My favorite time of year is almost here. The cool breezy air, the colors and smells. The sounds of the last crickets, the mood of the sky. I could go on and on. This was A fun piece to work on. What will the next challenge bring?
"Flying in the sky with a lady in its arms,
The Platform's heading fast out to the farm.
She was harmed unknowingly and now she will become a seed,
From which the platforms now will feed until they breed." -- Drawn with fountain pens, colored with my iPad using Procreate.
"I really don't like to gripe,
But there's a monster in pink stripes,
And he's lifting our house up to the sky.
It's like what Mama always said,
That we would all reach such great heights,
But I suspect that's not quite what she meant."
Flying Robot in the Sky, watercolor. I used my new Holbein paints. (I love them.) Drawn with a Pilot Falcon SEF using Platinum Carbon Black. A trifecta of Japanese paint, pen, and ink.
If it wasn't enough that Ernest Shacletons ship Endurance was crushed by the ice in Antarctika’s, some kind of weird Space Weather phenomenon appeared into the sky(drawing tip:if your drawing looks flat and dull , try to transforming it something different ).
Test my new Moleskine watercolor sketchbook with different pens. Waves with Pentel brushpen , clouds by Lamy fountain pen and sky in the middle using Unipin
A horizon of chalk—black sky heavy with silence, gold earth glowing with embered breath.
Between them, a thin line of turquoise, the pause where one world ends and another begins.
It is not sky, nor sea, nor sand alone. It is the threshold—a doorway, where silence teaches and light remembers.
Stand here long enough, and you may hear it breathe.
inking and seeing for better being — https://forming20.com/
I generally make marks on something every day, but I'm really TRYING to do it purposefully in one single journal at a time. I also have super ADHD, which means I pretty much never go up to my actual studio and usually only use what's out on my desk, because out-of-sight-out-of-mind.
Against the weight of a storm-dark sky, tender stems lean forward—some bending, some breaking, some still reaching.
They hold their fire at the tips, waiting to bloom, waiting to burn, waiting to belong to light.
Perhaps this is all of us:
stretching through shadows,
searching for the thin, golden line that divides earth from eternity.
Lino cut print over pastel. The story goes: The bird fell in love with the whale the first time she saw him break through the ocean’s surface, sunlight dancing on his back. From high above, she sang to him, and deep below, he answered with a song as old as the tides.
She longed to dive, to join him in the rolling blue. He wished to rise, to fly beside her in the endless sky. But air and water would not trade places.
So each day, at dawn and dusk, they met at the edge of their worlds—she on the wind, he in the waves—singing a love song carried by the breeze and the tide, never together but never apart.
This is no landscape you could ever stand in.
No observational drawing, no safe horizon line.
This chalk experiment is a dream unfolding in color: a golden field lit from within, a scarlet seam of fire at its edge, and a storm-heavy sky pressing down with ancient weight.
It feels like a place between worlds—where the conscious and unconscious meet, where memory and imagination blur. Some might see a battlefield, others a meadow after rain, and still others a veil between life and death. That is the beauty: the painting does not tell you what it is; it invites you to confess what you see.
Psychologists say we project ourselves onto images like these. So—what do you notice first? The light? The darkness? The burning red?
Perhaps that is not about the drawing at all, but about you.
