#and charcoal is the ‘root’ of myself as an artist

[iridescenceartandwriting]

Every once in a while, you have to go back to your roots.

As much as I love digital, and it is so much fun to play with, I started taking my art seriously when I first picked up charcoals. It was a relief to find that I can still play with them almost exactly the way I used to when working with physical mediums. (My space is too small now to break out my newsprint and vine charcoal these days)

So here, have a CJ. I don’t know if I will be doing a dark seasons series or not, but if I did, here is Autumn.

[jaylleoo14]

TW: BOTMM is a short drabble leading up to Keratoconus Entrapment. Although nothing explicit happens in this drabble be wary that the following will contain such themes/mentions (along with Keratoconus Entrapment): Horror/dark themes, deaths/murders, butchering/gore, unsettling descriptions, kidnapping, gen violence, blackmailing, alcohol, partying, corruption, morphed views of artistic expression, manipulation and gaslighting. All characters are aged up, you have been warned 

This idea sparked while I was listening to an audio and I was like "hmm, i like how ominous and spooky this can be." then suddenly boom, Jade Leech has spawned. So hear me out okay WAIT IM ACTUALLY KINDA SCARED RN BECAUSE SO MUCH IS BEING ENVISIONED IN MY MIND😭🙏 :') Okay but as the ideas kept on racking and stacking on top of each other I started to get a little "oh wow, this is actually starting to sound kinda good tho-" (im envisioning an uncanny Jade rn and i'm scared-)

Have you heard?

Heard of what?

The Mushroom Man who lives down Rocker Lane.

I. From paints to charcoal, to clay to wood. Then to pencil and pen, then back to your roots of finger painting on cardboard.

You've always had this sort of love for drawing. Since you were little you can recall your mother had always talked about how you were such an artistic child. A crafty one at that. Your dad was always telling his friends that his child was always so expressive and imaginative whenever the topic was brought up. Continuing on keeping up with art along your adolescence, to middle school, to then high school, you felt like you knew what you wanted to do. That being why you decided to go pursue an art major.

The university you are going to attend, University of Arts in Atlantica, was where you'd be heading on over next. Its a funny feeling in your stomach really, moving out and all and going to meet new people as you drift away from your old ones. The feelings welt up inside you slowly, feeling a sad weight bringing you down. You'd be staying in a co-ed dorm, at least then you'd be able to hopefully meet new people and make more friends. That's one of the main things you were looking forward to. It's time to look on the positive side here, and as you make your daily affirmations to yourself you bring out your phone to go to your notes app to remind yourself of the good things that happened and what to look forward to.

I saw a man helping his old relative (not sure) down a street earlier. That was really nice.

I saw some black cats cuddling with each other near the grass yesterday

the weather is nice today, it's not too windy and the sun is out high

I was able to pack another box of my stuff, I should go reward myself now

I was able to send in my resume for a job application nearby. I should also reward myself because I did a good job at tending to it.

Oh, that's right. You recently did submit a job application. You submitted it to a bakery oddly enough.

Art comes in many different shapes and forms, and you personally had another interest. That being the culinary arts. For at least once in your life you wanted to experience the working life of a culinary student, and although pursuing it as a career plan wasn't your solid choice - it was one of the options. And thankfully enough, the man there who skimmed through your resume seemed rather gentle about your chances. Hopefully you get the job, I mean you have plenty of experience before as well with handling and decorating foods. That was the main thing you were interested in. Sure you do enjoy baking, but it was the expression of being able to decorate cakes and pastries there that you were more eager to do.

Trey was the person who introduced himself first, claiming that his family owned the business. After the whole process of submission for your intended new job, something blue catches your eye. A natural call of curiosity causes you to divert your eyes a little away from Trey- who was finishing up the bases of what's to expect- and see a tall man through the window of the kitchen door. He had teal short hair, a longer black length of hair tucked behind his ear and his eyes looked rather sharp and lifted from the side. If for just a moment of observation, Trey caught where your eyes were distracted at.

"Oh, well it's still business hours, you know. He's another employee working here as well. If you get the job you'll see him more frequently." He says it so casually, but you would really hope you do get the job. Fiddling your fingers a little, you show a bit of anxiousness but you keep it professional. "What are the chances of me getting hired? I'm really eager to get this position."

A thoughtful look is splayed on his face, his glasses framing them well. "Well your past work seems promising. It doesn't look professional enough for it to display but I'm sure with enough practice it may work. Just wondering though, you're an art student, yes? Do you think you'd manage the hours alongside your classes?"

His words were a little hard for you to hear but you greatly needed it, a set reminder that you really still are an inexperienced culinary artist if anything. However you proceed to give him a determined answer. "Yes, I'll manage. I will uphold my duties responsibly, please consider taking me."

"They seem eager, don't you agree Trey?" Both your attention is turned and directed on the voice who spoke from behind, the teal haired man coming forward. He had a black plain apron on with the logo of a clover on his right chest, a white chef shirt on as the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. “Eagerness and experience are two separate things. I’ll consider it, don't worry.” 

Not knowing what to say, the teal haired man turns his attention onto you. You both meet each other's eyes and his lips curve more upward to be more inviting and polite. “Oh how rude of me, where are my manners? You can address me as Jade Leech.” He goes over to shake your hand as a formal greeting, and ever since then things have been going alright. Would you look at that, you got the job! And you’ve already moved in, meeting friendly people from all over with wild stories to tell. “Ugh, such an extroverted thing to do. I could never.” Idia’s voice is made metallic through your phone as you tell him about how you plan on going to this frat party to welcome the new incoming people. It was a new time of your life, why not let loose and meet new people? “Your reasoning still stinks. Imagine all the sweaty smelly bodies you’d bump into there. Not only that but eee! So many loud normies! My HP would already max out by the time I get there, definitely not.” 

“Look, I’ll be back soon okay? I want to try and enjoy this night before anything real happens like classes and work.” Bringing your coat on, you sling over a fanny pack over your torso with all the required things for what you can expect at this frat party. “If you don't let me know that you came home safely I’ll be adding modifications into that device of yours.” A simple reassurance is all it takes for him to hang up and with some worn converse shoes you slip out of your room. 

Clink!

Here's to a new school life. Surrounded by other lively participants of party go-ers, you hold a drink of alcohol in your cup. Everyone seems to have a good time, the music is blasting, the people are dancing and enjoying their time, and you have crazy party go-ers here climbing the roofs and pulling crazy stunts. It's quite the impression really. Taking a step outside all the way to where the cars are parked from the frat house, you take a deep breath and catch yourself a breather. Idia was right for the most part, and for this to be your first time at a frat party it was definitely overwhelming. However one thing for sure was that you were able to meet new people and enjoy your time there, just needed a little break is all. 

Little did you know though, that nearby deep in hidden trees and bushes laid a beaten up person. Most likely dead. No, definitely dead. For Jade Leech is always one to ensure that the deal is done. Frat parties, loud music, drunken party go-ers, it was all the perfect set up for him to strike and take advantage of. Who would know if just a person or two went missing? Especially ones who come by themselves. He’s got an eye for people you could say, with the way his eyes are arched up so meticulously. The location was just too good to miss out as well. Here it’s a little more isolated with vegetation growing around, the house being more secluded due to its bigger land. Blood is soaked into the dirt, his smile content that the earth is gaining some nutrition. 

Oh, what a surprise. He sees a familiar figure in the distance leaning up against one of the cars on the dirt path. It’s you. He could strike, but it would cause trouble. You aren’t his target. At least not yet. He can play a patient game, and a patient game he will play. The future awaits many things for the two of you, so until then, enjoy your fresh new life and your new job. You clock in the day following tomorrow, where Jade will surely start to learn more about you. And as much as he will learn about you, you my dear reader, will surely start to learn about him much more than what ordinary people see and know about him behind closed, faux smiled, bloodied doors.

I hope this reaches the right audience, but to all my dark/horror/yandere enthusiasts

just know..... JADE IS A BAKER IN HERE WITH NICE MF ARMS><

Literally the only thing i was fixated on when I was writing this, I was like "oml yes Jade with them nice buff baker arms anfisdifbfiubwif Trey you arent gonna be alone in this✊🤞." I practically melted just thinking about it while writing this ^^;

[mybeingthere]

Early works by Scottish artist Norman Gilbert.

