#quick sketch.... and painting exercise

[ragepups]

costa del sol wouldn't be the same without you

[aeb-art]

sighs

[delulluart]

Quick older sketches of the Cardinal with no paints and no beard/ normal mustache/ more facial hair as an exercise (and to go fully insane) I love how no-paint-no-beard-Cardi looks like Just Some Guy (and also a lot more like Terzo) and how much the paints and a beard change a face in general.

[witchofthesouls]

Do you know of the Ancient Greek courtesan who was on trial but was pardoned because she flashed the court her breasts and said some Mr hint along the lines of “it would be a crime to destroy these perfect creations.”

You cannot tell me that this doesn’t have LL Giant ! Liaison shenanigans written all over it!

(Thank you, anon, for that joy. Humans be humans, even thousands of years ago. For anyone else's interest, it's Phryne the Thespian. Her beauty was so famed that she is credited to inspire many influential works, such as Praxiteles' Aphrodite of Cnidus and Apelles' Aphrodite Anadyomene. In that trial, she was acquitted when her breasts were exposed. It was argued her great beauty was shaped by the Gods, so it would be blasphemous to kill or imprison their work.)

You're jogging after Ultra Magnus' back. Despite your increased size, that mech is still massive with long legs that ate the ground with each quick step.

He quickly gets you inside the captain's office and immediately locks it down. Rodimus is at his desk, datapads all over the place, even on the floor, and he brightens up at visitors, hands stopping from carving deeper into the desk.

Ultra Magnus' clears his intake in a very pointed manner, chin darting to a specific point in the room.

"Roddy, what the fuck!?"

Over the fish tank, there's a new portrait. Back home, it wouldn't be too risque. Something on the scale of sexy pin-up on a magazine cover in the grocery store, but you've been around Cybertronians long enough that it's considered hedonistic.

It's set inside of a car alt-mode with the obvious Autobot insignia on the steering wheel and sprawled across the front bench seat is the focal point.

From their standards, there's an obscene amount of fabric, a rich Autobot-red, pooling beneath bare legs and caressing the plush leather. The legs are bent and thrown across the dashboard and seat, and sharp high-heels bite into the leather, showcasing pressure and leverage as the other is resting through the wheel. The artist is familiar enough with the concept of nail polish since the same vivid red is painted across toes and fingernails.

The top of the garment is being loosened with one hand pulling it to the side, flashing and teasing with more bare flesh covered with lace, ribbons hanging loose. A gloved hand is about to pull off the tactical mask. A slow, sensual tease of contradiction. Vulnerable and willingly taking off the only protective piece.

Even with the obscured face, it isn't hard to figure out it's you.

You are, quite literally, the only human on board the spaceship, and the fucking subject is a human with your damn heels you used in one of the modeling classes.

"You like?" Rodimus' spoiler bounces excitedly. "Sunstreaker said I'm getting better with movement, and it's my best work yet!"

"There's more," you and Ultra Magnus' words overlap with different tones: curious disbelief and resigned trepidation.

Of course, Rodimus pulls out a datapad from the bottom, the stack wobbling dubiously before settling, and rushes over to show off his progress.

"Rodimus," Ultra Magnus sighs. "this is against the Autobot Code: Article-"

"Wait!" You interrupt, stalling from flipping through more sketches of your poses and his random exercises. "There's rules about that?"

"Yes," the ever-serious Duly Appointed Enforcer spoke.

"Yeah, but Article 369 is about commercialized pieces, Mags." Rodimus crows, pointing at his work with a thumb. "And that beauty is done by my own servos."

You and Ultra Magnus shared a moment that Roddy could look up official doctrines, and the taller mech deeply sighs. "No. It violates the article 343 on the conduct of offices. As well as Article 34 for the violation of improper licensing on artistic production."

You're seeing the loophole that a "scandalous" piece can be placed in a private setting that isn't for public view, but you're not saying anything about that.

[say0ranarts]

Hi! Hope you're doing well. I really like the way your art looks, and wanted to ask if you have any advice on how to stop the endless ctrl+Zing that happens when you're doing lineart? (Was gonna post a gif showing it but it won't let me send links in asks) -- Have a good one o/

hi and thanks so much!!💖

hmm for me, i don't actually do a whole lot of lineart because i usually go straight from sketch to color and painting. but during the sketching process i try to commit to keeping my lines very minimal and do quick strokes when drawing so they end up smoother and not too wobbly. part of this comes from a lot of practicing and being confident in the lines you put down, so you're not constantly undoing and redoing. to practice i would suggest trying to do some exercises drawing something without using ctrl+z!

i hope this helps!! ;;

[k00290040]

Today I did the charcoal workshop I used charcoal to sketch out a paint palette at the start as a quick exercise.

Then moved on to sketching my wire siluette and butterfly which I drew without look at the pages .

[k00319173]

Assemble

Monday 11/11/24

Workshop

Me and You

Today I did the Me and You workshop, in this workshop we focused on using charcoal and ink in order to draw each other and used this so as an exercise to get to know one another better.

