Watercolour crayon, crayon, fineliner and acrylic paint.. . . . . ... . .... . ... . . . ... . . .. . . . . . . Just your run of the mill tree bearing owl with a pipe in hand and a story to tell. .... . . .. . . . . .. . . . . .. ... ... ......... ... .. A3 prints for sale ( 12 left out of 20 at the time of going to press )
Nikola Tesla (1856–1943)
After he had started his own company, Tesla arrived at the office at noon. Immediately, his secretary would draw the blinds; Tesla worked best in the dark and would raise the blinds again only in the event of a lightning storm, which he liked to watch flashing above the cityscape from his black mohair sofa.
Tesla ate alone, and phoned in his instructions for the meal in advance. Upon arriving, he was shown to his regular table, where eighteen clean linen napkins would be stacked at his place. As he waited for his meal, he would polish the already gleaming silver and crystal with these squares of linen, gradually amassing a heap of discarded napkins on the table. And when his dishes arrived—served to him not by a waiter but by the maître d’hôtel himself—Tesla would mentally calculate their cubic contents before eating, a strange compulsion he had developed in his childhood and without which he could never enjoy his food.
- From Daily Rituals: How Artists Work by Mason Currey
“Of all things, I liked books best.”
― Nikola Tesla
“One must be sane to think clearly, but one can think deeply and be quite insane.”
― Nikola Tesla
#dailyrituals #inktober #NikolaTesla @masoncurrey
Keep Your Eyes on the Lamp Bearer.
Don’t walk around aimlessly.
Don’t leave your armor on your bed chamber’s floor.
Keep your eyes and ears focused on Jesus.
He is the lamp bearer, who illuminates the path you should travel.
Don’t walk around aimlessly!
Don’t leave your armor on your bedchamber’s floor.
Specters are crouched in the shadows of the thicket that line your path.
They plot to ambush you as soon as you wander aimlessly into the thicket.
Keep your eyes and ears focused on Jesus.
He is the lamp bearer, who illuminates the path you should travel.
If you have walked into a fog and lost your focus,
If you have walked aimlessly into the shadows the thicket If you find yourself in the
clutches of the specters of the dark
Don’t be anxious.
Don’t lose hope.
Humble yourself and call out to your commander.
He will send in his angelic army to retrieve you
To restore you back to the ranks of His army
Don’t walk around aimlessly.
Don’t leave your armor on your bedchamber’s floor!
Keep your eyes and ears focused on Jesus.
He is the lamp bearer, who illuminates the path you should travel.
(December 3, 2016)
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.