Artist Norman Gilbert was born to Scottish parents in Trinidad in 1926. He decided to pursue a career in painting and it quickly became his life’s work. Norman attended the Glasgow School of Art, where he laid the foundation for his painting style: one that evolved and developed until his passing at the age of ninety-three in 2019.

His son Mark is writing about his father:

"Dad was many things, husband to our late mother Pat, father to myself, Paul, Bruno and Danny and grandfather to Katy and Murphy. He was also, in his time, a sailor, a pig man, a scenery painter and an art teacher.

Over time, these roles informed and fuelled what he was most of all, an artist, a dedicated, passionate and wonderful artist. Dad chose to paint, correctly assuming it would be a vocation that would sustain him for life. The world he recorded was intimate: his family, friends and their surroundings, in the settings of our homes in the south side of Glasgow and on holidays in the Highlands or France. From these sources, he created a joyful world of colour and beauty - one writer many years ago commented: ‘It’s always carnival at the Gilberts’, a line often quoted ironically at Dad by our mum. However, his devotion to his family is mirrored in his work – each and every painting and drawing was an act of love and compassion for the people he painted and the world he experienced. As such, Dad’s pictures are a tender and affectionate testament to his life and the relationships that nourished him.

The development of the pictures over the years parallels the changes and events in his life. His early paintings seem to resonate with the grey, muted tones of post war Britain. These panels are unembellished, depicting domestic settings that I often felt chimed with the sensibilities of playwrights like John Osborne and the other “angry young men” who focused on the personal and intimate aspects of working class Britain in the 1950s. The smaller, uncomplicated pictures gently evolved, over time, into larger vivid compositions, their colours, clashing and melding within linear, patterned and decorative structures. These later pictures seem very un-Scottish in style and potentially echo his roots in Trinidad, where he was born in 1926, to Scottish parents. Permeating his whole oeuvre is his unique vision resulting from years of dogged dedication and commitment to his craft and practice.

His subjects are often highly coloured figures, woven into equally vivid patterned spaces. Although the people are easy to perceive and are the focus of attention, they are rendered with the same weight of line, colour and flat texture as the setting in which they are depicted. This rigorous evenness of treatment can be disquieting for those in search of greater physical or emotional form to their figurative paintings. Nonetheless, it makes for complex, yet coherent, compositions where every element is, as Dad described it, at peace with the rest of the picture. The paintings are generous, open hearted and full of optimism. He began each picture believing it could be his best, yet characteristically, he recognized he could do little to control how people would respond to his work.

I often reflect how we as a family took the pictures and the act of sitting for him for granted. My brothers and I grew up in houses where there was always a studio in which Dad would spend most of his time, quietly working. We all sat for him as he drew us. Sometimes he’d dress us in his own checked trousers and striped rugby tops. More often than not we’d be pictured together or with Mum, friends and girlfriends. Being drawn was a constant part of our lives. We all spent innumerable hours sitting for him in the silence of his studio, the quiet punctuated by the squeak of his charcoal being dragged across the paper, creating the clean deliberate lines of his studies. As a child, the moment he announced he’d finished his drawing, I’d turn and dash from the studio before he could change his mind. Later, when I started attending Glasgow School of Art myself, I’d sit with Dad after he’d finished and we would discuss the drawings he’d just made and the composition that was gradually being constructed on the easel.

I also painted him. Portraits of both Mum and Dad featured in my degree show at GSA in 1991. After I graduated, I continued working in a studio in Glasgow. For the following nine years, it was not uncommon for Dad to sit for me in my studio in the morning and for me to sit for him in his in the afternoon. As we worked, we talked about our pictures and contrasting methods. He would puzzle over my liberal ‘turgid’ use of paint and the squalor of my studio, his being a pristine space he swept every day. In later years, when I moved to the US and then Canada, we would talk about our work during the multiple Skype conversations we would have each and every day. Sitting at our computers, we would view each other’s work through the screen and discuss what was working and what wasn’t. And we’d talk about my late mum, exchanging anecdotes that were poignant but often filled with humour and laughter. Paradoxically, these conversations were often triggered by discussions of the extraordinary drawings he made of her as he kept vigil during the last week of her life, which transformed his own deeply private experience into shared depictions of love, caregiving, end of life and bereavement. They taught me more than anything else about the healing power of art. He cherished these drawings and the memories they generated about Mum, who had done so much to support him over the years. Reflecting on the images, he poignantly stated: “At one point I did say, there’s no point in doing them because I can’t show her them. I can’t ask her what she thought of them.” I also know this feeling, for I too have lost my favourite most trusted audience and affectionate critic.

Mum died in 2016. The trio of paintings he created - Chair, Chair II and Chair III - stand comparison with anything he ever did, but are instilled with a unique pathos and poignancy. They echo the compositions he did of her in the years before she died, but now her Parker Knoll chair is empty, draped in the same patterned blanket that first appeared in his pictures in the 60s. These works, along with the drawings, were recently published in a book, Pat: End of Life Drawings by Norman Gilbert.

The media coverage these drawings of Mum received and the popularity of the BBC Loop film made about his life and work (which has been viewed seven million times online, not a few times by Dad himself) brought him letters and messages from admirers around the world. It also coincided with two near-sellout exhibitions at the Tatha Gallery, in Newport-on-Tay on the east coast of Scotland.

The success was hugely gratifying if slightly bemusing; clearly, though, he loved the response his work was now receiving and he was gratified to see the response to his earlier work much of which he had barely looked at himself in recent years. Now he was given ample reason to reappraise it, musing happily: “I seem to have a lot more good pictures than I thought I had”. Meanwhile, the artist who sought to make every picture better than his last was succeeding in spades; his work through his eighties and nineties and, perhaps particularly, after Mum’s death, becoming ever more intricate, cohesive and “at peace”.

Dad’s legacy lives in the body of work he leaves, paintings that testify to the importance of relationships and love as witnessed through his unique passion, vision and spirit. That legacy will live on beyond us all. What a life. What a gift."

[hannahfrankelart]

Hello! My name is Hannah and I'm an artist from New Jersey! I've been making content on TikTok and instagram for my art for a while now but I figured I'd try returning to my Tumblr roots (I was a 2012-2014 Tumblr girlie).

I wanted to use this platform to try to reach a different audience. I'd love to eventually do my art full time!

I'm self-taught, having taught myself to draw from a very young age. So I primarily do portraits in pencil or charcoal and I've gotten into watercolor in the last five years as well. My most recent endeavor is in the digital-sphere, pictured above. It's been tricky but making my art digitally has totally changed the game for me!

If anyone feels so inclined, I do sell some of my work! I have my link tree in my bio for anyone interested :)

I hope you enjoy!

Austin Butler in digital watercolor. 2024.

[studioofearthlydelights]

What inspires your work? Who are your biggest inspirations?

People, community, justice. Relationships. I always want things to feel human and organic. In a world where capitalism wants everything to be homogenous and systemized, I always want to create the thing made by hand, the unique or weird thing. I love plants and am really inspired by nature and life cycles. I garden. The esoteric. Tarot and astrology. Texture. Experimentation. Materials. Clay, glass, brass, charcoal. Music, loud and soft textures, contrast.

Kae Tempest — I sat next to Kae in a poetry slam at the Nuyorican in NYC in, like, 2010. I didn’t know they were performing. We chatted a bit throughout the show and then they went last, destroying the stage and winning the slam. The have gone on to rap and write and put out records and write plays and exist in this elevated yet gritty, honest space. Their shows are some of the most magical community experiences I’ve ever witnessed. They care deeply about people and community and bring that to everything they do.

