is inspired by Mental Health Awareness Week that’s just left us.
Belated and as cryptic as things might be (as usual) here in Bleu’s world, better late to the party than never right?
A beautiful line drawing depicts a person being hugged by his demons. He should be worried or scared, but he is happy because he accepts them—and they all look happy. The words “hug your demons” are written in a playful font below.
A drawing for someone I somehow met from the corner of the internet, his original character Runali. A few years of ups and downs, but there were many struggles due to poor mental health. In the end as things heal, we gradually recognised our differences and decided to take different paths.
The theme was 'tension' in which we had to create a work of art using brown paper bags. In the midst of high school drama and stressful testing seasons, I created this mixed media drawing of a woman screaming and pulling at her hair. The hair is made of the brown paper bags to give it depth and texture. The drawing was created on brown paper with white pen highlights.
my first *official* painting titled "Winter Solace". I painted this one of my OC when I was feeling down. We all know how it feels during the winter months... dark, gloomy, and a good portion of us suffer from seasonal depression. But sometimes, we just have to take it in and be thankful for how far we've come, and how much we have yet to experience. I painted this to remind myself and others that there's always the calm after the storm, no matter how intense your storm may be. It's okay to not be okay.
