talk

DADDY LOVES ALL ANIMALS BECAUSE THEY don't contradict him. He likes ones that are furry best. And they love him, too, because they know that they can do just as they like. But it's quite a different matter with Females. If you make statues of them they become women but as long as they remain Females things are difficult. They can't even pose properly and they talk much too much. - Sculptor's Daughter by Tove Jansson #dailydrawing #tovejansson

This artwork is part of my ongoing visual diary of factory life—small, overlooked corners turned into honest moments. “Trash Talk” sits right between humor and grit… a reminder that even the most mundane places have something to say.

Found this while flipping through an old sketchbook.. would do it differently now but kinda cool I think

Ideas are transferred in different ways by different people

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Inktober day 8. Reckless. "You'll tell me", he said, "if I start to talk crazy". Sing to it Amy Hempel

I get these random thoughts and ideas. When they come I need to get them out like a parasite that eats you from the inside out. But yes, this one started with the expression and body pose. I scraped the rest of her body because I didn't like it. But since I like strong females that are ready to stand and fight. The more I colored and came to close the picture, I had a thought. Sometimes inside of my head I get too many voices that talk and tell me what I am. Some are truth but some are lies. Well those voices, ARE MANY!Just like Legion, they are many. So this picture describes mental health and spiritual warfare that happens on the daily.

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Two wicker chairs in the sun. One for the waiting, one for the hoped-for. The table between them holds its silence, its place set for bread or talk. I draw what is here— lines quick and unerasable— and what is not here, her presence, waits with me in the white of the page.

A very rough sketch of my Ingellvar (I' not happy with it). I'll take this opportunity to talk about my headcanons: Her name is Isida (once it was Isseya, but I renamed her). She's an introvert. So leading a whole team to save the world is hard for her than for my other planned Rooks. Her eye was damaged in a fight with Baron Van Markham, which really hurt her as an archer. Luckily, Varric taught her some tricks and gave her a second wind. She's back in action. I don't know if it's mentioned in the game, but for now I'm headcanoning that she got the name Rook from Varric, who became like a father to her. So she prefers to be called Rook than Isida Ingellvar. Sometimes she yearns for her elven roots, but still prefers Nevarra and Necropolis. Hopefully, she will get me back into art.

While working at the GCPD, they haven't really communicated. Or rather, they haven't communicated at all - Edward was courting Kristen Kringle, and if they crossed paths, it was limited to simple "hi-bye." But Amber was starting her "career" as an informant and tried to pay attention to her colleagues, especially if they stood out in some way. And Edward stood out. Not only with his brilliant mind, but also with his good manners, determination, and gentlemanly treatment of women. Therefore, Amber had him in good standing - which, in the context of her character, is a great compliment. But she did not seek friendship or any connection with him, being too busy with her ambitions. But they really got to know each other many years later, when he became the Riddler, and she became the Stalker. She, as always in all her versions, became obsessed with a new, interesting person, like a fan of a character, and wanted to become closer to them. This time, that person was him. She even felt strangely shy about going and confessing her interest to her former colleague. But nevertheless, everything was as usual - Amber, who rarely feels strong emotions, always tries not to miss the opportunity to satisfy her loneliness and sparked passion for someone with this strange agreement: she offers free information to her obsessions in exchange for their company and their personal information (like what subject they liked in school, how they prefer to court their love interest, nothing that could compromise them (She can find it on her own). She also does not enter into sexual relations with them, even if they are not against it). Having lived in the illusion of being showered with their attention, she eventually gets tired of them and silently moves on, ghosting them unless they do something that returns her interest (after all, having free info is worth "forgiving" her for moving on on them). This time, everything was the same. But the Riddler would not be the Riddler if he left her strange puzzle unsolved. Not that previous obsessions all let her go without questions, but they were not the Riddler. And everything became complicated...

People talk about having a green thumb, maybe some people have a green heart.

Songs of wolves and sharks.