We started by doing quick 30 second gestural drawings with charcoal. In pairs we quickly sketched each others forms.

Then we moved on to 2 minute gestural drawings where we made the same gestural marks in charcoal but had two minutes to change the scale or make the piece more detailed.

After this we had a chance to swap partners and went around the room attempting blind drawings of several people.

Then we had a few minutes to sketch the person in front of us. This was difficult as I had very little charcoal left and in future I would swap to a bigger piece of charcoal.

Finally we got paint brushed on the end of long dowels and used these to paint in ink the person who was standing in the middle, I really like how these turned out, even though it was difficult to have control over the brush it made me focus on catching the essence of the person rather than the complete form.

[aarghhaaaarrrghhh]

A Summer in a Pioneer's Neckerchief/Лето в пионерском галстуке - Chapter Fourteen

Master post here

Chapter Fourteen. I swear. Never!

Not very much time at all remained until the premiere of the play. Standing by the wash basins, sleepy and shivering from the icy water, Yurka woke up and broke into a sweat immediately upon hearing the dreadful words ‘the day after tomorrow’ from Volodya’s lips. However, it was dreadful not only for Volodya and Yurka, but for the whole rest of the troupe as well.

After skipping morning exercise, Yurka fled for the theatre in order to focus wholly on practising the Lullaby, and he stayed there for the whole day, for which reason Volodya’s nervousness affected him little. The same could not be said for the other kids, whose time was not sweet at all. Terribly resentful that the day before had slipped by because of the celebration in the camp, the creative director, since the early morning, pulled actors in trios, pairs and even individually out of communal work or activities in order to tirelessly work through individual scenes with them a dozen times over.

Two circles were drawn to the play – the sewing club and the art club. If the tailors, armed with Ksyusha’s sketches, worked by the sweat of their brows, then the artist, in Volodya’s opinion, were slacking off. The guys had not managed to paint as many decorations as the play needed, and Volodya took several drafts and sketches off them, in order to paint them himself with the help of the actors and volunteers like Matveyev.

Yurka, however, was completely at peace regarding the play. He had no doubt that at such a tempo, they would all succeed. What was torturing him was something completely different: time was running out, not only for the actors, but for him and Volodya as well.

Volodya understood this and was taking action. He managed to find windows in such a busy schedule and twice ran over to Yurka in the theatre hall to give him a peck on the cheek and a pat on the head.

But Yurka was sad all the same. In sadness, the Lullaby sounded splendid, but even that did not cheer him up. At that moment in time, only one thing made him happy: the time that they spent as a pair, time that was exclusively theirs. And if, when there was a moment, tender but lightning-quick glances filled his soul with happiness, then Yurka awaited the two-hour recess with his heart aflutter. Finally, they would be able to stay together for real! To remain together alone and throw all these rehearsals and decorations and the rest to the wind. To take pleasure in life and take a full breath of air, to commit each other and that summer to memory as the most magical that had ever been in their lives.

***

“We’re still not going to get as far as the relief from your horror story,” winked Volodya as his pockets jingled with the sound of the keys to the boathouse. “It’s already become somewhat of a tradition, to look for an opportunity, but we’ve never tried to get as far as there.”

Yurka wanted to protest that it was overcast that day, that it might pour down with rain, but he rethought it – was there much harm in getting drenched?

They went down the path to the boathouse, sat in a boat and set out in the same direction as before. This time, Yurka sat Volodya at the oars – let him now row against the current! Volodya did not complain, but halfway through it became clear that he was tired, and Yurka swapped places with him – rowing to the place where the bas-relief was took a lot longer than to where the backwater with the lilies.

The ‘ruins’, as Yurka called the place, took the form of a field, unevenly overgrown with grass and surrounded by a sparse pine forest. It was unknown whether it had been a homestead before, or a church, but that something had actually been there was indicated by the remnants of walls and a hillock formed by the foundations. One only had to look closely and there it was, sticking out of the tall grass.

But their path lay further on, towards the glade, at the foot of which, wild bindweed sprawled. An ordinary, mossy wall peeked out from a magnificent hedge, strewn with little white flowers, like stars. As he passed within a hair’s breadth by it, Yurka looked at Volodya, utterly clueless, and, moving the leafy branches apart, chuckled:

“It’s this wall that has the relief.”

“Of course, it’s very old, but it clearly hasn’t– Hey, wait!”

Volodya narrowed his eyes and, as he made out the barely perceptible, convex figure below the thin layer of moss, he exclaimed, but did not manage to get a word out before Yurka fell to his knees and began to tear away the bindweed and moss.

“Be careful, bindweed is poisonous!”

“Where do you know all this? Are you a botanist or something?” Yurka scratched his head in thought.

“No, it’s just my grandma loves to grow flowers.”

