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!!!
This was done on a heavy day. On days like this, I like to doodle whatever is inside my head to lighten things up. My therapy. Almost everything in here means something.
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.
55 mins
“I Never Noticed The House Was On Fire” This is a painting for an upcoming group exhibition about memories. When I was a kid I grew up in a household where my parents were functioning alcoholics. They gave me toys, put me in front of the tv, and sent me outside to play to keep me distracted from what was going on. When I look back almost all of my childhood memories revolve around these things. I became obsessed with these imaginary worlds and I learned to draw by copying my favorite cartoons and characters from children’s books. It was not until I was much older, that the truth could no longer be hidden from me. The imaginary world of cartoons and books kept me shielded from the harsh realities of home. As I grew into an adult that form of coping grew with me as I created my own imaginary places inspired by the ones I loved as a child. A healthy place to escape.
Folktale Week Day1: Home. This is a folktale about the ghost of a woman who lived at Heceta Head Lighthouse Her baby died when she fell off the cliff outside their home. Tragic!
I was fortunate enough to to take my sketchbook class to observe medical students dissect donor cadavers. These donors gave there bodies to science to further our knowledge of the human anatomy and to train our future doctors. We worked alongside the med students and anatomy fellows. It was a humbling and fascinating experience.
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.
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.
"The Explorers" 14ft tall by 48ft long mural painting in Vienna, Austria alongside my friend Dead Beat Hero this past weekend. His comic book style robot characters emerging from the river into my crazy cartoon world.
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.
And now the Worry Wolf can stick by your side and bring ease to your everyday worries. A doodle, turned into a weatherproof clear sticker, cloaking lonely water bottles worldwide. Thanks for looking!
A simple ink sketch of a bird at rest. Sometimes the quiet moments—watching, pausing, waiting—are the deepest teachers. This drawing is part of my exploration of what I call the Quiet Practices—small ways of living from the inside out.
If you’d like to see more of my reflections, I share them here: https://forming20.com/
This portrait of Mr. Joshua Anderson—our resident Shakespeare whisperer—was drawn by student artist Covey Garrett as part of a school-wide tribute to our teachers. Students photographed, gridded, and drew 18x24” posters of their teachers, each paired with a favorite catchphrase. Mr. Anderson’s? A classic:
“Hint, hint. Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge.”
We think the Bard would approve.
"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely teachers..."
(okay, we may have paraphrased a bit).
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.
