reading

Oh God! I have been reading too many manwhas! My brain has been infected! >.< My baby boy!

DAY ONE OF INTENSIVE ART TRAINING! Okay, back up, calm down... So! A little background. I am going into INTENSIVE ART TRAINING because I'm not the best at drawing humans. I want to get better so I can draw people, characters, and find my style. There will be 50 days, and this is day one. This drawing came from an old sketchbook from middle school. I won't post the original drawing (it's...less than ideal...), but you can see this redraw of the character. Thanks for reading this!

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Zoidberg: Everyone! Quick! I was reading about this man RFK Jr. who says that we have to stop all modern medical practices immediately. He says they're poisonous.... Amy: RFK Jr. was an unqualified political grifter who died in disgrace from preventable illnesses over a thousand years ago. All of his theories were discredited even while he was still alive. You'd have to be a complete moron to take him seriously. Leela: God, Dr. Zoidberg. Aren't you even a little ashamed at being such an idiot? Fry: Yeah, Zoidberg. Even I knew that. How embarrassing for you.

Teaser for the color version coming soon! This is a continuation of the first page of this story, which I posted here: https://www.doodleaddicts.com/uploads/71900/first-page/ I hope you all enjoy reading it! These are a lot of fun to make : )

Macro photography.

A line taken from the current book I’m digesting… Finally reading the My Neighbor Totoro book my girlfriend got me for my birthday. Slowly getting through but enjoying it immensely!

Patron Saint of Woodpeckers and Hangovers. And possibly headaches. I think I remember reading that woodpeckers probably all have headaches, even with their tongues and flexible skulls. I have a headache. #patronSaint

A cheerful sun rises over a blue horizon with colorful rays spreading outwards, accompanied by the text "happy new day!" in playful lettering. a vibrant and optimistic piece of art.

Cover for my fanfic i writing for "Batman: Zero Year" comic. After Zero: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63498001 "I bloom, a flower fair and bright, A needed thing, for two, a light. In hearts' soft garden, breezes play, I grow in strength with each new day." The Riddler nodded patiently, his eyes half-lidded in boredom. Amber devoted almost all her energy to keep reciting this stupid rhyme that she had composed and practiced until she turned pale from exhaustion. The remaining part of her energy was spent on NOT clutching her jacket. "But then, a worm, with wicked bite. Gnawed at my grain and dimmed my light. A spreading blight, a change so foul. Cursed my existence, took its toll. My two companions, caught in strife. Began to gnaw and hurt their life. Absorbing poison, bit by bit. They both grew sick, they couldn't quit." "…" “Who am I?" The Riddler lazily raised his eyes to the sky and just as slowly raised his hands. "Love!" His voice was full of theatrical reverence. He didn’t even pretended that the riddle made him ponder over it. "To be more precise — twisted love. Am I right?"

I was kinda bored when I drew this, so it came out in the art work. Incidentally, this guy looks a bit like a character in the nameless city series of graphic novels, which I finished reading recently. The first book is rather heavy handed, but the last two are much better by comparison.

Joseph Cornell (1903–1972) Cornell worked nights at the kitchen table, sorting and assembling materials for his boxes. It was not easy going. Some nights he felt too fatigued from his day job to concentrate on his art and would sit up reading instead, switching on the oven for warmth. In the mornings, his quarrelsome mother would scold him about the mess he’d left at the kitchen table; without a proper workroom, Cornell was forced to store his growing collection of magazine clippings and dime-store baubles out in the garage. In 1940 Cornell finally mustered the courage to quit his job and pursue his art full-time—and even then his habits changed little. He still worked nights at the kitchen table, while his mother and brother slept upstairs. In the late morning he would head downtown for breakfast at his local Bickford’s restaurant, often satisfying his sweet tooth with a Danish or a slice of pie (and lovingly cataloging these indulgences in his diary). - From Daily Rituals: How Artists Work by Mason Currey #dailyrituals #inktober #JosephCornell @masoncurrey

Anthony Trollope (1815–1882) "All those I think who have lived as literary men,—working daily as literary labourers,—will agree with me that three hours a day will produce as much as a man ought to write. ... "I always began my task by reading the work of the day before, an operation which would take me half an hour, and which consisted chiefly in weighing with my ear the sound of the words and phrases.… This division of time allowed me to produce over ten pages of an ordinary novel volume a day, and if kept up through ten months, would have given as its results three novels of three volumes each in the year..." From Daily rituals by Mason Currey #dailyrituals #inktober #anthonyTrollope @masoncurrey

Benjamin Franklin (Part 2) The plan worked, up to a point. After following the course several times in a row, he found it necessary to go through just one course in a year, and then one every few years. But the virtue of order—“Let all your things have their places; let each part of your business have its time”—appears to have eluded his grasp. Franklin was not naturally inclined to keep his papers and other possessions organized, and he found the effort so vexing that he almost quit in frustration. This timetable was formulated before Franklin adopted a favorite habit of his later years—his daily “air bath.” At the time, baths in cold water were considered a tonic, but Franklin believed the cold was too much of a shock to the system. He wrote in a letter: I have found it much more agreeable to my constitution to bathe in another element, I mean cold air. With this view I rise early almost every morning, and sit in my chamber without any clothes whatever, half an hour or an hour, according to the season, either reading or writing. This practice is not in the least painful, but on the contrary, agreeable; and if I return to bed afterwards, before I dress myself, as sometimes happens, I make a supplement to my night’s rest, of one or two hours of the most pleasing sleep that can be imagined. From Daily rituals by Mason Currey #daulyrituals #inktober #benjaminfranklin @masoncurrey

Wordless reading - sketch

Reading the news - pastel sketches to study color combination

This one take some time, I am still trying to figure out how to not make the art "messy" but adding some thicker line did help with it! Thanks for reading this :D

nyc subway.