Adam Gnade — Writer and musician that I’ve followed since Myspace days. I messaged him once for the lyrics to a spoken word song I heard of his called “Honey Slides” and I was so happy he responded (but I never saved it and wish I did??). We’re now kind of internet acquaintances. He is prolific and speaks in this gritty, no fucks voice that I can always feel emotionally. He puts out books and cassettes and zines and just whatever he feels like forever. Years ago when I was asking myself what the definition of a successful artist meant to me, he was on my list because I just want to make stuff people care about, consistently, forever. He’s got a long-term, loyal fanbase. I just want to find my people and create for them/us for as long as I’m breathing. Girl Knew York — There is a way Mira is rooted in her voice and craft that allows her to branch out into so many different mediums and communities that I aspire to and have really resonated with in the last few years. Tracey Emin — Sexually empowered badass artist, uses her body to tell story. Just opened a school, holding space for other artists and building community.

David Lynch — Dark and weird. Prolific. Wholesome yet obscene. Moby — Plays, like, every instrument. Is always playing, even after so many years in the industry. Karen O — Such a unique voice in a male dominated industry and world. Seth Rogen — I love the way he’s built a brand around craft and his own unique interests and personality and pleasure.

Vex Ashley — Creating gorgeous erotic films with A Four Chambered Heart. Director, photographer, artist of all things erotic and dark.

Emma Ruth Rundle — Musician and visual artist. Creating dark, emotional art across different genres of music (metal, folk, etc.) and visual media (photography, sculpture, installation). 

[xenetala]

New master post thing

Hello everyone. :) I'm removing my games master list from pinned posts as I'd like to revamp this blog a bit.

TLDR points: I started this blog 8 or so years ago and originally wanted this to be a place for me to interact with people over video games and show some of my hobbies. That original purpose has gotten lost along with a lot of myself over the years of life and I want to get back to my roots so to speak. Thus, I'll be posting more than just video game things moving forward. :) You'll get to see some of my art and writing as well.

More personal and detailed reasons behind the change are under the cut for those interested. :D

Over those years, this blog turned into a more game-focused blog, and while I don't mind that, I'd like a space that represents me a bit more. I also haven't really interacted with people here as intended since I felt this blog's purpose wasn't geared toward that.

While gaming is a huge part of my life and has been for a long time, I want to use this space to show my art and creative side. :)

I used to do several artistic endeavors, including art shows and writing contests. It has been too long since I've done those things, and while I considered making side blogs, I want to show all aspects of myself here rather than compartmentalize things.

Too much of myself has been compartmentalized as it is, and while being able to separate aspects of my life from other aspects can be a good thing, I do it too much.

As for why the change of focus and trying to get back to more of the things I enjoy, it's been a journey. The last few years had some huge and very traumatic things happen back to back, and I've had to do some work on my mental and physical health as a result.

During that time, I'd had to take a step back from social media and work with people to get back to a healthy mental state. There are still things I'm working on, but I'm in a much better psychological and physical state than I was.

Much of the community here is very accepting and supportive, so I wanted to start reshaping things on this platform. :) Thus, I'll be posting artwork and writings for things as well as trying to do more rebloging than I did before.

I love feedback and am hoping that people will interact with stuff in a way that helps me with developing my skills more. If you end up loving my art or writing, I want to hear it. If you hate it, I want to hear it. If you like it and feel it needs work, tell me about it. We cannot grow if we don't hear the positive and negative about ourselves. :)

The writings I plan to post are going to start off with fanfictions. It's been so long since I've written something that I need the base of having characters and worlds already in place. That's the beauty of fanfiction; everything is there you just have to add your flavor.

As for art, I'm a traditional artist and work in oils, pastel, and charcoal, but I have experience in most traditional media. While my roots are in traditional, this is a digital age so I'm working on learning digital platforms.

To be honest, it's scary to start these things again. There's always that thought in the back of my mind that I've been out of it too long and lost my skills. My foundations are still there, but I have noticed that I've lost a lot of my unique style over the years. This will be a much needed endeavor for me and I look forward to sharing my journey with everyone. :D

[alexzandriathegood]

Why Do I Care About Dolls?

visual aid for my research project application

My interest in dolls began during my first research project as an undergraduate at a predominantly white institution in a small Pennsylvanian town. There, I investigated how African American women worked to reclaim their identities in the face of pervasive stereotypes throughout US history. On the advice of my advisor, I went to a local antique market to see what images of black people existed there and I was incredibly shocked at what I found. Numerous white vendors were profiting from caricatures of black people in many forms. However, the most impactful to me were the dolls. Their charcoal black bodies, wiry hair, and severe red lips were an unbelievable sight in person. It was challenging to contend with these hurtful images and how historically, caricatures have outnumbered positive, accurate portrayals of black people. I purchased a few of these artifacts to hold that day in my memory.

Years later, and across the country in my hometown of Los Angeles, I discovered the annual Doll Show at the William Grant Still Art Center. I learned The "Doll Test" of 1947 is the inspiration for these exhibitions and immediately thought of my first research project. However, it still seemed coincidental that the matter of race and self-esteem would be explored through dolls.

In the neighborhood of Leimert Park, a cultural Mecca for black people in Los Angeles, I began to exhibit my work frequently and collaborate with other artists. In these egalitarian spaces, I was able to exhibit everything from original paintings, to abstract digital art prints, to 3D printed sculpture. There were no artistic restrictions but I was encouraged to determine the relevance of my art to the community I had cultivated there. In Leimert Park, "pride" is a word I hear every day. In turn, I ask myself, "How can I create art that instills pride in the Black community?"

my initial doll concept which I'll discuss more in a future post

This was an enormous question to answer and led me back to my roots in research. I revisited the power of images and their ties to the lived experiences of African Americans within the US. At this point, it was moving for me to learn that the groundbreaking Shindana Toy company was a direct consequence of the African American community of Los Angeles negotiating more power, respect, and self-reliance. Their debut doll, Baby Nancy was born to assert the inherent beauty and worth of blackness. Then and there, I began devoting all my creative energy to the creation of dolls.  My continued exploration introduced me to many efforts of black doll collecting, historical preservation, contemporary doll-makers, and a strong foundation for future research.

The next step of my journey is making dolls, not as mere objects, but as vessels of self-esteem, history, and achievements of technical excellence. As a Black woman artist active in the Los Angeles art scene, I aim to illuminate the legacy of these crafted figurines as agents of self-determination throughout history and in contemporary times.

[iliveiloveiwrite]

an artist’s eye // Benedict Bridgerton

Summary: Benedict Bridgerton was an artist, even if his inspiration had no idea of what he feels.

A/N: I promise to slow down with the fics! I go back to work in a couple of days anyway so I’ll definitely slow down. I hope you all like! It’s shorter than my last few fics so I’m sorry for that!! My taglist is open so if you’d like to be on it, let me know and I am considering opening my requests for Bridgerton fics... considering.

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Fem!Reader

Warnings: mentions of food and drink, pining, mutual pining, sketching, art, drawing (I am not an artist, I cannot draw a stick man so I apologise in advance), kissing.

Word count: 1.8k

The graphite point sits heavy in his hand as Benedict struggles to remember the lines he needs. With only his memory to aid him, Benedict struggled more with the portraits he preferred to draw than the landscapes that were growing increasingly popular among the highest of London society.

Sighing, Benedict presses his fingers to his eyes as if it will help jumpstart his memory to bring forward the correct image he needs. He regrets the action as quick as he had done it when he thinks of the mixture of graphite and charcoal coating his fingers.  

Rubbing his face with the sleeve of his shirt, he feels a moment of pity for the servants who would no doubt grumble and complain at the state of it. However, as he glances down at the sketch – the arch of his subject’s smile, the depths of their eyes – he cannot bring himself to care too much.

It wouldn’t see the light of day. Once complete, the sketchbook would be tucked away in the drawer in his desk. If it was to fall into the wrong hands, then as much as he is confident of his artistic talent, he would not recover from the fallout. Benedict worries for the day that the look in your eyes changes; once you realise the extent of his feelings for you.

He hadn’t meant to fall in love with you, but he had. There were a lot of things in Benedict’s life that he hadn’t meant to do and has regretted completing such an action once done. However, he cannot find it in himself to feel bad about falling in love with you even when he had not meant to.

As much as he puts on airs and graces, he would not approach you with his feelings. He wasn’t ready though you made his heart sing like no other.