After shrugging, Volodya took the notebook that he carried with him without fail out of the pocket of his shorts and tore out a couple of pages. Armed with the paper, the boys began to wipe the moss and vines away from the bas-relief. Soon, a woman’s profile appeared from behind the living velvet, then a neck and chest, and lower down, the figure of an infant, which the woman was pressing to herself.

“The pose is like the Virgin Mary,” Volodya wondered aloud. “Interesting… But this is a society woman. The lady of the house?”

“It’s my ghost. See the closed buds?” Yurka pointed out some small, sharp-leaved star-flowers. “When I found her, the bloom was still in bloom and right here,” Yurka touched the woman’s clavicle, “I saw a big white flower, like a brooch. That’s how I came up with that horror story. Except I’ve never heard that someone’s homestead was here.”

“Maybe it’s a tombstone?”

“It doesn’t look like it. But who knows…”

The bas-relief and the hedge surrounding it had a mysterious, gothic beauty, but besides admiring them, there was nothing else to do there, while, according to Yurka’s estimations, there was still a good amount of time left.

“Tell me, how long exactly is it until we have to return to camp?” he offered pensively. Afar more interesting idea had occurred to him.

“One and a bit hours. Almost one and a half,” estimated Volodya.

“Excellent!” Yurka livened up. “I know this one place–”

“How do you know all of this? So many places!”

“I’m a slacker and a dimwit,” chuckled Yurka. “I’m always messing with what I shouldn’t and hanging around where I shouldn’t, so I find all sorts of cool stuff.”

“As you say,” smiled Volodya. “Alright, let’s row.”

“There’s not far to row, and then we go up on foot, u-u-up there,” Yurka pointed out the cone-shaped top of a forested hill towering to the east.

“And what’s there? I get the impression that there’s a lot of forest and nothing else.”

“Do you see a spike pointing out? There, on the very top, there’s a little hut.”

“Are you sure we can get there?”

“It’s all fine, there’s a path. True, we’ll have to scramble at points–”

“And what about–”

“Snakes? There aren’t any,” Yurka finished for him.[1]

To ascend the slope, they had to scramble in places. The guys skirted around the parts that were too dangerous, but when they were on steep inclines, they still had to grab for the roots sticking out of the ground. One moment deeply frightened Yurka – the knot that he was holding could not bear his weight, broke off, and almost sent Yurka rolling head over hills down the hill. The rest of the journey went without any adventures, and soon they emerged onto steps carved into the ground, leading right to the hut.

The low, fragile building was nothing particularly appealing: a simple wooden cabin, painted green, the paint peeling in places. Inside was a small table with uncomfortable, narrow benches around; it was all very simple and run-of-the-mill. But this hut was made unique, not by its construction, but by something else – all of its surfaces were speckled with inscriptions: the walls, the beams, the benches, the table, the floor. They were everywhere, inside and outside: ‘Seryozha and Natasha, 1st season 1975’, ‘Dima+Galya 4th season 1982’, ‘Sveta and Artur were here, Lastochka, 1st season 1979’. Everywhere, a vast multitude of names, dates, and numbers in a variety of colours, written in different handwriting, different paints, pencils, hands; many were carved into the wood itself; many were enclosed within a heart.

Yurka went over to the far corner of the hut and called Volodya over to himself. He leant over the edge and gestured into the distance:

“Here’s what I wanted to show you. Look.”

The hut seemed to hang over the edge of the precipice itself – sheer, earthen, falling several metres down into the thick undergrowth, which also strove downwards, towards the river. Meanwhile, further away laid the steppe, stretching for many kilometres ahead, up to the very horizon, divided up by the threads of meandering rivers. The water, reflecting the overcast sky, was tinged with grey-white light, but the spots where the sun rays penetrating the clouds fell up on it sparkled and were made iridescent by the glare. The grass, withered by the scorching summer heat, spread like a yellow rug as far as the eye could see, but in a few spots here and there, some green spots came through.

From there, the spot where they had been not long before could be seen, the field with the bas-relief, and the backwater where they had rowed to see the lilies, and, of course, the camp.

Yurka stole a glance at Volodya, to observe his reaction. He was looking into the distance, bewitched, breathing deeply and peacefully; his face expressed complete tranquillity.

“Beautiful, right?” asked Yurka as he stepped away from the edge.

“Very. But how do you know about this place?”

 “It’s weird that you’ve never heard about it. As a counsellor, especially.” Yurka pressed up with his hands and sat right on the table. Dangling his legs, he began to recount, “This place is called the lovers’ hut. Some girls from the older troops told me about it two years ago, and all the counsellors who’ve done more than one season at Lastochka know about it. Couples at the camp have always considered it kind of a tradition to come here at the end of the season and write their names… I never got it, but came here at one point out of curiosity, to see it with my own eyes.”

“What didn’t you get?” asked Volodya as he came closer. “It’s all very symbolic. You look at these inscriptions and you really feel the lovers’ spirit. Imagine how many feelings have been concentrated here over the course of years and years, how many kind words have been spoken.”