I need to stop doing them. This is an old Undertaker meme

Taking some inspiration from some things me and my girlfriend talked about regarding old highs in one’s past and asking yourself if revisiting them later on in life is worth it… the usual stuff I guess.

My canon x oc ship.

Erik Satie (1866–1925) In 1898, Satie moved from Paris’s Montmartre district to the working-class suburb of Arcueil, where he would live for the rest of his life. Most mornings, however, the composer returned to the city on foot, walking a distance of about six miles to his former neighborhood, stopping at his favorite cafés along the way. According to one observer, Satie “walked slowly, taking small steps, his umbrella held tight under his arm. When talking he would stop, bend one knee a little, adjust his pince-nez and place his fist on his hip. Then he would take off once more, with small deliberate steps.” His dress was also distinctive: the same year that he moved to Arcueil, Satie received a small inheritance, which he used to purchase a dozen identical chestnut-colored velvet suits, with the same number of matching bowler hats. Locals who saw him pass by each day soon began calling him the Velvet Gentleman. The last train back to Arcueil left at 1:00 A.M., but Satie frequently missed it. Then he would walk the several miles home, sometimes not arriving until the sun was about to rise. Nevertheless, as soon as the next morning dawned, he would set off to Paris once more. The scholar Roger Shattuck once proposed that Satie’s unique sense of musical beat, and his appreciation of “the possibility of variation within repetition,” could be traced to this “endless walking back and forth across the same landscape day after day.” Indeed, Satie was observed stopping to jot down ideas during his walks, pausing under a streetlamp if it was dark. During the war the streetlamps were often extinguished, and rumor had it that Satie’s productivity dropped as a result. - From Daily Rituals: How Artists Work by Mason Currey

Joan Miró (1893-1983) Miró always maintained a rigidly inflexible daily routine—both because he disliked being distracted from his work, and because he feared slipping back into the severe depression that had afflicted him as a young man, before he discovered painting. To help prevent a relapse, his routine always included vigorous exercise—boxing in Paris; jumping rope and Swedish gymnastics at a Barcelona gym; and running on the beach and swimming at Mont-roig, a seaside village where his family owned a farmhouse. Miró hated for this routine to be interrupted by social or cultural events. As he told an American journalist, “Merde! I absolutely detest all openings and parties! They’re commercial, political, and everybody talks too much. They get on my tits!” From Daily Rituals: How Artists Work by Mason Currey

For humour, this is what I imagine a talking oyster from England to be. Very English.

(Gel Fineliner on A5 paper) One of the age-old responses from dog-owners: “He won't bite you” along with “He's good with children.” He's a dog, and like all dogs, they're bred from wolves. Given half the chance they'd revert back to their natural pack instinct. The only reason they don't is that they see you as the pack leader who regularly feeds and pampers them. “Oh, my little darling isn't like that!” I hear you say, as if you're talking about a child. “He gives me kisses by licking my face. It's his way of saying how much he loves me.” He licks his balls and arsehole with that tongue, so what's he really saying there?

I just finished this for a friend. He is in construction and it seems like we're always talking philosophy and where we fit in the universe whenever we're working on a project together.

They say Prometheus brought fire from the sun concealed in a hollow fennel stalk. They say tarragon came to be when a flax seed was pushed into the pierced root of a sea onion and planted after dark. The Minotaur simply likes the smell of chopped herbs.” - Steven Sherrill For some reason out of all of my drawings, this one went viral on Tumblr. So when I got to the Minotaur on the list of hybrid creatures, I had to (re)make this one. The sentence is from “Minotaur takes a cigarette break” by Steven Sherrill. It’s wonderful.

Digital art done in Photoshop. https://leglessmermaid.blogspot.com

Listening to Megumi Nagai talk and getting inspired. It was a wonderful show! It's up until June.

