Superstitions: Nipples
According to a strange middle-european superstition, it is possible to tell from a man's nipples whether or not he has fathered children. If they are pink in colour, then he has not - while if they are brown, then he has!
https://www.instagram.com/p/CE9eRXBBeRQ/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link
Throwback to October when CPS was on strike and I had extra time to carve pumpkins. This is one of two I carved, both based off original sketches. I don't own any fancy tools, so I created this using a knife, peeler, zester, and some sandpaper.
Nornwan. Once there were Nature dwelling elves. They only ever lived, frolicked and played in the deep woods. Their bodies were quite accustomed to the trees. They could speak with the elements of nature, they could make the trees move and cause great mushrooms to grow from the earth. Theirs was the power to ask the spirits that watched over the wood fro guidance and peace. The Knights Factions implored these wild folk for aid on one fateful day. Few elves agreed to give trees and other supplies to the army, those that did not were attacked and destroyed and given no help by the army of Knights.
"If you're a goblin in need of a smoke, you know where to go" Part of a series I've started with monsters in the modern world, this is the digital work I've liked the most so far, but I'd appreciate feedback on anything I could improve on.
A life drawing I did yesterday via zoom with Drawing Life in Glasgow. The pose and theme were modelled after Egon Schiele. Charcoal, brush pens and conte on brown A3.
It's weird to think that crowds in places is not allowed and you can actually get a hefty fine. This still rings true in Toronto. Nowadays you see something like this it's illegal. Hence the name of the drawing titled: The Illegals
This drawing is of a slightly older individual and the rendering is deliberately incomplete. The unfinished nature of the image alludes to the idea that although aged, the individual has not reached the end of their lives. Therefore the subject has more living, growing, and maturing to do.
Another "Sick Day Scarecrow" I did recently getting over a cold. There's too much comic stuff to get into to explain this, but in summary its a parallel universe Scarecrow I decided to design who is more of a superhero. Kinda.
"I remember you put a smile on my face. Now I got the crow's feet." ~ A blackout poem from a recycled page of Burnout, an Young Adult adventure/romance story.
A Brief Pause at the Edge of Becoming
It seems I am always seeking a place to sit—
not just to rest the body,
but to settle the soul.
Yet even in stillness, Gary Brecka’s words whisper:
“The quickest way to old age
is the aggressive pursuit of comfort.”
So I do not stay long.
I walked until I found a picnic table
beneath a canopy of bare-limbed trees,
branches like open hands waiting for green.
The blue spruces nearby—
stoic, unchanged, whispering that some things endure.
I sketched.
Not perfectly. Not for anyone’s praise.
Just a mark to say: I was here.
Alive in this in-between.
Waiting. Listening.
Not for leaves—
but for something truer than comfort.
Thank you for joining me in this small noticing.
A moment borrowed from the rush.
A table. A tree. A thought.
A gift.
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.