One day, he tells himself as he finally remembers the swoop of your neckline. One day he will tell you as he picks up his graphite point and charcoal once more.

Not yet, however.

------------

The drawing room remains quiet as Benedict silently adds to his sketch collection. His mother sits across the room, content with a stitching pattern for the arrival of Daphne’s new baby. Eloise lounges on the couch, a book in her hand and a box of chocolates on her stomach, eyes pouring over the pages hungrily.

The only sound in the room is the roughness of his pencil on the paper. It didn’t matter what angle he approached this drawing at, he could not get it to look right. It was going to vex him until he had bested it.

“Miss (Y/N) (Y/L/N) has arrived,” The Butler announces to which Benedict suddenly sits up straighter, closing his sketchbook, leaving it on the table.

“Wonderful,” Violet Bridgerton smiles, “Show them up, please.”

“I didn’t know (Y/N) was calling today,” Benedict comments lightly as the Butler disappears from the room, trying to sound as if his heart isn’t currently pounding in his chest.

“(Y/N) always calls on a Thursday,” Eloise states, voice puzzled. She shares a look of confusion with her mother when Benedict suddenly stands, announcing to them both, “I shall clean myself up a bit, make myself look presentable for our guest.”

The look of confusion soon turns into one of understanding as both women watch their son and brother dash from the room. As if at the same time, a smile crosses both their faces when they realise that their beloved son and brother has fallen in love and with a dear friend of the family too.

They do not get to discuss the topic, however, for you are shown to the drawing room, greeting both women with a large smile and buoyant conversation.

“Help yourself to tea and biscuits, dear,” Violet invites, gesturing to the tea service now being laid on the table. Your stomach rumbles at the sight of the biscuits, unable to turn down the buttery goodness.

“Thank you,” You reply, taking a seat at the table, reaching for a biscuit and the teapot.

It’s then that you see it. A leatherbound book left on the other side of the table, barely hidden by the cake stand of treats.

Curiosity being your besetting sin, you reach for the leatherbound book on the table and begin to flick through the pages. A sketch of a pair of hands at the beginning; they hold a single flower – a rose, though what colour is impossible to tell since the sketch remains firmly in shades of greys and blacks. Enraptured, you turn the page to find a detailed image of a parasol, still sketched in the same greys and blacks as the previous picture. The artist has captured the lace trimming perfectly. The longer you stare at it, you come to realise that the parasol is being held by someone, but it isn’t clear who.

It isn’t until you reach a sketch of your side portrait that you come to realise that the previous sketches – the hands, the parasol with just a hint of a shadow under it – they’re of you.

They’re all of you. Each stunning sketch is of you.

Your breath quickens in your chest when you see who the sketchbook belongs to; when you spy the initials written on the inside sleeve of the front cover. ‘B.B.’ written in his elegant script – an artist in every aspect of his life. Whilst you had observed that Benedict sometimes appeared with smudges to his fingers and paint stains on the cuffs of his tailored white shirt, you had never seen a sketch or a painting until now. He truly had a gift; a talent worthy of being displayed in Somerset House.

You hadn’t been aware of his feelings for you though, but you would not be the first to admit that you found yourself attracted to the Bridgerton. Taught at a young age, you knew it was not wise to share such feelings with others. Instead, you dampened them down, hiding them away where they grew unattended – they rooted in your heart, making it very difficult to find another love worthy.

Bringing a hand to your mouth, you hide your smile, not wanting to give too much away to ever observant Bridgerton matriarch. You turn page after page, letting yourself fall deeper into your feelings for Benedict now that you find there is hope of them being requited.

------------

Benedict’s breath leaves his body in one fell swoop when he returns to the drawing room and he realises exactly what you hold in your hand. He hadn’t moved it upon your announcement; he thought he had, but instead, like a fool, he left it sitting there on the table.

A fool. He was a fool. How quick, Benedict thinks to himself, how quick a life can change – mere minutes he had been gone and now he was to have his love for you outed.

You haven’t noticed his presence yet, and for that Benedict is thankful. It gives him time to come up with something – anything – to explain the numerous sketches of you. His mind is running too fast; he cannot come up with a thought good enough to excuse the sketches in his book. His heart continues to pound in his chest; it had not slowed down since your announcement though at this point it reminds him that is, indeed, alive and not suffering from a night terror.

As if finally sensing the extra person in the room, you glance up. Your eyes meeting the deep blue of Benedict’s, and you freeze in your spot. Violet and Eloise glance between the two of you. Violet, not one to usually ignore tradition, hurries her daughter from the room – knowing the conversation that was about to take place.

“I’m sorry,” You whisper at the click of the door shutting. You close the sketchbook, placing it on the table as far away from you as possible to keep your temptation at bay.

“I think I should be the one apologising,” Benedict confesses, taking one more step into the room. He tucks his hands behind his back, ever the picture of grace and elegance as he thinks of how long he has left without before your opinion of him changes forever – artistic talent or not.

“I knew you were an artist; I had seen the smudges on your hands, but I didn’t think…”

“What?”

“I didn’t think you were drawing me.”

“Surely you know?” He asks, voice loud in the quiet room. When you remain silent, he continues, “Surely you know of my feelings for you?”

You shake your head, eyes glancing between the taller Bridgerton and the leatherbound sketchbook lying on the table. “I didn’t know,” You whisper, voice breaking as you take in the distraught look on his face.

“Well,” Benedict murmurs, clearing his throat, “You know of them now.”

“I do,” You murmur,

“I hope I haven’t offended you,” Benedict remarks, “Those sketches were not meant to be seen by anyone else.”

“Only if I haven’t offended you by looking through them.”

Benedict shakes his head, “You could never offend me.”

“Then I am not offended either. I’m quite flattered, you’re very talented.”

“Thank you,” Benedict says graciously, nodding his head slightly.

“You need to know that your feelings are returned, Benedict,” You declare suddenly and plainly, displaying your feelings for all to see.

“They are?” Benedict asks, voice awed as if he didn’t take into account this reaction.

“They are,” You state firmly, meeting his gaze proudly as if you could ever be ashamed of your feelings for the brunette.

Benedict stalks across the room; tradition and etiquette be damned as he reaches for your hand to pull you from your chair. His hands settle on your waist as you tilt your head back to look at him. A silent question reflects in his eyes to which you answer with a nod of your head.

His hands move from your waist to cradle your face as he dips down, pressing his lips to yours. It isn’t hurried; it’s perfect as Benedict takes control of the kiss, groaning softly at the feel of your mouth and your body pressed against him. You smile into the kiss as your arms wrap around Benedict’s neck, pulling him ever closer to you.

Benedict’s mouth brushes against yours as he asks, “Would you like to accompany me to Lady Danbury’s ball next week?”

“As in you would court me?”

Benedict chuckles softly, “Yes. I would like to court you, is that okay?”

“More than okay,” You smile before pressing a kiss to the corner of Benedict’s mouth and stepping away.

Turning back to the sketchbook, you open it to image that had kickstarted your heart into an irregular rhythm. Benedict stands by your side as your eyes pour over his sketch; each line and angle, each section of shading. “You truly have an artist’s eye,” You say quietly, tangling your hands together.

“Thank you,” Benedict whispers, bringing your entwined hands up to his mouth whereupon he lays a gentle kiss to the back of your gloved hand.

“Will you show me more?” You ask, turning to face the man that had turned you into a work of art.

“Darling, I’ll show you them all.”

***********

Bridgerton Taglist: @heloisedaphnebrightmore @dreaming-about-fanfictions @now-its-time-for-a-breakdown @janelongxox @aspiringsloth20 @wallwriterstuff​ @magicalxdaydream​

[roomeight]

Graham Coxon's Foreword to Narcissus & Goldmund

At seventeen I was wide-eyed and thirsty. I was a student studying General Art and Design. I was a sponge determined to absorb everything I could. All new experiences rang with significance - the pictures, the films, the books, the music, the photographs, they all filled my world with a sense-heightening mess of magic, I humbly held artists of any kind in very high esteem, marvelled at their work. I would walk the streets of Colchester dressed in overalls and tweed, smelling of turpentine and oil paint, much to the despair of my mother. I was a proud student, an honoured aesthete.