Yurka wanted to giggle and deride him as a romantic, but he met his gaze and faltered. Volodya was looking at him so sincerely and dreamily, as though he were… talking about them? He leant forward, resting his hands on the tabletop to either side of Yurka and touched the end of his nose with his own nose. He closed his eyes, exhaled, deeply inhaled… In that moment, Yurka’s heart was thumping so frantically that it seemed like it was going to tear out of his chest. He reduced the distance between them to a minimum and gave Volodya a quick peck on the lips.

“Do you want,” he whispered, “to leave our names here too?”

Volodya shook his head and went back to resting the tip of his nose against Yurka’s. He said quietly:

“We shouldn’t. If someone from the current season sees it, it won’t turn out well. I’ll remember, Yur, without any inscriptions.”

Yurka hugged him and buried his lips in his neck, but Volodya suddenly flinched and broke off the embrace. Yurka sprung back, then lowered his gaze and noticed that both of Volodya’s arms were covered in goosebumps. Both of them, completely, all the way down to his hands. Volodya returned his gaze. They both suddenly became uncomfortable, but so as not to embarrass him further, Yurka pretended not to notice anything. And so that Volodya would not get embarrassed like that again, Yurka decided never again do what he had done, to not touch his neck.

They returned to the camp by the same path they had used earlier, even though Yurka knew a simpler way; the guys had left the boat by the riverbank, and they had to return it.

A wind raised when they got down to the river; ripples passed over the water and the sky to the east grew dark.

“It’ll start to rain soon,” said Volodya, looking up. “We need to row faster on the way back.”

“The current will get us there in a jiffy,” Yurka assured him.

He climbed into the boat and took up the oars, while Volodya pushed it off from the bank and jumped in himself.

They really did get there quickly. Yurka put his all into the rowing, the boat tore along and a quarter of an hour had not yet passed before they were coming in to moor.

The wind grew in strength. The first raindrops fell from the dove-grey sky.

“Now it’s gonna pour!” Volodya raised his voice. “We probably won’t reach the camp. Shall we take cover at the boatshed?”

“Tie the boat up for now. I’ll go for some tarpaulin.” By then, Yurka had to shout to stop the wind swallowing up his words.

Yurka dashed from the jetty and opened the doors to the warehouse. He grabbed a tarpaulin, but, as he was about to go back to the mooring, he saw, peering through the window that looked out onto the beach, somebody was at the door.

As he hid himself, just in case, behind the slope, Yurka took a closer look and saw that Masha was moving towards the warehouse.

“Oh, for–” he hissed between his teeth. “Just what we don’t need!”

 He hurried back to the mooring – it stuck out into the river, hidden by the boatshed building. Masha would not be able to see him until she came into the warehouse.

Yurka acted without thinking. He ran up to Volodya and grabbed him by the elbow:

“Lay down in the boat, quickly!”

“What?”

“Masha’s coming!”

“But we’ve not done anything we need to hide.”

“Lay down, I said!” ordered Yurka.

Volodya was confused but sprung into the boat and laid along the bottom in a flash. Yurka went after him. Keeping an eye on what was going on behind him, he just about secured the tarpaulin to the prow and, laying next to Volodya, covered the boat with it.

And only then did Yurka realise that Volodya was right – until they had hidden, there was nothing to incriminate them. Now, however, since they were trying not to be found, that meant they had something to hide. And if Masha saw them get out of a boat from under a tarpaulin, all unkempt and dishevelled, she would think the worst and questionings and investigations would be launched. Yurka swore quietly – he had set them up himself; he had forced them to lay down without sticking out.

“What’s she here for?” he groaned once the tarpaulin was fastened and everything around them was plunged into darkness.

“I’ve got no idea,” replied Volodya. “It’s not the best time to pick to go for a walk.”

“I said! She’s following you!”

Yurka carefully lifted a bit of the tarpaulin and looked around. The field of vision was poor, he could only see a little bit of the jetty, but Yurka managed to espy Masha’s feet in black shoes and white knee-high socks. She passed by and came back along the jetty twice, then stopped by their boat – Yurka’s heart did a flip – and stood there a minute, made a step towards it… But in that moment, the sky rumbled deafeningly, and the rain began to pour. Heavy drops drummed against the tarpaulin. Masha, loudly exclaiming, ran back to the boathouse.

“Has she gone?” asked Volodya anxiously once Yurka laid back down.

“Yes. But I think she noticed something, damn it.”

“Can you see from here when she leaves?”

“Of course not. She’s in the boathouse. How could I see her?” whispered Yurka in irritation. “Apart from the window. And only then if I’m lucky.”

“I see,” intoned Volodya lingeringly. “That means we’ll have to wallow here until the siren.”

Only then did Yurka sense how close they were together. He turned onto his side, as slowly and cautiously as he could so as not to rock the boat, finding himself face-to-face with Volodya. His eyes had not yet accustomed to the dark, and if Yurka’s nose had not bumped against Volodya’s forehead, then he would not even have known where and in what position he was laying. Yurka crept a little further down and, once his eyes had gradually adjusted, he could make out the outline of Volodya’s glasses.

