Not a ‘robot’ per se, but an android/replicant. From the classic movie Blade Runner about an alternative future 2019-2049 and beyond. Replicants were used as slaves for humans. Red Bic4 Ballpoint Pen on Archival 9” x 12” paper.
Hand and drapery sketchbook drawing. This combo never gets old for me. Faber-Castell PITT pastel pencils, charcoal pencils on 9” x 12” Strathmore Toned Grey sketchbook paper.
Overview:
The title of this piece is directly inspired by the lyrics of the song "Rabbit In Your Headlights" by UNKLE. I liked the fact that I shook the static sensation of this shot using some vibrant colours and decoration. The subjects seems to be frozen in time, waiting for someone that will save them.
My favourite commission so far! Took me a while this one but so pleased with the finished piece. Didn't want to let her go! Drawn in black and white line using fine liners.
Overwhelmed...started as a little tiny sketchbook sketch and turned into my statement about recent events. It complements my previous post "Fevered Dreams." Bic ballpoint pen on archival 9” x 12” paper, scanned into Photoshop where the text overlay was added. Model: Jose
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?