At this time, one teacher made a particular impression on me and the rest of my group, although to many it was a bad one. This teacher appeared from nowhere and seduced us into defining ourselves and, in doing so, unwittingly split our group into factions - or at least accelerated the process. What she did was simple and playful but left me feeling as though I had undergone an important personal and creative development. She stacked tables and chairs to the ceiling, climbed up and hung up a roll of tape with string. She then encouraged us to draw it as it swung around the room. The precious graphic design types rolled their eyes, silently mouthed curses, felt for their fine-nibbed pens and bemoaned the prospect of another two hours with a teacher that was so obviously a weirdo; but to others, those of a looser nature, myself included, this eccentrically dressed, enthusiastic, beaming woman immediately became a heroine, and we slashed at our huge sheets of paper with our sticks of charcoal. The already cynical graphic artists thought her teaching pointless and undignified, but the fine artists loved her and admired the unashamed energy and enthusiasm she displayed so unselfconsciously. You were for her or against her. She neither patronized us nor intellectualized, and so created an environment in which we began to the making of marks on paper as a highly personal, sensual, spiritual act.

Late one morning I was sitting drinking coffee and smoking one of those very, very first cigarettes, when she smiled over at me and came to join me at the table. "There's a book you should read, Graham, if you haven't already. I think you would love it. It's called Narcissus and Goldmund. The title alone made me imagine it might be heavy-going, so I found myself avoiding the book for quite a while. I don't know why I didn't at least give it a go. Maybe I wanted to preserve the feeling of excitement of knowing that something beautiful and hugely important was just around the corner but felt it so intimidating that I was loath to quit the comfort of loitering in an adjacent alley. Maybe I felt flattered that a woman I greatly admired thought me mature enough or intelligent enough to contemplate recommending such a book. I am sure she recognized that I was more an empty vessel than a full one and wanted to contribute a little to filling me up, so maybe I was afraid that I would leave the book unfinished or find it boring and in so doing fail my new teacher. Maybe, maybe, maybe...

In any case, time went by, and I left the college and moved on to take a degree in Fine Art at Goldsmiths' College, part of the University of London. The book had been itching away at me for around three years by the time I finally bought it, turned to the first page and, breathing in deeply, took the plunge. I need not have worried. I didn't find the book at all difficult to read, and I was quickly immersed in it totally.

Although I now find myself in the privileged position of writing a foreword to this deeply moving and powerful book, I don't feel in the least bit qualified to do so. I never studied philosophy and I don't consider myself a 'thinker' as such, but I am an asker, an asker of big questions, and always felt there was more to learn and more to  experience right from the beginnings of my impressionable adolescence right up to now and my impressionable late youth.

The clean simplicity of Hesse's writing offers a vast space in which to push your weightless mind, and, although you can see the universe between the lines, he never forces you to venture too deeply but, rather, leaves it entirely up to you as to how far in you might like to travel. This is not just a story. This book is a gentle arm around the shoulder. It gets us off the hook, treasures us that there is still time, that surrender is possible even it is a surrender to ourselves, that no matter how recklessly we bolt out into the unknown the journey home is a brief one. It lets us know that even when we become lost in the crazed volatility of what we think of as freedom, reaching the very edge of our own flat world, gazing petrified over the edge at the black expanse of our own demise, we are but a change of hardened heart away from the innocence of our beginnings, from peace.

We see that outward journeys are easy - essential if somewhat desperate assertions of our will and independence. After all, we have first to be filled with something for an inward journey to be possible. This book made me wonder just how far down the dangerous roads of our early adult lives does the pull of a simpler  life begin to tug at our sleeves. When does the overbearing din of hollow seduction suddenly fall on deaf ears? Does the balance need to be addressed? If so, then when, finally, does an existence free of clutter prove more desirable than one of chaos?

I think we can all see ourselves in Goldmund. His experiences can relate sharply to our own, they melt and shape themselves into the mould of our own lives. Life and the material world was designed to seduce, and we ourselves are designed to be seduced by it. We career, uncompromisingly, through our early lives, proud of our strength and youth but never treasuring it. Maybe that's how it should be, that we squander it if only to mourn it later when we don't feel so invincible and have to savour each day of our late adulthood. Perhaps this may be why as we get older, we like more what we see when we close our eyes. Could this be God's way of making the transition into the next life a smoother, less traumatic one?

This book has proven itself to be a template to me. It has a perfect and gentle tension and familiar dynamic shape. It's a book where you can plot your own progress and plan your own happy ending. It has been a source of great inspiration to me throughout the sixteen years its words have been rooted in my head. It is a book that you can never grow out of because you grow into it, and it softens around you like a good old pair of shoes. It is not without its tragedy and its blood and its guts but shows this aspect of life to be as much a valid part of the journey as happiness.

Narcissus and Goldmund is a well from which we can draw limitless emotional strength, and I am not ashamed to say that I am extremely jealous that you might just be reading it for the first time.

- Graham Coxon, musician

2006

[mareliini]

(I post most of my art in insta nowadays. No link, but it's mareliiini, with three "i"s.)

Time to say final goodbyes to this hell year, as well for a full decade of art..

Year summary: like previous year, finding stuff to fill up some months was hard. I've had some big art bursts in early jan-feb, summer, and during autumn, when i produced several pieces in one sitting before fading into obscurity of life and knitting for months. My artistic balance has relied on to comic making schedule, honestly since 2011, so without that constant flow of crunching up pages weekly I was left wandering amiss and motivationless. I've always made a rule for myself with these yearly summaries, that I wont use comic pages unless there's nothing else that month to fill it up, and this year I couldn't even rely on that.

Decade summary: Started filling up the latter monstrosity of a dA meme back in 2014 and filling it up has been a yearly tradition ever since. It is so wild looking back. 2011 I had been in Uni for a year and haven't really drawn "seriously" ever, outside of private diary doodles and plastering my room with fish art (do not ask me about my finding nemo phase please) and surrealist charcoal renderings. Reliable access to internet and fandoms, and the whole culture of creating in those spaces is really what made me draw more reliably in the first place.

Home was always filled with art supplies (comes with dad being professional oil painter with a severe case of procrastination syndrome), so in a sense I've been priviledged for early and easy access to those... many gouaches and dip pen nibs I use still, are stolen from home drawers, not that I'd had had money to buy completely new art tech supplies on the fly. Only in recent years I've been comfortable enough with my income, that I could purchase better quality watercolor papers and ink sets, and not feel bad for using them regularily. For comic pages I still use cheaper paper, though that has been upgraded several times since the cheapest sketchbook paper I started with. You don't need Big Quality to make Good Art, but it makes the experience of making it a bit more fun.

Looking back, 2014 and 2015 seems to be most important turnaround time. I was breaking away from the mold I'd created my art identity around of, and growing tired of having story ideas but no original characters. I've had some in the early teen years, but I'd been comfortable for years with using pre-set characters from whatever fandom I was into at the time. And there's nothing wrong with that, I say as an avid fanfic reader, but at some point with making Hey it's summer! the frustration between story I wanted to tell and feel proud of, and the set of characters I had decided to work with, to the point of them being almost oc's in the au world, it just put everything in halt. I'm never going to finish HiS! because I cannot finish it with those characters, and cannot remove the story entirely from it's fandom roots even by made-up ocs. 2014 was largely spent on focusing oc's... I created a bunch of grandma characters for a story I'll never be clever enough to write, and then accidentally stumbled upon Jooel in a dream I wrote up and continued later (yeah they're there in 2014 row). I think most of Bus cast was created in that year, but I didn't have clear enough plan for it (and never had even during writing) untill some years and one cloud comic later.

