My final entry for Stage 3 of the doodle addicts challenge! I have loved doing these challenges. They have not only got me drawing things I wouldn't have considered off my own back, but they have brought me out of my comfort zone too. Drawing steam is harder than I thought!!!
Mixed media. Acrylic, pencil, digital. This is a piece from the book “Mail Me Art - Medium Without A Message” by @littlechimpsociety. I think it was the second call for entries/book.There are now 4 books filled with awesome art drawn and painted on outsides of envelopes and packages by artists all over the world who then mailed them to the UK totally exposed to the postal service. The original was all analog. I brought this into Procreate and reworked it. I may do more when I get a chance but I’m pretty satisfied with it now.
Inktober2018day12-Whale. I’m using inktober to explore and improve my techniques. This time I wanted to try using more crosshatching. I’m happy with the result. Also, at first I had nothing for the whale prompt but it’s rewarding when you push through the dead space and a concept or idea comes to my head that I can be excited with.
I had a wonderful time creating this commision for a Kansas City Personalities wall mural installed in a downtown KC apartment building. The wall measures roughly 12’ x 20’. These were all hand drawn graphite and charcoal drawings that I scanned into my mac and delivered digitally. The file was then enlarged and applied to the wall surface.
My favorite way to eliminate the often paralyzing fear of "ruining" "good" paper is to just paint on any and all junk mail that comes into my house. Higher end catalogs are great for this, they don't use slick, thin paper (and even that gets used in collage or as a desk cover for other projects) and they're already bound for you. Just add marks! Carry it with you. Scan the pages you like. Cut it up later for making other art. It's "just" junk mail, so there is literally no pressure. I have HUNDREDS of these type of things and I run across them all the time, forgotten, in some old backpack or purse or drawer and it's a treasure to look through them again, and add new marks, paints and words.
Here is a sneak peaks of my submission to the Home Sweet Home Challenge. I loved this challenge because it forced me to do something I never would have, which gave me happy surprises as I worked through it.
There's a big drop of black ink spilled near the center... It's like that bit of ink just couldn't wait to be part of the art. Sometimes a rough sketch takes on a life of its own.
For this piece I used acrylic paints and acrylic markers. My inspiration was my love of tattoo flash and traditional/neo-traditional tattoo designs. I grew up flipping through pages of tattoo flash catalogues and the art inside was a huge influence in my own art. Some of these pieces are my versions of popular designs and some are originals.
Teaching painting is a great task to ask of a person who doesn't paint. I do not paint. I teach the manipulation of media through experience. "Learn from doing!" I say. Monochromatic pastel exercises help my students to get a handle on the media. We explore value and composition and the handling of media. Sometimes happy accidents occur. This was my example to the teens on composition and value. It is a journey.
I got a little emotional when I heard the Lahaina banyan tree would make it through the Maui fire. I found a reference and painted a watercolor of the new growth. I come from a Navy family and was born in Hawaii. Let me know if I got the transparency and shading right or if it is aesthetically pleasing.
I want the composition to be thoughtful but on the sad side. My skill practice was brush strokes and blending (but not overdoing the blending) as I try to figure out how I stylize as an artist. Still working in the realm of realism and proportions as I am a newbie, but wanna flex into stylization a bit more. I did this through Rebelle 5, which is absolutely amazing, IMO.
I have been watching a lot of sci-fiction lately. Like so many others my age or younger, the weight of global warming sits on my shoulders constantly. I imagined the final trek through a wormhole as someone sees their new solar system for the first time. I enjoy the bright colors and such but wish I conveyed a more bittersweet emotion.
Day 6 #inktober2017 - Sword. Yikes! Someone is feeling some aggression after what him through on day 2. You can follow me on http://instagram.com/jimbradshaw to see the all of my inktober posts and more.
There’s a lot of waiting in life.
Waiting in lobbies.
Waiting on answers.
Waiting for braces to tighten, kids to grow, hearts to heal, or prayers to be answered.
I sat at the orthodontist, watching dollars tighten on tiny wires, and made this sketch. A tree. A house. A street. Color helped the moment breathe.
I remember once hearing a chess master say, “There is no waiting in chess.”
It confused me—wasn’t there always a turn to wait for?
But he explained: “There’s no waiting. Only planning. Plotting. Analyzing. You’re always thinking.”
I once repeated that to a FIDE master. He got mad.
Maybe because waiting and patience aren’t the same thing.
We can be still and deeply active inside.
We can pause without being passive.
And then there’s Lindsey’s voice in the back of my head:
“That sounds like a first-world problem.”
“Speak life.”
“Be thankful. Rejoice always.”
And she’s right.
So here’s to filling waiting time with something creative.
Something kind.
Something that turns a delay into a doorway.
I am amazed summer after summer seeing this tree and garden grow. I started this with a blue background and a black layer that I punched through, and from there, I painted layer by layer from the back to the front. I like the realism I got, but I kept to a painterly feel using oil brushes.
Still the same concept I've been working through for a while, but trying to dig a little deeper. I had a 1:45 min flight and I worked on this the whole time (minus turbulence).
"At 6 o'clock the window squeaks and mum calls time" from Graham's Up the Tree. It must have been strange for mbpardy to see his his story interpreted through my illustrations... but page by page these characters came to life, with both of our contributions somehow adding up to something bigger.
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.
I never imagined I could capture so much emotion in an eye—especially on just my second attempt. This piece came to life through intuition more than technique. The values, the shadows, the highlights… they felt like they found their place on their own. Maybe emotion, light, and shadow have always spoken to me—I just finally listened.
The tables were covered in white paper. Crayons, pastels, and smooth sticks waited quietly. Then came Lucy’s glittery purse—her 8-year-old hands had filled it with stones to pass along, one by one, to the strangers around the table.
We traced them. Pushed them. Held them.
Then we let the colors lead:
-Red for emotion.
-Yellow for curiosity.
-Blue for memory.
Each color came with music, with story, with space.
At the Museum of Wisconsin Art, we made marks not for meaning but for presence.
Thank you to Ann Marie and MOWA for the invitation and trust. And thank you to the participants—some new friends, some old students—for showing up and making lines that listened before they spoke.
4 year old Henry engaged fully with thick applications of watercolor and oil pastels. He said it was a stormy sea with a small boat. This was at the onset of the pandemic, when we were all a bit uncertain and confined to our homes. I was reminded of an insight by Kierkegaard written in the early 1800s: “When the sailor is out on the sea and everything is changing around him, as the waves are continually being born and dying, he does not stare into the depths of these, since they vary. He looks up at the stars. And why? Because they are faithful – as they stand now, they stood for the patriarchs, and will stand for coming generations. By what means then does he conquer changing conditions? Through the eternal: By means of the eternal, one can conquer the future, because the eternal is the foundation of the future.”
