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rare art post but redraw of a spider noir comic panel!!! (also a redraw of a drawing i posted on here a while ago)

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can someone make a 4 hour spider man noir 2009 & ewaf video essay please. For me..

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New banner I made 😋

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It’s okay to do things badly it’s okay to do things badly, I repeat to myself as I begin imploding

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the worst thing about writing or any kind of craft is having an idea you're really excited to make a reality but then you sit down and realize how much work it's going to take to get to that point and suddenly you feel like those two little gay guys in the mountain in the lord of the rings

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there is an IMAGE in my HEAD and i cannot DRAW IT. hatred and rage.

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HAPPY SPIDER-MAN DAY 🔥🔥🔥‼️‼️‼️‼️

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me getting five notes from my regular mutuals on any given post

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spider noir sketch i did!

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2 noirbcomic panel redraws i did last week :3

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ALL ART CREDITS GO TO @foolsocracy !!

posting this here too bc i like it!!!!

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This started off quite simple, and it started out with wanting a non-evil portrayel of the Spider God. It quickly became far too long for me to put fully succinctly.

But it goes something like this:

You are a God of stories. Perhaps you weave them, perhaps you have taken them from others, perhaps you simply annotate in the margins of pre-existent ones. What matters most is that this is how you live - telling tales.

You yourself are a story, in this sense, one believed and beloved. It is through being cherished that you preside over humanity, and through this you grow close to its storytellers. Humanity, and its writers, are your anchor. The more compelling a story, the more your chance of survival.

And then, like any aged tale, you are forgotten. You struggle to remain in the consciousness of the dwindling number that aknowledge you. You exist soley, desperately, in the artifacts they once gifted you. Others come and leave. Others from further prey on the needy, the hungry. Your likeness is sold to the nearest collector for a family's dinner. You can't fault them.

This happens in a cycle, and with every hand you pass between, more of you is lost - names go easy, and easier still, oral tradition. Then its location, context, years lost to the murk of black market archeological sales.

You land in the hands of Norman Osborn's people. You are starving, tired, barely corporeal in the land of the people you once loved. You are an ocean from your inception, in both distance, years, and memory.

And they have the gall to drop you.

With what little you have left, but yet sheer scraps, you manifest and strike out in vengeance. This is not to help you, nor is it strategic - you're furious, betrayed by the slow bleed-out death of culture and the long dream of imperialism. You sink your teeth in. You make quick work of the pawns of one in a long line of fools.

This will not save you.

But in this process, by the whims of this narrative even you are bound to, you chance upon someone else. What is special isn't necessarily who he is, so much as it is what surrounds him. He's motivated, so much that its eating him alive, towards goals you recognize are completely impossible. His idealism will kill him.

But first he will live. And he will live longer than perhaps he would expect - because this story is stubborn, as are you.

It might just be what you need.

And after all, what's more compelling this era than a tragedy?

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i see a post talking doom and gloom about how we'll never escape toxic masculinity. i think about back in 2017 when american girl released their first boy doll, and a review for him went viral in the collecting community. the review was written by a mom, who said they went into the store to get their daughter a doll, only to see their son's eyes light up like fire when he saw a doll that looked like him, and now every night he puts his doll in pajamas and rocks him to sleep. i think about the toddler in my daycare room a few years back who was obsessed with baby dolls, carrying them everywhere, and his mom proudly told us he uses his sisters' old baby dolls and wants to be just like them. that toddler saw another toddler crying one day and gave her the doll he had to cheer her up. i think about the eight-year-old boy i saw a few years back, excitedly waving around raya's sword in a target checkout line like all his dreams were coming true. there was a video on my instagram the other day of a little boy at disneyworld crying with joy upon meeting his hero, mulan. i think about the voice actor for bow in the she-ra reboot saying his nephews only wanted adora action figures. celebrity men are wearing dresses on tv now. last halloween i saw a little boy dressed as elsa. i went to go see spiderverse over the summer, and in the line ahead of me was a boy who couldn't be older than twelve or thirteen, bouncing and beaming, giddy with excitement over getting to see the female-led romance movie elemental. i think about the five-year-old boy at my library who breathlessly asked me where the pinkalicious books were, eyes widening when i had more on my cart, his mom explaining that he is all about pinkalicious and fancy nancy. i saw so many pictures online of boys and men dressed in pink to see barbie. teenage boys are gonna open their phones and see the man who wrote fucking game of thrones dressed in pink to see barbie. when i was a kid, a boy dressing in pink was practically a social death sentence. there are boys running around in pink on my street right now.