2015 was Big Year for original writing, as well for everything else. Which is why I have to bring it up. As short detour as the tau fandom was, it granted me the first real friend group online, one which is still together now, give or take a few changes and dramas. It wasn't the main reason, but one of the big ones for me to get proper smart phone to keep connected to them outside evenings (biggest reason was neko atsume..... i wanted to feed my cats....). Cloud story was a wild experience I can never replicate, but also a memory I will always remember fondly. 2015 also was the year I started my three years government supported therapy, which I believe affected Bus a lot. I was really tired and couldn't bother to spent time to look for the perfect fit, so I ended up with a therapist who uh, I guess helped? some? Would not recommend my tactic but it was best I could do at the time. Before that bus had never been more than wild ride of found family tropes frollocing around finnish highways, it was a roadtrip story at heart with supposed collection of small moments of each character, of local problems and stories and people they meet with 4 equally written main characters. Therapy thethered it to one character and one town with whisps of its origin, but it provided a big supplement for the somewhat-working therapy sessions.

[sasorikigai]

Holiday's were always so much fun, and a welcome brief reprieve from rising tensions between battle fields or worried missions. The one around the corner, Halloween, was so very close. And thus came Yang to Command Hasashi, her other half and equal in all things. Approaching him with an eager expression. "Did you have any plans with the coming Hallows Eve? For I would not mind bouncing ideas with you."

Random Inbox Shenanigans || @yetremains || always accepting!

💥 || It is a particularly gray morning, as the world wears faded white clouds, fluttering with aria grace upon Hanzo Hasashi’s freshly-washed hair dancing freely. Only donned in a dark charcoal joggers, the sun-kissed dunes of his musculature glints beneath the sunshine-less atmosphere. Defying the cool air, how his skin emanates onslaught of heated warmth as his heart and lungs fibrillate, ebbing and flowing his panting breaths with gradually building rapidity. Such sweet, exquisite exertion of his muscles ache him in all the right places, as he stills, relishing the throbbing pulses reverberating through the bone arena of his skull as hands splay over his knees, bending over, as rivulets of sweat descend to saturate him in rolling jewels of his effort. 

No longer permeated by the drought of satisfaction, as piqued amusement etches and roots itself within him. The Special Forces always celebrated Halloween in a grand measure, and not only as the Commander of the squadron that took its costume contest a rather serious endeavor to beat all the other squadrons, he had particularly felt competitive and enthusiastic to be the active participant. 

A minute curl of his smirk widens to reach his cheeks, as the renewed spark in his eyes manifest as knowing, scheming even. “I do have plans to dress myself as a Marvel character, but that’s about how much I am going to reveal it to you. After all, what’s fun in revealing what I intend to dress up as?” All he has to do is to look for a makeup artist that will transform the canvas of his chiseled face into a flaming skull, as Hanzo already had the majority of things required him to become the Ghost Rider. Customized helmet accompanying his spiked black leather jacket was already delivered and ready to be inspected, but that would be done in private, privy to anyone in the squadron, including Yang. 💥 || 

[dreamerwriternstargazer]

The Dark Soul In The Glass

I’ve wanted to join in on Flash Fiction Friday for forever but it was only this week that I saw the prompt and something...exploded in my head. A revelation one could say, though I know it’s several hours too late @flashfictionfridayofficial​ I’m hoping you’ll at least see it, and others will, and enjoy the first piece of original poetry I’ve posted publicly in...a long time. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- One deep, navy-blue night I looked into my looking glass and was surprised by fate

Met with an uncanny mirror image of my soul, but another person’s kind face

Enshrouded by a darker world, gloomy and cold, with storm clouds accumulating above their head

Whereas my darkness held hopeful pinpricks of stars shooting through city light, as I watched from my bed

There was sadness and regret I could feel whenever they spoke 

A person who’d fought hard, batting at the clouds and the smoke

The wispy tails of misery that I’d felt so vividly more than once myself

Prompting me to reach my hand out, beyond my fears and darkness, hoping to help

The darkness started to fade and the figure’s movements followed my own

I twirled, they followed, I raised my hand to wave, I jumped up and down

They reflected me but I soon realised their every move was the opposite of mine

Yet still, I ran and skipped, swayed from side to side, and they mirrored me every time

Like a well-choreographed dance I stepped forward, so did they

I took a peek through the glass into their world as the clouds cleared out of the way

Behind them was a twisted, almost overgrown path covered with gorse and roots

There were worse paths veering off, made of sharp, upturned rocks, leading to dark woods

I recognised that twisting, heartaching path, it mirrored the winding one behind me

The same twists and turns, but opposite again, left turns where they should be right, strangely

The same tree roots jutting out, sharp splintered hands groping to make travellers fall

The same side paths that wound up at the same torn up cliffs, with the whistle of lost souls

Around them stood tumbled down structures like mine, beautiful spire castles collapsed

There were wilted flowers and broken marble tiles, torn and coffee-stained books scattered

I can’t...enter, the glass separating us, but on it I give a tap-tap-tap and hope they look up

They do and I hold up a flower bouquet, and read from my own stack of coffee-stained books

Books and journals, one and the same with stories of characters both invented and real

I show them small sketches of theirs and my tumbled down towers rebuilt 

Different from origin but still the same fairytale fortresses we once played in

Praying wholeheartedly that with the right tools, our castles in the air would rise again

By their feet, lay a dull, chipped sword with spiky, greyed rose vines coiled round it, engraved 

On the broad side, under the dust and dirt, the deteriorating steel said “faith” 

The handle was leather-bound, and aged, like mine but instead of being held by a weak fist

It was lying on the cold, stone floor, slabs and sword alike blood-stained from an accident

Day after day, tap-tap-tap and the clouds of mystery and enigma around them clear

Colours dance in the sky, lilac and blue, as clouds blow a snowflake flurry everywhere

The Wind Woman hums, the breeze of her laughter brushing the smoke away

And the glass shines translucent, allowing me to see a compassionate face

There’s sorrow, and a cold quality to the sharp pretty features, like an artist’s charcoal sketch

A slim figure with dark-chocolate strong eyebrows and curly, dark hair to match 

But looking closer, sparkling, amused eyes that through trial and hardship have stayed bright

A good-natured, ghost of a smile dancing on those pursed lips and dark eyes

A dark reflection in many ways of myself but with a spirit identical to mine I know

Behind a diamond-glass wall that may take eternity to break through

One day I leave the glass untapped, shrouded by grief darker than black

Then I hear a muffled voice over my heartbroken sobs, and behind me a “tap-tap-tap”

There he stands, a sight I’d never seen, someone calling, wanting to reach out to me

Around him are...books mended, flowers tended, growing and cared for, and in his hand I see

That sword, no longer covered in soil and dust but shining brightly, polished by his efforts

The clear, compressed carbon crystal between us holds a few scratches, but he looks worse

He’s tired, hands are bloodied, stumbling forward and yet still so strong 

raising the sword above his head to do what he can to chip away more

Of this unbreakable crystal wall, staring me in the eye, “I won’t let you go easily”

I peer behind him and am shocked by reflections of my castle sketches, half built, that I see

My vision blurs as heartfelt tears fill my sad, glassy eyes and trickle down my pale, scarred cheeks

Tracing translucent tracks of happiness over old paths of suppressed fiery anger, heartache and grief

There’s an icy determination I feel in my spirit flowing through me, a cold burn in my chest as I stagger forward

Inspiration has struck, so I make my dua and intention to fight, mirroring him as I face the diamond wall with my sword

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I wrote this today, took a few hours because I was for some reason very stubborn about getting it perfect on the first draft. Somehow, I actually feel I have, the imagery is so vivid to me that I may even draw this out in the future, a full comic, who knows? 

Edit: Tumblr is not co-operating on formatting, this is meant to be split into quatrains but never mind

[joel-furniss-blog]

Destroying Art

Artwork is centred around creation. The act of making art is exactly that, to make, to bind raw resources both physical and mental and distil them into a finished product. Whether the laying of paint, melding of clay, marking of charcoal, or whatever in between and beyond, art has always been about creating. Originally what was created was something of aesthetical import, something beautiful to excite the senses, but under the progression of society past tradition art was being made that did not excite the eyes but instead flared the mind, the takeover of conceptual art.

