room

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

Slice of life in a hotel room

You can listen to nothing but rock music and wear nothing but black clothing and only date short guys in their thirties. Those are valid preferences. Choosing not to hire people of color or refusing to let trans people use the bathroom is prejudice.

Jane Austen (1775–1817) Austen never lived alone and had little expectation of solitude in her daily life. Her final home, a cottage in the village of Chawton, England, was no exception: she lived there with her mother, her sister, a close friend, and three servants, and there was a steady stream of visitors, often unannounced. ... Austen wrote in the family sitting room, “subject to all kinds of casual interruptions,” her nephew recalled. She was careful that her occupation should not be suspected by servants, or visitors, or any persons beyond her own family party. She wrote upon small sheets of paper which could easily be put away, or covered with a piece of blotting paper. There was, between the front door and the offices, a swing door which creaked when it was opened; but she objected to having this little inconvenience remedied, because it gave her notice when anyone was coming. “Composition seems to me impossible with a head full of joints of mutton & doses of rhubarb.” From Daily rituals by Mason Currey #dailyrituals #inktober #janeAusten @masoncurrey

Portrait of Duncan Trussell and some happy mushrooms

First attempt at engraving style pen drawing. Not bad for a first try, but significant room for improvement.

Slice of life drawing.

Mushroom dance!

vroom vroom squeak squeak

OH, I'M SO GLAD MY DOODLER FINALLY LEFT ROOM FOR MY BOOTS

Lord Sugars Board Room Painting by Barrie J Davies 2024, Mixed media on Canvas, 21 cm x 29 cm, Unframed and ready to hang. Handmade Barrie J Davies artwork painted in my Brighton Artist Studio and signed on the reverse.

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

The finished piece of the first painting I documented for social media

It's a perfect day for a Portuguese Tart. My favorite one is from Showroom Bakehouse. Melts in your mouth and is a tiny piece of decadence.

Back to the Art Room

Mushroom in progress

Ballpoint pen and ink in my watercolour sketchbook.

Digital collage in Procreate

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.

https://www.instagram.com/p/C146AlyJhwN/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link&igsh=MzRlODBiNWFlZA==

Sometimes, We have our hands so full of Ourselves That we have no room for others. Sometimes, We have our hands so full of Others That we have no room for ourselves or others.

Suppose that 'meaning' is a faint word scribbled on a wall in a dark room. The words that we use are often barriers that separate, then, our 'comprehension' from 'meaning.' Let us suppose then that the light of the intention of a speaker is obscured by a 'word.' The angle and setup of that intention then, along with the angle and setup of the comprehension of the listener, can distort or disguise the true meaning of what the speaker is saying. Of course, the angle and setup of these things can vary greatly, just as easily as the shadows that cover 'meaning' can vary. It would seem best, then, with this in mind, to communicate as transparently as possible and to avoid and/or to detect deceit whenever possible. Dishonesty and misdirection, whether deliberate or otherwise, in the speaker or in the listener, always risk shrouding 'meaning.' When communicating earnestly, distraction can be dangerous. Shrewdness is recommended.

A mushroom girl I drew.

Watercolour and coloured pencil on watercolour paper.

laying down in endless room voide

20 SEP 2023