Rain beat against the tarpaulin and beneath that, the cold, damp wind gusted, but Yurka felt hot, because Volodya was too close. He wanted to touch him, not to lay like tin soldiers. Yurka found Volodya’s palm, gave it an uncertain squeeze and felt how dry and warm it was. Volodya sighed judderingly and squeezed Yurka’s fingers in response.

“Yur,” he said hoarsely.

“What?”

“Kiss me.”

His heart skipped a beat and sweet wave flooded over his body. All around it smelt of water – rainwater and river water and that was how Yurka’s first real kiss smelt.

Volodya allowed him more than normal – he did not quickly, innocently brush his own lips against his, but rather pressed them together, lingered longer. This kiss might have lasted a few seconds or an eternity, accompanied by the maddened beat of a heart – Yurka’s or Volodya’s, neither of them knew. Then Volodya disconnected their lips. Yurka wanted to recoil, as he thought that it was all going to end there, but then he felt an even softer and wetter touch.

Yurka did not know how to kiss like adults do. He had never done it before. However, Volodya already knew how, apparently. He caught his lips and stretched them into a kiss – adult, tender, head-spinning.

The rain slackened off and calmed down, but Yurka did not at all want to calm down. He did not want to let go of Volodya’s hands and lips. Throwing it all to the wind, his shortness of breath, the heat, and the pleasing languor he felt in his whole body, he did not want to stop, to put an end to this moment. If he could have stayed in that boat forever, underneath that tarpaulin, next to Volodya, Yurka would have stayed without a second thought.

Volodya did not want everything to end, either. He let go of his hands and embraced Yurka, pressed him to himself so that Yurka felt that he was not the only one who felt hot. Without understanding what he was doing, he placed a hand on Volodya’s side, worked his way up under his shirt and felt his skin with his fingers. His hands may as well have given an electric shock; Volodya flinched. Their kiss became rough and greedy.

The distant sound of the siren sounding the end of the recess was deafening to Yurka. He tried to pretend that he had not heard anything, but Volodya tore away from him first and, sighing, said:

“That’s time, Yur. We need to go.”

Clutching at the utmost last straw, Yurka asked:

“Do you think Masha has gone yet?”

“The rain’s stopped, and she would have heard the siren… I’ll check now.”

He sat up and, in the same way that Yurka had before him, slightly raised the corner of the tarpaulin. In that moment, Yurka wanted so badly for Volodya to see Masha’s feet there and to come back down to him. For him to be able, even for just one more minute, to hug and kiss him.

“There’s no-one there,” said Volodya, and he sat up, throwing the tarpaulin back from the boat.

The bright daylight blinded Yurka. All around it was grey and damp, but the sky was lightening up and the sun was penetrating between faraway clouds.

Volodya got out of the boat and Yurka followed him. Whilst they fastened the tarpaulin, Yurka wrestled with the urge to approach Volodya from behind, hug him, and stand still together like that for a long, long time.

***

“That’s all, well done, everybody. You can go free now,” announced Volodya, drawing the rehearsal to a close. The actors, pale from exhaustion, applauded. On the fifth try, the troop finally managed to run through the whole performance from beginning to end to a relatively tolerable standard.

If the actors had been so burnt out by that day that they were literally collapsing from exhaustion, then how the creative director was still on his feet, Yurka did not know. Volodya laboured on like a prisoner in the chain gang, deaf, blind and unresponsive to everything around him. His neckerchief had even been turned around so that the knot was on his back, and it hung round his neck like a garrotte.

Yurka burst into laughter when he noticed this. He stood up from the piano, went up to the director, and reached out to correct the tangled cloth.

“I wish I’d get my neckerchief ath quick ath potthible!”

Yurka jumped in surprise; he was sure that all the actors had left the hall, but nimble Olezhka jumped out from behind the bust of Lenin like a Jack-in-the-Box.

Volodya shrunk away from Yurka and corrected his neckerchief himself, then explained, with a forced smile:

“Our Olezhka here dreams of being the first in his class, or better yet, in his whole school, to be accepted into the pioneers.”

“A-a-ah…” Yurka proffered and turned to Olezhka. “And what, have you already learnt the oath by heart?”

“Uh-huh!” Olezhka blushed, then stood to attention and began with expressiveness: “I, Wyleyev Oleg Romanovich, joining the wankth of the Vladimiw Ilyich Lenin All-Union Pioneew Owganithation, in the pwethenthe of my comwadeth tholemnly pwomithe: to passionately love and chewish my Mothewland, to live ath the gweat Lenin bade uth to, ath the Commu–” Olezhka took a desperate breath, “–nist Pawty teacheth uth to, ath wequiwe the lawth of the Pioneewth of the Thoviet Union!”

“Well done!” praised Volodya. “And how to give the pioneer’s salute, do you know that?”

“I do! Shall I show you?”