The forebearer of conceptual arts lofty goals came in the form of anti-art, a topic I’ve been discussing at length in recent research due to its contextual relevance of my work. Recently I’ve begun questioning my place (if any) in the artworld and the overall pushed notion of the fabled ‘professional artist’ my tutors hold in such high esteem, mainly wondering if that’s a title suited to myself. Perhaps the title of artist isn’t my suit, but rather that of an anti-artist? And if I wish to become the antithesis of an artist, I should not seek to make art, but to destroy it.

I’ve been fascinated with the whim of what could be considered the ultimate artistic subversion for a while now, since last year where I repurposed materials from semester one to continue with in the second semester. The act of reducing my previous work’s sentimental and artistic values to aid my future work as a form of upcycling felt satisfying in an odd way, mainly for its oxymoronic nature. Art is often thought as a culturally sacred ideal, often highly valued (although the work of an art student holds noticeably less value than anything in Sotheby’s) so the act of ruining and repurposing it seems irreverent to the artist who made it and the potential viewer. However, if an artwork remains to the artists who made I, it’s entirely in their right to desecrate, decimate, or otherwise destroy their belongings.

And some artists have indeed done exactly that. Past examples include famous artists often seen as masters of their craft which deem their work unsatisfactory enough to destroy, as an attempt to save themselves the perceived embarrassment of having to display them. Michelangelo, unhappy with his statue The Deposition (1547-55), violently attacked it with a hammer, severing Christ’s leg in the process which remains missing. Claude Monet found many of his revered Water Lily paintings unfit for exhibition and had them demolished, with plans to destroy more before his death. Georgia O’Keefe, before an 80’s solo exhibition at the Whitney Museum, trimmed her catalogue, much like Monet insisting that some were not at her ‘level’.

Examples of artist’s rendering their work inert through repurposing and upscaling is likewise present, typically stemming from a financial lacking. Pablo Picasso’s The Old Guitarist was painted on an already complete canvas, as was Vincent van Gogh’s Patch of Grass, each example theorised as a decision made due to the artist’s inadequate funds at the time, an example of necessary upcycling. Other examples include the covering of minute Easter Eggs, such as Kazimir Malevich’s early Suprematism/monochrome painting which has recently revealed as being painted atop a Cubo-Futurist design featuring the description: ‘Battle of negroes in a dark cave.’, a reference to Alphonse Allais’ all-black comic panel titled similarly, which itself is a reference Paul Bihaud’s also similarly named proto-minimalist painting.

While interesting examples, these all stem not from a need or exploration of destruction, but from the artist’s largest enemy, their ego. Deemed unworthy by the creators themselves in either fits of rage, elderly introspection, monetary restrictions, or simple pride, they dismantled and devalued their own works because of self-defined sense of place as an artist, their own ego holding them to a standard which is literally destructive. I should note however while some injustice is felt from the fact that these works are lost, ultimately, it’s the artist’s opinion and decision, which I personally believe is paramount to an art piece.

Destroying one’s own art for pride’s sake has been done by many artist’s, but what of the opposite, destroying one’s own art for the sake of art itself. As previously stated, doing so would subvert art’s creative power, but now we know it also subverts the source of art’s creative power, the artist’s own ego. Despite art’s relationship with the viewer, which typically decides its value, art can also be viewed as a sole extension of the artist’s self and thus destroying it is a self-destruction, an infanticide of the work or furtherly a suicide of the artist. It’s an interesting theme for its subversive and contradictory aspects, it raises questions about art’s value, the relationship between artist and audience, and the overall place of the artist.

Before I list some important samples of artists destroying their own work, I’d like to briefly highlight some examples of artist destroying the works of other artists, a similarly artistic sacrilege yet lacking the interference of the ego to focus solely on the profane idea of ruining art. A nice example is Erased de Kooning Drawing (1953) when Robert Rauschenberg took a painting from artist friend Willem de Kooning and completely erased every trace of it from the canvas, leaving a mere textured plain with little hints of the paintings past. A more contemporary example is when brothers Jake and Dinos Chapman purchased a mint set of Francisco Goya’s revered Disasters of War prints and ‘rectified’ them via inclusions of clown makeup, cartoonish grins, and Mickey Mouse-esque heads, which many saw as an act of artistic vandalism. While not entirely relevant to the ideas I seek I still hold an appreciation for the bold artistic tactics employed shown, questioning art’s value and role into society and whether the destruction of art is art within itself.

As I’ve drawn examples of artist’s destroying their own work out of status and artist destroying other people’s works out of artistic intention, I’d like to finally broach those artists who subvert the ego through anti-art philosophies and conceptual grounds and display through performance or adjacent recordings. An early example is the task undertaken by American painter John Baldessari in his aptly titled Cremation Project (1970) in which he took a total of 123 paintings made between May 1953 and March 1966 and incinerated them in a crematorium, documenting the whole process through photographs and slides of the works. As a final installation Baldessari baked a small portion of the ash into cookies (which he referred to as ‘corpus wafers’), forged a commemorative bronze plaque dating the ‘birth’ and ‘death’ of the works, and published an affidavit in the San Diego Union newspaper noting the work’s destruction, a sort of artistic obituary. The event itself is not only an example of grand artistic suicide/spectacle but also delves into concepts of morality by using the crematorium as a space/material, but also cycles as seen in the cookies representing cycles of digestion (the paintings and the cremator) and excretion (the ash).

An example close to Baldessari but more contemporary and personal is that of Young British Artist Michael Landy who for his work Break Down (2001). For the ambitious project he catalogued all 7,227 of his worldly belongings including all his food, his clothes, furniture, art materials, his art collection (including works by Tracy Emin and Damien Hirst), books, his car, and even his vital records including his birth certificate and passport. He then organised his possessions into categories and systematically destroyed them all in a two-week period using a reverse-assembly line track in which a series of workers individually shredded, smashed, and crushed them into debris. The process was recorded as part of a documentary and open to the public, attracting 45,000 viewers and ultimately amounting to a six-tonne pile of granulated waste either recycled or sent to landfill and a 300-page book showcasing a full inventory of his belongings. An intentional reaction to consumerist society, the performance also holds some relevance toward my focus as Landy disposed of not only his own physical artworks but also those in his collection, some of which would be considered precious today. It suggests that art is a consumer product like food and clothes, that assigning it a monetary value actually devalues it to a mere product, and not something that incites thought or excites the senses.

An even more recent and largely banal example is when in 2018 a print of street artist Banksy’s Girl With Balloon was presented for auction at Sotheby’s in a suspiciously large frame. Sold for a record sum of £1,042,000, moments after the gavel banged the work began shredding itself using a mechanism built into the frame. Playfully titled a prank by the media, Sotheby’s commented that they had no knowledge of the auto-destruction and championed it as "the first artwork in history to have been created live during an auction" while the work was sold for the original price and gained a new-found publicity as a result. With the publicity the work came under scrutiny, and considering the unusual thickness of frame compared to the piece, the unnoticed weight of the shredder, the artwork conveniently halting halfway despite originally rehearsals fully shredding it, and speculation the video recording the event was filmed by someone in Banksy’s circle, it’s easy to see where the conspiracy took root. Given Banksy’s supposed sell-out status I personally choose to believe that he and Sotheby’s were in cahoots around this prank, and if it is true it shows how the destruction of art can be bastardized. As a rebellious act, an extension of taboo and contradictory self-destruction, it loses some validity when its endorsed by one of the most elite establishments in the artworld, its as if the Queen was the manager for the Sex Pistols.

Despite some critique for the subject, I hold an appreciation for all previously discussed works mainly for their sheer contraction ethic. I love contradiction, as a way to goad and reveal root meanings and problems I find it a useful tool and aids my quest for subversion. Destroying artwork is a contradiction, a confusing farce. Why destroy something that took time, effort, and passion for someone to make? But remember that destroying an artwork in itself takes time, effort, and passion as detailed by my examples (and state-sponsorship in one case). I shall continue to experiment with the theory and practice of decimating and destroying art, but I might not take it to the extremes set by Landy.

[honorableradicalred-blog]

South Africa is resilient: Lessons from the past in order to imagine a different future.

The area of Soshanguve is on the northern border of Gauteng Province and is an extremely disadvantaged area with extensive squatter settlements around its periphery.