Locked in a room...being abducted; reading the news.

Just started, but it's funny and fun and I hope that Germany was called Flurp at some point. I am reading Max in the House of Spies by Adam Gidwitz.

It's a perfect day to read a book written by your friend. My friends book right now is "Projections" by S. Porter. Her book is so good! It is dark and fascinating and so well researched. I am really enjoying it. https://www.instagram.com/p/C4QrZoSO96u/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link&igsh=MzRlODBiNWFlZA==

It may be a surprise, but I am only now reading 1st book on UFOs ( I have been mostly interested in aliens as fiction or in ttRPGs). I just learned about the Arecibo Message. Frank Drake sent a message of 1679 bits to his fellow UFO friends and said that this was a mathematical message he wanted to send to the aliens. While not all cultures share language, we all share math. To test if it was decode-able, he asked them to figure out what it meant with no other context. They failed. So he sent it to more UFO friends. They failed, too. So he put it in a decoder magazine and got exactly one correct answer from an electrician. 1679 is the product of two semi-prime numbers, which should get you to realize it’s a 23 *73 picture. Bu needless to say if the interpretation rate was that low amongst earthlings, the hopes for alien communication seemed dim. Especially since the message will take 25K years to arrive. But we do have C’therax and Friends’ take above – admittedly the DNA double helix (blue) does look like a butterflyish thing.

Luminary Festival - Auren Farkis (Digital Portrait I did as a colour study) Crisp reverberating strings danced through the evening. Notes twisted and echoed up through the emerald, velvet tiers of Ridgedow Gardens. Dusk’s veil had long since darkened to a diamond-encrusted black, and Clarglow was alive with activity. Footpaths were choked with revellers that formed a river of light that coursed and pulsed through the park. Will-o-whisp spots of light also glowed among the neatly trimmed hedgerows and statues. Their magic-addled voices rose up, joining in with the music of the Luminary Festival. A young man, no more than a quarter of a century old, glowed brightest of all. A soft orange radiated from his eyes, and his veins pulsed a brilliant red. He was dripping in gold and gems. Over an outfit that somehow managed to be heavily layered and revealing at the same time, he wore a sheer cape, which was heavily embroidered with blood-red crystals that refracted his own light around him in dazzling, concentrated rays. It was such a dangerous colour of magic, but his expression was soft and dreamy. Excited laughter rose up as a clustered group shot metallic confetti skyward. Gold flake drifted down and settled into his silver hair, cheeks, and shoulders. No doubt he would discover the remnants of this festival in his home weeks from now. He increased his pace, stepping off the cobbled path to overtake the group, when one of their number split from the group. The coils of her dark hair were so saturated with gold that she looked like she belonged on a pedestal next to the other statues. She intercepted him, matching his pace. She snaked a long, slender arm around his waist and pulled him closer. She pressed her lips against his neck, leaving a wake of golden kisses up to his earlobe, where she leaned closer to whisper. — “Aurie, Luv, I know that look. Don’t tell me you’re headed home. The eve has only just begun. “ Her glowing eyes Locked with Auren’s, her grip tightening, slowing the both of them to a stop, causing a temporary blockage in the flow of people. “Overdid myself Mel.. you’ll have to –” –” Come with us to the reflecting pool.” She cooed, meeting his lips in an off-center kiss, smearing his inky wine lipstick. Momentarily, he allowed himself to relax. He considered saying yes. His heart pounding, he dipped his friend backwards gracefully, resenting that he had to leave. An itch in his left arm reminded his fuzzy brain that he was in danger. Gasping softly, he gently lifted Mella upright and spun her out towards her friends, who were growing impatient. He couldn’t make out their faces in the fuzz of the evening. “I can’t, I’m sorry Mel! We’ll talk later.” Before she could protest, he danced, spinning forward in a brilliant display of speed that ended in a stumble as he met a set of steep steps that coiled sharply upwards out of the park and onto the pink brick streets overlooking Ridgedow Gardens. The glazed windows facing the street were empty and blank… their occupants elsewhere, enjoying the festival. The empty buildings were like faces, judging him for his lack of zeal. Auren wound his way through streets and side streets, his pace increasing as he grew more and more alone. Finally, he was climbing a set of steps to his own front door. Smirking at the sight of it he reached down into the front of the bodice that held together the layers of his outfit pulling free a loop of keys that were on a long chain looped around his neck. Aligning it to the keyhole he struggled with the lock, cursing softly under his breath as it initially failed to cooperate with him. In the quiet black of his foyer, he latched the door behind him and stumbled forward, tearing at the ribbon that held the gleaming cape that draped from his bare shoulders. He let it drop on a black lacquered table. He reached up to unclasp an elaborate choker and tore his single, crimson glove down from his elbow. He pressed a gilded fingernail against a band of red ink encroached upon by a spreading corruption. Marginally extending beyond the band were sinews of mismatched muscle and skin; even his hair had begun to glow red. Pulse rising, he wrenched his rings from his fingers, casting them into the ever-darkening room. Precious jewellery piled under him until only the dimmest glow from his own veins remained.. Slumping onto the steps, he tightened his grip on his arm and twisted it ninety degrees. A sharp click of crystal against porcelain met his ears. The room was enveloped in black as his final stone slid away from his arm, rendering the prosthesis inert. He slid to his side, the sounds of the party below overtaken by his own gasping breaths, panic refusing to subside alongside his magic.

Meet Edgar Allen Pinfeather. He's a raven that enjoys solitude, rollerskating, reading (especially comic books), his laptop,and long nights

The afterlife can get boring sometimes so a good book can help pass the time.