Yurka clicked his tongue – well, they’d found time! Not hiding his boredom, he sat on the edge of the stage, dangled his legs and intermittently snored to make a point. Volodya ignored him.

“Show me,” the counsellor nodded, and cried the summons: “Be prepared for the struggle for the cause of the Communist Party!”

“Always prepared!” Olezhka bellowed and jerked his hand up into the pioneer’s salute.

Volodya corrected his palm, so that it was higher than his brow, rather than on a level with his nose.

“You need to have your hand higher than your head. It shows that you hold the interests of the Pioneer Organisation above your own. And during your oath, the person who ties your neckerchief will ask you trick questions.”

“Goodness!” Olezhka took fright. “Are they hard? Have you asked them?”

“I have. I asked a prospective pioneer how much the pioneer’s neckerchief is worth.”

“Fifty-five copecks!” Yurka said distinctly, having suddenly come to.

“Yur, you know perfectly well that that’s not the right answer. Why try and confuse someone?” asked Volodya, vexed. “The pioneer’s neckerchief is priceless, because it’s a part of the red flag of Communism. Have you memorised that, Olezh?”

“Uh-huh, I wemember!” Olezhka nodded. “I’ll go now. I need to practithe the oath thome more before bed!”

“I’d prefer you to practise your lines!”

“And my lineth too!”

Olezhka whirled away while Yurka reflected on how Volodya was lying in vain to the little one. That really was how much a pioneer’s neckerchief cost, fifty-five copecks, no more, since all it was at the end of the day was a dyed rag. Everyone Yurka’s age thought so. Kids wore the neckerchief however it happened to fall, as though mocking it: uneven, crumpled, covered in writing and marks, or in the style of a cowboy – similar to how Volodya had only just been wearing it.

Perhaps the neckerchief had meant something ten or twenty years before, symbolised values or ideals, but now all that was in the past. Yurka himself had first begun to suspect that people had no ideals or values left when he failed his exam. Soon, Olezhka too would inevitably be convinced of the same thing, but for his own reasons. Yurka began to pre-emptively pity Olezhka, so spirited and reverential, for the disappointment that lay in wait for him.

Yurka wanted to share his reflections with Volodya but did not get the chance: the theatre hall doors once again flew open and kids from the art club brought in a few pieces of set dressing.

“Here’s the water tower and the steam train,” said Misha Lukovenko – the leader of the graphic designers. “Like you asked, we did the outlines for you to paint yourself.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” Volodya thanked him. “And did you bring paints?”

“Yeah, here they are,” Misha handed him a big box with cans and brushes and warned him: “I’ll take them back tomorrow.”

As soon as the artists had left, Volodya turned to Yurka and said:

“Well? Shall we get painting?”

Yurka began to moan despairingly:

“Now? Volodya, you’re wiped out, exhausted, and I also want to sleep–”

“Time won’t wait! There’s at least two days of work here – we’ll paint while it dries. And then if we end up having to fix something…”

“Could we maybe leave it ‘til tomorrow?” asked Yurka without any hope.

“No! If you’re tired, then I can do it myself.” There was no giveaway in his voice; Yurka knew that he was enthusiastic enough to spend the night in the theatre and do everything himself. But how could Yurka let him do that?

And they stayed to paint. They laid the huge sheets directly on the floor of the stage, and, crawling over it like partisans through in the field, worked at it with the brushes. The work was uncomplicated but long and in places, delicate. It had long since gone dark outside the windows, the lights out had been sounded more than an hour ago, and still they kept on painting and painting.

According to the clock, it was past midnight when Yurka, having seen that they had done about half, gave up. He cast his paintbrush aside and laid flat on the ground.

“That’s it, I’m exhausted. Volod, let’s be done with it, I could eat a horse. Konev eating a horse! Can you imagine that?”

But Volodya, on a roll, kept on making brushstrokes on the paper:

“No, we need to get it done today. You heard, tomorrow we’re going to give the paints back–”

“Need, need, need,” snarled Yurka. He jumped up to his feet in a flash, walked up to him and took the brush out of his hand. “No, we don’t need!”

Volodya looked at him angrily and tried to take the brush back, but Yurka darted back and hid his hands behind his back.

“Look, you’re going outside the lines! You’re exhausted!”

“We need–”

“We’ve still got a whole day and a half to go!”

“A day and a half only!”

“Your decorations aren’t going to go anywhere!”

Yurka threw the paintbrush aside and took three steps, ending up nose-to-nose with Volodya. He looked him in the eye and said, much more quietly:

“But we still will… Do you remember what’s tomorrow, besides the play?”

Volodya frowned and averted his gaze, but then lifted his eyes again right away, and in them shone understanding and regret at the same time.

“I remember…” he replied sadly. “You’re right, yes.”

Yurka laid his hands on his shoulders. He stroked them, then his neck, and buried his fingers in the hair on the back of his head. Volodya embraced him in return: he wound his hands around his waist and squeezed Yurka to himself, stretching towards his lips. But the way they kissed was not at all what Yurka was counting on.

