#HB2 pencil

[lactosegremlin]

i’m kind of losing my shit.

because this actually turned out good???

[alcsec]

types of writing utensils they use

implied modern au. featuring: albedo, kazuha, tighnari, xiao.

cw. none wc. 196

albedo

he uses a cheap ballpoint pen. used to use an expensive fountain pen but it had too many issues like leaking while in the pocket of his button-up, or constantly being taken and misplaced by his lab partners timaeus and sucrose.

kazuha

he writes artistic pieces containing flowery language on the daily and as much as i want to say he has the nice writing utensils from like muji or something - his most used tool is a wooden hb2 pencil he found inside a random desk next to a slab of dried chewing gum.

tighnari

he uses a 0.5mm lead pencil. he has a delicate hand grip along with an eye for finer details. he's able to sketch his botanical drawings with keen accuracy using a thinner lead.

xiao

he uses a 0.7mm lead pencil with a rubber grip. holds his pencil in a deadlock so the grip helps alleviates the tension on his fingers. has to be 0.7mm because he presses down onto the paper with such heavy pressure that 0.5mm lead would either immediately break or puncture a hole into the sheet which would ruin his mood for the rest of the day.

© alcsec. do not modify, copy, repost or translate any of my works

[masoenart]

CASTIEL 🪽

This drawing has nothing to do with fall per se, but this is the first time I have ever drawn Cas.

Also I am seriously 🤣 considering switching to a fandom with clean-shaven men...the stubble dots 🥴.

Below is the image I used as inspo and I'm proud to say that I did not trace the outline, all completely free-hand.

Materials used:

- Compressed paper blender stick

- Laserjet printer paper (used scrap fm work)

- Pencils 9B, HB, HB2, 4H and F

- Gel pen

[strangestcase]

Question: What kind of markers do you use for your art?

Answer: usually fancy alcohol markers, the type that blend together easily and can layer. I ink with Tombow brush pens and sketch with HB2 pencils. when I don’t have the fancy markers around I use a cheaper brand and ink with calligraphy felt pens.

[okmcintyre]

13 for the ask game!

13. Do you prefer to write in pen or pencil?

Typically black pen is my go-to, but it depends on what I'm writing! It feels wrong to do math without an HB2, and for letters/journals I do certainly appreciate how much better pencil holds up to water damage ✏️

50 Questions Just Because

[decadentstudentcollector]

My camera's quality is bad, it looks better in real life.

Whoever say traditional art is dead can cry in my Norma HB2 pencil.

[azzie-the-amiable]

I'm so sorry, Black Paint Of A HB2 DIXON Ticonderoga Pencil :(

[josie-marks]

I had this perfect hb2 pencil for drawing that was my favorite, but I lent it for my student and since then I've never seen it again lmao, the worse thing is that it's a pencil that you get when you buy a set of coloured pencils and if I want it I'll have to buy it

[thetwilightroadtonightfall]

I got into another one of my Ship Moods™️

[syadworld]

Good morning!

Sorry for not posting sooner! I had a lot of work this week and couldn't find enough time for Julian's pencil drawing. This isn't finished though, but I though about posting a little WIP here for you to have a look 👀

I haven't drawn an armor with graphite pencils before, so is kind of a challenge for me, but I'm taking my time because I want this to be a master piece.

And yes, Julian as a warrior on shining armor is freaking cool! 😱😱😱😱 (not like I've expected something different tho).

I hope to finish it on next week 😊

Hope you like it and have a lovely Friday!

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

P.D.: For those who had asked this: I always use hard pencils (H5,H2) for sketching and drawing the first structure. For shadows and darker parts I use soft pencils (HB2, B1, B4), and for lighting: a little eraser 😘

[tvheadfalls]

im sorry if you get this a lot!! but what supplies are you using for your inktober drawings?

i dont, dw!! i use these two 

https://www.amazon.de/gp/product/B019Z6SYIE/ref=oh_aui_detailpage_o00_s00?ie=UTF8&psc=1https://www.amazon.de/gp/product/B019Z6T2PI/ref=oh_aui_detailpage_o00_s00?ie=UTF8&psc=1

[lucyaliceartfulness]

[invadermak2016]

Another few hour project

Mediums used:

4H and HB2 graphite pencils for sketching

Tombow WS-BH hard tip calligraphy brush pen for line art

Prismacolor Premier colored pencils for coloring and shading

Uni-ball signo white gel pen for highlights

[feytouched]

15 & 32 :)

15. what’s the weirdest thing that’s happened to you?

not directly to me but involves me so i'm claiming it. when my mother was pregnant with me, she chose not to know the sex of the baby until i was born, but she had a dream of a girl in her young teens, who looked exactly as i later did at that age - a flurry of curly hair at the top of a hill, laughing and spinning with her arms wide open until she fell down on her back. she says she immediately knew that was me. so yeah uh myself i am very normal and have few weird occurrences to relate, unfortunately

32. do you write better with a pen or a pencil?

pen! specifically the .05 tip fineliners like sakura micron pens. love those. love writing small pretty letters. though that is more for neatness than speed, to write fast i'd go for a simple hb2 pencil

i'm still sick and bored, please send me asks

[ccohanlon]

shallows

Thoreau had his pond. This is mine.

It is not a pond, really, but a pool, an ovoid sump of water in a tangle of brackish tidal furrows that dry to black mud at low water. It is, at most, half a fathom deep and a couple of cables in circumference, just enough for a small boat to lie at anchor, undisturbed, afloat.

Around it, in every direction, salt marsh, brittle reeds and desiccated grasses, all shivering in a cold, autumn easterly carrying a saline haze and intermittent showers from the sea.

Carried my boat and me here, too, this morning.

I was a mile offshore when the wind rose. The sea concertina'd into a short, steep swell that clawed at the gunwhales and crawled over the un-decked bow to lift the burden boards beneath my feet. I was forced to heave-to, reef, then run towards an unmarked gat and the shelter of low, mutable banks that resisted easy definition as 'shore'.

I sailed and sculled further inland on the last of a flooding tide. Neap high water, a few inches deeper than my boat's draft, allowed me to thread shallower reaches — green tendrils of drying creeks and swashways on my out-of-date Admiralty chart, unreliable data for a passage through this expanse of shoal water, sand, mud, and yellow marshland.

I was not unprepared.

My boat is small, just 14 feet from stem-post to stern, but sturdy — clinker hull, hand-sawn, copper-fastened mahogany planks on oak frames — even if it has seen better days. A loose-footed, red canvas lugsail hangs from varnished, timber spars.

Stowed aboard:

An old boat compass, in a weathered, grey teak box, wedged between frames behind the centreboard case.

A sounding lead, eye-spliced to a coiled length of frayed, three-stranded cordage, each fathom marked by strips of red or plain canvas sailcloth or leather.

Two metal thermoses, both filled, one with tea, one with soup.

An oiled canvas rucksack — in it, a change of clothes, sneakers, a folded Ordnance Survey map, a marine hand-bearing compass, a stainless steel folding knife with shackle key and marlin spike, a large note book, two HB2 pencils, a bar of chocolate, an apple, and a plastic box of peanut butter sandwiches.

A pair of long timber oars, dressed with hand stitched leather sleeves and collars.

Ten fathoms of lightweight braided rode bent to a small anchor that I have just laid from the bow to hold the boat's head to the tide.

To the east, a church spire — marked by a cross on a spill of yellow defining dry land on my chart. North of it, a sliver of red metal rooftop over white timber, and close by, the whitewashed pylons of a timber public jetty. There is an outline of buildings on the chart that might be a village but I can't see them. I'll make towards there a few hours before the next high water.

I am in this pool, this pocket of sequestered sea and I want, somehow, to fix it, to give it substance. I take a bearing on the spire and draw its line across the Admiralty chart, circling the point at which it intersects my anchorage, a speck of blue — half a fathom noted at mean low water springs — amid the green of drying flats and banks. There are no other useful points of reference. Without a cross- bearing, 'X' cannot mark the spot.

Henry David Thoreau was a self-taught surveyor, probably because, like writing, it was a way of imposing order, some sense of godliness, on raw, unruly nature. One of his earliest projects was a plan of Walden Pond, dated 1864. Thoreau lacked talent as a draughtsman but he made up for it with diligent attention to calculable data. He took to the water to plot lines of soundings — noting the greatest depth, 102 feet — and hiked the pond's 1.7 mile shoreline, carrying a theodolite on a timber tripod, to measure its circumference and area.

