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?
This piece was done with watercolour crayons, crayons, fineliner, acrylic paint and a touch of posca. I was showing that love can be blind and sometimes almost arrogant and selfish, the arrow has hit the spot on the second attempt but the scars are still to be seen. Although the person playing cupid aint always an outside force. I enjoy playing with the titles and am constantly changing and thinking of what it will be called when doing the piece, but i do like my wordplay. this one was a play on horticulture and felt it all tied in to the final design :))
This is available as an a3 sized print.
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.
"Lost little red." *He took a step closer as he towered her smaller form. He chuckled lowly as if her mere presence was a joke to him. He reached out, his long, sharp, black claws touched a strand of brown hair. "What a little snack you'll make."
A character concept drawing of a pirate vampire character I created for a collab writing project that died. His clothing and even his hair borrowed aspects from various jelly fish as inspiration. " The snap of inky sails catching the wind punctuated the subtle wooden creaks of the Sea Nettle as it slid over glossy black waves. The night was oppressive. With the moon obscured by clouds, the ship, with its doused lamps and its dark wood was nearly invisible as she crept closer to her prize. Tallis stood on the forecastle, one foot propped against the railing, his hands supporting a spyglass. He drifted the lens between the lights below deck, counting each of them and making note of any movement on the upper deck and in the rigging. A single sailor was at the helm. Another was lazily standing beside him, possibly engaged in conversation that distracted him from his watch. This was to be expected, not many would dare to disturb such a well-equipped vessel of the Luthen royal fleet. Nettie's crew was lesser in numbers, but they were experts in what few on the high seas could manage. Tonight, would be a quiet strike. Open combat spelled unnecessary danger for his crew."
I pride myself for not being into internet drama or spreading gossip, but i do have a guilty pleasure. Mohammad agbadi is a youtuber who talks about problems with the art community, like tracing, theft, harassing and difficulties with etnic representation. Hopefully he wouldnt mind me borrowing his face to practise drawing black men... even though i heavily overworked his skin.
you step carefully around the purple flowers blooming sporadically across the forest floor. it is very late at night, and you know that you shouldn't be wandering this uncharted planet on your own at this mysterious hour. but something in the trees beckons you subconsciously. as you begin to clamor up steep, untread areas of the landscape, you discard you burdens--a first aid kit, your water, all the suddenly unnecessary contents of your pack. something primitive roars inside of you. your pace increases; you now feel the shear closeness of whatever you are chasing so starkly. your feet and hands slip as you grasp onto the trunks of trees and throw your feet ahead of you with such purpose. at last, you arrive at a clearing--and there she is. and she is like nothing you have ever seen before. she is not human, far from it, but your passion for her claws at every inch of your insides. she is not like any creature that has walked earth or neptune. she is something entirely different, and you have fallen in love with that--with her.
I'm working on finishing this with watercolor and pen. It symbolizes growing up and the important relationships between old and young. Critiques are appreciated.
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When we help someone there is always something that blooms and grows beyond us. It is an increasingly necessary action in a world that unfortunately is increasingly divided.
@givingtuesdaypt challenged me to illustrate its movement inspired by this year's motto "Together we change the world"!
This day is celebrated on the first tuesday after BlackFriday, calling on anyone to choose a cause that ressonates with them and give back to them however you can. Thus, a wave of massive generosity is created, which can (and should) extend beyond today! Are there any organizations you want to support?
: .
I haven't drawn him in a long while,he's actually easier to draw than other of my demon OC's it's just that I need to practice anatomy to draw a full character sheet of him.i drew his head too big I think maybe it's just his hair or how his other shoulder isn't visible nonetheless I finally drew him (I can't draw him with a crown because I haven't designed one for him yet) I may or may not finish this at all
Zelfmedelijden is Dutch for Self-pity. The person is drowning in their own self-pity. They are depressed and poison themselves with their pity. It hurts, but is hard to stop. Addicted to pain.
September 2019, acrylics on canvas
It's been a while since I draw on kraft paper.
So, here is the result on the thinking process: How can faun shield themselves from sunlight if they can't put a hat on?
Answer: They tie branches to theirs horns.
...
I should be the one shielding myself from the sun just so it can't kill anymore neurones.
---
Ça faisait vraiment un moment que je n’avais pas dessiné sur du kraft.
Donc voilà le résultat de la réflexion: Comment les faunes font pour se mettre à l’abri du soleil s’ils ne peuvent pas mettre de chapeau?
Réponse: Ils s’attachent des branches dans les cornes.
…
Je crois que c’est moi qui devrait me protéger la tête du soleil, histoire que ça ne cogne pas trop sur mes pauvres neurones.
A flock of pelicans with their beaks open waiting for fishermen to throw out tasty morsels. I drew this from a photo I took last month, from a coastal vacation. India Inks and watercolours.
