Hello, my name is Valkea, and I'm a doodle addict. Edinburgh
I'm old and boring - but have a good imagination and have seen the world. Originally from Finland, currently live in Scotland. I have a different career and do art as a hobby. Learning and duty, doubt and beauty.
We're at the monster garden where the people were defeated,
A guard is never needed 'cause the monsters must be feeded.
I mean fed. Like I said:
Peeps are happy to be eaten 'cause it's never all that long,
Monsters do the number two and poop them back onto the lawn.
Colored in @escapemotions Rebelle
Here's the final color illustration created for Osprey Pens featuring the Osprey Pen Factory. It was drawn with the same fountain pen there on the right... An Osprey Milano 5.5 Flexpert Hourglass nib. Great pen! Colored in Photoshop.
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?
Even if it is (in my case at the least) just doodling away to the point of allsorts in the hopes it’ll make at least one person a) happy b) perked or c) amused, do good and be good in wake of the current shitstorms in the making.
More for another day...