“No, kiss me like you did in the boat,” he asked, squeezing Volodya even harder.

“It’s not worth it,” replied Volodya seriously, and, reflecting, added after a moment, “Yur… Yura, do you think maybe we’re making a mistake, doing this?”

“A mistake? How? Don’t you want to anymore?” Yurka expected Volodya to begin convincing him of the opposite, but he merely shrugged silently. Yurka got worried, no longer joking around: “But Volodya, I don’t want to stop. I like this! Do you really not anymore?”

Volodya turned away. He looked first at the ceiling, then the floor, and only after that did he reply:

“I like it.”

“Then why is it a mistake?”

 “What if I lose control of myself again? And anyway, it’s strange. It’s against nature, it’s gross and wrong.”

“You feel gross?” Yurka was perplexed.

He thought things over. Yes, from the outside, they might look strange. But that was only from the outside. To be ‘inside’ their relationship, their friendship, and, perhaps, even their love felt utterly natural and wonderful to Yurka. There was nothing and could be nothing better than to kiss Volodya, to hug him and to look forward to meeting with him.

“I don’t,” Volodya inclined his head despondently, “but to everybody else, it’s gross. But that’s not the point. I feel like I’m pulling you away from the right path with all this, Yur.”

Yurka flew into a rage:

“Try and remember who kissed who by the control room?” he crossed his arms over his chest and scowled.

The corners of Volodya’s mouth crept upwards, but he suppressed the smile and, serious again, asked a moment later:

“And what do you think about that, Yur?”

“I try not to think,” replied Yurka in the same tone. “What’s the point? Neither you nor I can hold back. And we’re not doing anyone any harm by kissing.”

“Besides ourselves.”

“Ourselves? I don’t see how I’ve lost anything. On the contrary, it makes me feel good. And what about you?”

Volodya smiled, abashed:

“You already know the answer.”

Yurka gave up asking questions or trying to negotiate, and instead simply took the initiative into his own hands. It was their second real, adult kiss – and it turned out not at all like the first. Back then, in the boat, it had been hot and tempestuous, they had floated amid the thunder of their hearts and the driving of the rain, whereas now it was quiet. Utterly quiet. Outside the windows was the night, in the vast hall was emptiness, everything seemed frozen in place while they alone slowly, smoothly and leisurely came to know each other through the movements of their lips.

But suddenly at the entrance, something made a loud noise and rang out as it began to roll downwards. The guys leapt away from each other as quickly as if lightning had struck between them and thrown them in opposite directions. A small torch rolled down the steps of the hall, while at the doors, with wide eyes, Masha inched backwards.

Yurka’s first reaction was panic, then paralysing fear. It seemed like the ground had disappeared from under his feet, that the stage had fallen apart, that everything was sinking bottom-up. Then came incomprehension and disbelief – could his imagination have run wild? What would have brought Masha there, at almost one in the morning?

But there she was – live and real. And trying to disappear as quickly as she could – she was already feeling about behind her back for the doorhandle.

“Stop!” shouted Volodya, the first to get over the shock.

Masha froze, while he ran from the stage and, in a few leaps up the steps, appeared next to her.

“Don’t run away. Please.”

Masha could not say a word – she opened and closed her mouth, swallowing air like a fish cast aside on the riverbank.

“Mash?” Volodya held a hand out to her, but she recoiled from him, like from a leper. She simply squealed and gasped:

“Don’t touch me!”

“Alright, fine…” exhaled Volodya fitfully. He tried to speak calmly, but without success. His voice rattled with his overdrawn nerves. “Just don’t panic. Come down, please. I’ll explain everything.”

“What? What are you going to explain to me… You… You… What you really… It’s disgusting!”

Yurka’s consciousness was may as well have been switched off, he could not make his mind up on anything, make any conclusions. He could not feel his arms, while his powerless legs would not bend. But he could not hesitate. Through incredible force of will, Yurka made himself dare to approach them. Masha stared at him even more wildly and frightenedly than at Volodya.

“Mash,” intoned Yurka, uttering the words with difficulty, “just don’t think anything bad of it.”

“You’re crazy, you’re sick!”

“No, we’re normal, it’s just–”

“Why were you doing it? It’s wrong! That’s not how it works, that’s not how you– It’s totally… Totally…”

Masha began to tremble and weep. Just a little more, realised Yurka, and she’ll go into hysteria! She’s going to go to everyone right now and…

He did not finish his thought. He began to feel feverish himself. Everything began to float and grow dark before his eyes. It felt that he was on the brink of fainting and falling straight through the ground – his legs were not holding up under the terror. Maintaining at least some sort of an external appearance of calm, he could not tear away from the terrifying images that incessantly burst into his imagination, images of what lay in store for him and Volodya once Masha had told everybody: disgrace and judgement. They would become outcasts, they would be punished – he was frightened to think how!