The name is an acronym for Sotho, Shangaan, Nguni and Venda making up a multi ethnic population.

 Some inhabitants of Soshanguve have maintained their individual ethnicity whilst other have embraced multiple ethnicity.

Despite a democratic government led by Jacob Zuma from 2009 there was little done for these indigent shack community dwellers living on the northern Gauteng border. In 2017 service delivery protests increased, there were numerous charges of maladministration and a vote of no confidence against President Jacob Zuma.  #ZumaMustFall community was trending on social media.

 Rocks, parts of palisade fence and tires were placed across the road and burnt to disrupt people coming in and out of the Soshunguve township.

Arson. A burnt museum building as community thought it was municipal building.

HOPE ARISES  Despite the desperate and hard lives people lead many resilient heroes emerged in this period. Two individuals who although having faced the ravages of apartheid put it behind them and used their lives to encourage and uplift others.                        

Mma Tshepo Khumbane,    

"I do not plant cabbages in gardens. I plant hope and knowledge in people's hearts and minds”

An effervescent Mma Tshepo Khumbane.

Mma Tshepo started her own grass roots programe teaching women how to use grey water and implements they found around them to create food gardens. She showed community ladies how to collect water, record weather patterns, collect seeds and prepare the ground for planting.

A community lady drawing out a plan for the crops and trees she planned to grow around her home.

Mma Tshepo’s outdoor classroom with local ladies.              

Mma Tshepo’s “mind mobilisation” philosophy was based on empowering the individual women in townships who are faced with inequality and severe poverty on a daily basis. She taught the ladies self-confidence and personal skills before learning how to ensure food security, resilience and other skills.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PMyrHodTPTE

http://mmatshepokhumbanefoundation.weebly.com/

https://www.researchgate.net/publication/254236263_Against_the_odds_Rural_women_who_drive_food_and_nutrition_security_in_their_communities

  Mr Eric Lubisi – Renowned Artist

Image of Mr Lubisi courtesy UNISA

 Mr Lubisi is a respected artist who lives within the Soshanguve community.

He has made part of his life’s purpose to take young artists under his care and give them the support needed to find their own feet in the art world.

Mr Lubisi and his student Tladi

In 2013 a collection of charcoal drawings neatly packaged in a tube was received from the sister of an inmate of the local prison. She had left her telephone number with the drawings and was contacted. She explained her brother was in prison for vehicle theft and he was concerned about his girlfriend and child and wanted to make an income by selling his drawings.  

It was clear that the artist, Peter was very talented as illustrated by his drawing of Nelson Mandela above.

Mr Lubisi was contacted to find out if he could assist Peter the young self-taught artist. Within days Mr Lubisi had visited the prison to meet the young man.  He found a sponsor to purchase paper and charcoal for Peter. Very soon after Mr Lubisi came to visit me at my place of work and take myself and the sponsor to meet Peter. After the visit to the prison Mr Lubisi took me with him to meet friends and some of the people he was mentoring whom lived within the Soshanguve community.

Art work by Peter

 https://youtu.be/QFS875PIp5s

 you tube interview with Mr Lubisi about his perspectives of apartheid and art.

YOUTH LED PROJECTS

 Other projects which bring hope and resilience to South Africa and the Soshanguve community include traditional dance groups taught by youth for the youth. 

[tcstu]

Ekphrastic Fiction Contest Winner (September 2019)

The winner for this month’s contest is Teddy @moonlightchess​. Congratulations!!! I hope you will all take a few minutes to read the winning entry below and check out this writer’s page to see more creative pieces.

As a reminder, the artistic piece for this month’s contest is a sketch by @stripeyghost​ titled, “They Alleyway.” This artist is on Tumblr, Deviant Art, Instagram, and Twitter, so please check out those links to see more incredible sketches!

“The Moor”

Was I wrong, to do what I did? To take pills and shots of brandy every night so that I didn’t dream? Was I wrong when I found myself wandering the dreams of others, and didn’t leave? Did the decisions I made over the years leave me here, as opposed to random chance? None of it mattered now, here in this twilit place where I never aged and time was a static thing. I couldn’t leave this dream, should never have climbed those stairs. But this dreamer’s mindspace had been so unique. I didn’t know them, that had never been important.

They dreamed like art, elegantly senseless and open to my interpretation. There were tiny creatures in hooded cloaks, making things and mumbling to themselves. They ignored me as I passed. Holes in walls exposing blinking eyes, snakes with patterns unknown to the woken world uncoiling themselves across pale floors. Faintly, from a distance, there was music. And the stairs - those improbable stairs, carrying me to the wide open night sky beyond. How could  I not? Who knew what the dream was up there? Maybe a child - spaceships and aliens. Maybe a scientist - the cold grandeur of the stars swirling through their sleeping brain and vulnerable to my voyeurism.

Then, a pressure. I lifted my head to the air, hoping for stars, but instead there was a pressure, a fleeting moment of blindness, and when I could see again there was only the field. The endless, sprawling gray moor that had replaced the dreamer’s sky, frigid wind tearing at nothing and me and then more nothing. The charcoal ground, packed hard, the lone skeleton of a tree off in the distance, visible but always just out of reach - no matter how long I walked that looping, empty moor, I never came to it. Trapped here, never hungry, never sleeping, never anything. For what, I presumed, was the rest of forever. It wasn’t long before I sank into it, abandoned all frantic hope and laid on the ground in an attempt to sink in, become part of the moor and lose my consciousness entirely.

Because I had stopped fighting, the moor gave me a gift. It showed me, in a kind of waking dream of my own, the dreamer who had incarcerated me here. It was a boy, insidiously unremarkable with his curly wheat hair and stocky build, who had learned the ancient secret of never dying, never sleeping, never dreaming. Of how to find and draw in a dream walker, to seal his sleeping world around me like lucite, to feed me to the moor so that it released him from the mortal coil. He laughed when he realized he’d done it, and I watched him as my limbs rooted themselves to the cold ground. I watched for decades, centuries, the two of us bonded beyond boundaries, as his life continued, endless. I watched myself twist and harden into a second tree, and I wondered who the first had been.

[leameya]

16, 26-30 for the art asks!

ouhh lets see 👀

16.Do you draw more today than you did in the past, or do you draw less?

A lot more. Most of the time whenever I’m not busy with something like uni or work or immediately urgent to solve, I don’t make plans because I always plan... to draw :’ ) my circumstances also enable me in a way - since i’m a poor ass student, not going out = saving some money so i figure i might as well practice flkdsjfljkds but yeah don’t do like me, make friends and go out regularly bc its healthy, really, my family is worried about me, i have weekends when the sun doesn’t touch my skin, i’ve rooted to my chair-

26.For digital artists: what program(s) do you use?

27.For digital artists: how many layers does a typical piece require?

28.For traditional artists: what medium do you like most? (Pencil, charcoals, etc)

29.For traditional artists: How do you usually start on a big piece? (Light sketch, colored lead, sketchpaper, etc)

Imma clump these together since they’re kinda in the same category. i’ve only been using photoshop for the past years. Layer wise, depends on the drawing I suppose, a simple sketch for a request can have around 4 layers for the drawing and simple background, while the bigger pieces have between 20 and 40 layers it seems. i just counted now, i’ve never been curious about this before.

I only draw with pencils or ink pens traditionally. I would like to practice oil painting sometime in the future again, when i’ll afford to splash on art supplies. And unfortunately I don’t draw any big pieces traditionally :’’)

30.What inspires you to not just make art, but to be a better artist?

hmm well, its pretty simple, i just wish to project my ideas in drawings as good as i can. i don’t want to tell myself “i cant make justice to this subject, i can’t draw it anyhow”, i want to gain the skills and the confidence to see a blank piece of canvas as an opportunity and to free myself more and more of my anxieties as an artist. 

of course, this is all idealistic thinking. it doesn’t matter what level they’re at, all artists struggle with their own cuffs n chains. but as long and as far as i’m capable, i want to do my best in whatever lifetime i’ve got, for the sake of what i can express through drawing. i can only hope it’ll be useful for others, entertainment or not, if that makes sense??

thanks for the ask!!💖💖💖