I remember my first experience of hanami, decades ago, strolling through Tokyo's Ueno Park to view the rows of blossoming cherry trees. I remember the Japanese woman who had taken me there telling me, "It is beautiful, yes. But I am not a nature person."

I am not a nature person either. I cannot name any of the grasses around me here, nor any of the birds, other than gulls and shearwaters. I am incurious about them. But my vocabulary for wind and water is as rich and nuanced as an Inuit's for snow and ice — I study the interplay and antic shape- shifting of these elements every chance I get.

And I take care not to talk about what I observe in anthromorphic terms: The sea has no mood, an old sailor once told me.

The sea isn't cruel. It isn't anything at all. It is just the sea.

I am afloat on what is left of it here, sitting amidships on the bottom of the boat, back against the thwart, squinting up at thin stratus, a nacreous scrim across a pale sun. The wind backs north-east. The boat swings around on its rode. Jittery water laps the timber planks beside me.

In the old days, the bottom of a plummet — as a sounding lead was sometimes called — was packed with greasy tallow before being swung from amidships. When the plummet touched bottom, mud, sand or gravel adhered to the tallow, giving the navigator an idea of the ground. If it was rock, the tallow came up clean.

Everywhere here is mud, dark, oleaginous sludge that resists light and turns shallow water a murky charcoal grey.

The tide turns as the sun's passage to the western edge of the marshes, obscured by cloud and haze, appears to accelerate. There is a faint burble — the first thin runnels of flood spilling across the swashway and through the gats to fill the narrow creeks.

A couple of hours pass. The boat lifts a little as my pool begins to swell. I stand up, balance myself against the thwart and hoist the awkward lugsail and its angled yard. Then I weigh anchor, jerking the rode a few times just before the flukes reaches the surface to shake off fistfuls of mud. A chalky residue swirls along the hull as we begin to make way.

I steer from the pool into a narrow creek leading west. What will I do if it is a dead end? The waterways within this sea of mud and grasses are a maze. Long stretches are unnavigable, even at high water — little more than waterlogged ditches and furrows.

Wind and tide make retreat impossible. Inland is the only course.

I squint into the sun under the foot of the sail, trying divine the depth and flow of the water ahead, gauging my heading on the distant church spire, almost unseeable in the glare. I will the angle between it and the boat's stemhead to close, to reassure me that I'm gaining some northing as we hurry further inland on the flood.

North and south, the marshland has turned a rich ochre. I will be ashore by dusk.

The boat has run too far ahead of the flood.

A quarter of a mile from the jetty, just before this skinny reach carries us into a patch of deeper water — another, bigger pool — the keel bumps into a muddy shoal, which holds it. I draw a deep breath and wait for the flood to lift us off.

It doesn't.

I stand up and shuffle amidships. With two hands, I angle an oar over the gunwhale to probe the bottom. I try to pole the hull sideways into what might be deeper water, adjusting my weight to heel the boat and reduce its draft.

She is stuck fast.

I study my out-of-date chart for reassurance but the drying height for this channel is unmarked. Without a tide table to give me a range for today, I can only hope another hour of rise will be enough to float us.

I toy with the idea of stripping off and going over the side to lighten the hull and push it into deeper water. But I have learned through gelid experience to avoid getting wet aboard an open, unsheltered boat. Nothing to do, then, but trust to time and tide. I prop my rucksack against the sternsheets, and lie my head on it, stretching my legs forward along the burden boards.

I close my eyes and listen — to the wind, what little there is of it now, to the water scurrying along the hull strakes, to the faint suck and scrape of mud around the keel. Patience is a necessary virtue for a sailor.

The first lesson of sea navigation is that you never sail to anywhere, you sail towards it, a semantic caveat that takes account of the uncertainty of every sea passage, even across sheltered waters, and defines a sailor's readiness to adapt to whatever befalls their vessels — unexpected calms or squalls, contrary tidal streams, a seabed's topographical drift.

In the ill-defined, liminal water/land of these marshes, even less can be relied upon. I wait.

First published in Place 2020, via The Centre for Place Writing, UK, 2020.

[atrvdul-blog]

Relojes. A3 realizado a grafito.