Hand drawn doodle with added Photoshop digital graffiti... https://leglessmermaid.blogspot.com

Luminary Festival - Auren Farkis (Digital Portrait I did as a colour study) Crisp reverberating strings danced through the evening. Notes twisted and echoed up through the emerald, velvet tiers of Ridgedow Gardens. Dusk’s veil had long since darkened to a diamond-encrusted black, and Clarglow was alive with activity. Footpaths were choked with revellers that formed a river of light that coursed and pulsed through the park. Will-o-whisp spots of light also glowed among the neatly trimmed hedgerows and statues. Their magic-addled voices rose up, joining in with the music of the Luminary Festival. A young man, no more than a quarter of a century old, glowed brightest of all. A soft orange radiated from his eyes, and his veins pulsed a brilliant red. He was dripping in gold and gems. Over an outfit that somehow managed to be heavily layered and revealing at the same time, he wore a sheer cape, which was heavily embroidered with blood-red crystals that refracted his own light around him in dazzling, concentrated rays. It was such a dangerous colour of magic, but his expression was soft and dreamy. Excited laughter rose up as a clustered group shot metallic confetti skyward. Gold flake drifted down and settled into his silver hair, cheeks, and shoulders. No doubt he would discover the remnants of this festival in his home weeks from now. He increased his pace, stepping off the cobbled path to overtake the group, when one of their number split from the group. The coils of her dark hair were so saturated with gold that she looked like she belonged on a pedestal next to the other statues. She intercepted him, matching his pace. She snaked a long, slender arm around his waist and pulled him closer. She pressed her lips against his neck, leaving a wake of golden kisses up to his earlobe, where she leaned closer to whisper. — “Aurie, Luv, I know that look. Don’t tell me you’re headed home. The eve has only just begun. “ Her glowing eyes Locked with Auren’s, her grip tightening, slowing the both of them to a stop, causing a temporary blockage in the flow of people. “Overdid myself Mel.. you’ll have to –” –” Come with us to the reflecting pool.” She cooed, meeting his lips in an off-center kiss, smearing his inky wine lipstick. Momentarily, he allowed himself to relax. He considered saying yes. His heart pounding, he dipped his friend backwards gracefully, resenting that he had to leave. An itch in his left arm reminded his fuzzy brain that he was in danger. Gasping softly, he gently lifted Mella upright and spun her out towards her friends, who were growing impatient. He couldn’t make out their faces in the fuzz of the evening. “I can’t, I’m sorry Mel! We’ll talk later.” Before she could protest, he danced, spinning forward in a brilliant display of speed that ended in a stumble as he met a set of steep steps that coiled sharply upwards out of the park and onto the pink brick streets overlooking Ridgedow Gardens. The glazed windows facing the street were empty and blank… their occupants elsewhere, enjoying the festival. The empty buildings were like faces, judging him for his lack of zeal. Auren wound his way through streets and side streets, his pace increasing as he grew more and more alone. Finally, he was climbing a set of steps to his own front door. Smirking at the sight of it he reached down into the front of the bodice that held together the layers of his outfit pulling free a loop of keys that were on a long chain looped around his neck. Aligning it to the keyhole he struggled with the lock, cursing softly under his breath as it initially failed to cooperate with him. In the quiet black of his foyer, he latched the door behind him and stumbled forward, tearing at the ribbon that held the gleaming cape that draped from his bare shoulders. He let it drop on a black lacquered table. He reached up to unclasp an elaborate choker and tore his single, crimson glove down from his elbow. He pressed a gilded fingernail against a band of red ink encroached upon by a spreading corruption. Marginally extending beyond the band were sinews of mismatched muscle and skin; even his hair had begun to glow red. Pulse rising, he wrenched his rings from his fingers, casting them into the ever-darkening room. Precious jewellery piled under him until only the dimmest glow from his own veins remained.. Slumping onto the steps, he tightened his grip on his arm and twisted it ninety degrees. A sharp click of crystal against porcelain met his ears. The room was enveloped in black as his final stone slid away from his arm, rendering the prosthesis inert. He slid to his side, the sounds of the party below overtaken by his own gasping breaths, panic refusing to subside alongside his magic.