“It was just us mucking around, you understand?” laughed Volodya loudly and nervously. “A prank, because there was nothing to do, because we were bored. There’s nothing serious to it. You’re right, that’s not how it works, there’s nothing real between us.”

“Are there not enough girls for you? What are you looking for in him that we don’t have?”

“Of course not! Think about it yourself: Nature is arranged so that guys love girls, men – women, and so it goes… Mashenka, I’m not looking for anything and I don’t plan to. And I won’t find it. Yurka… Yurka and I are just… we’re nobody to each other, we’ll go our separate ways from Lastochka and forget each other. And you should forget it, because this nonsense doesn’t mean anything, it was a momentary bit of craziness, a whim…”

Yurka listened to him mutedly, as though through a wall. Without any feeling in his arms or legs, not in the state to be able to breathe evenly, he closed his heavy eyelids and shuddered from the pain. His whole body burned; not concentrated in one spot, it spread everywhere, seemingly even to the limits of his body. After all, Volodya might have said that they had done it on a dare, he could have said anything, even ‘we were learning to kiss’; what if she had believed it? Yurka opened his eyes, looked her in the eyes and read ‘no’. Masha would not be brought around by excuses, jokes or promises. For her to be convinced, she needed the truth, be it even but a grain, but the truth, and in Volodya’s words, there was truth: the laws of Nature, their separation, ‘Yurka and I are just…’

Yurka stared at Volodya, searching for an answer to his terrifying question: Is there at least a drop of falsehood in what you’re saying? It was painful for him to hear all of that, and even more painful to understand that saying precisely that was their only way out.

“Please, Mash, don’t talk to anyone about this. If they find out about something like this… It will be a stain for the rest of our lives and ruin our futures. Do you understand?” continued Volodya. Yurka stood mute, like before.

“Al-alright…” sobbed Masha. “Swear that you’ll never again…”

Volodya inhaled deeply, as though gathering his thoughts:

“I swear. Never again.”

“And you,” Masha turned to Yurka. Her gaze changed from pleading to furious. “Now you!”

Yurka momentarily caught Volodya’s gaze and saw in it pure, absolute despair. “I swear. Never,” Yurka choked out.

[1] This little sentence-finishing joke has been bothering me for ages. Basically, Volodya says A zmej tam (Literally “And/but snakes there”) to which Yurka concludes Net (Literally “No/there is not”) which does make sense as a complete sentence in Russian in that order, but doesn’t really in English when divided like that, and I’ve found it really hard to think of a way to structure the sentence so that it naturally flows as something someone would actually say on Volodya’s part, and something that someone could intuitively finish on Yurka’s part. I went with this but I’m not satisfied with it, because I feel like Yurka intuiting that Volodya means snakes gives him much more insight than he does in the original but idk I think I’m overthinking this.

[k00297602]

Week 2 - Quick ink sketches

(18/3/24)

Sketches I did of myself with Indian ink and a hot pink paint pen for a bit of charm. For the first row I used a mirror to capture myself and the other row I used photos I took. I like working with the mirror as I could see the form and depth of my face with my own eye but the photos allowed me to get poses I couldn’t get when constantly looking to the mirror.

I worry quite a bit about making mistakes so being unable to erase anything and working fast was a beneficial exercise. The sketches may not look like me but this is just practice to help me later on with self-portraits.

[k00298051]

PAINTING

-

On the first day of the painting elective, I chose to do life painting with Sylvia.

In this painting exercise, we learned a lot about tone and contrast...

We used only large and stiff brushes to create this painting, as it made us focus on shape and show rather then trying to make the model look overly detailed, which is not the point of the exercise. We mixed a base colour (mixed yellow, blue and red) and then mixed that base colour again with different amounts of white to get a dark, medium and light tone.

We originally began by drawing a very quick and loose thumbnail sketches on the paper before we began painting. I began the painting by adding the walls before adding in a very rough shape for the model himself.

After we finished our paintings and let them dry over the break, we came back up to the room for a crit and to arrange and learn how to present our work.

^all our work laid out on the floor before we hung it up.^

[joylinda-hawks]

Art for today. Watercolors and auxiliary white gel pen. I treat this art as a quick exercise, I don't have time to paint longer. I have to get in the habit of not treating watercolors like gouache. ZZH as ZZS. I got the sketch wrong.

[harrenhalyuri]

"this quick sketch surely won't turn into a 3-hour painting exercise am i right haha" says local clown

anyway hbo i want that trailer

sketch & alt version under cut

[ekkurea]

Your art is so beautiful. May I please have tips for doing digital art and maybe drawing. I’m trying to improve my art skills, both pencil and paper ☺️

Hello! Thank you so much! I don't even know what I can do to help. But I will try to tell you everything I can remember and maybe some of it will be useful to you. Although, you've probably already heard/read it all or experienced it yourself.

Progress in drawing (and not only) rests on "several pillars"

STABILITY, ANALYSIS, INSPIRATION (Continued 👇🏻 And some of my old drawings)

Perhaps we should start with the last one, inspiration. Do what you love, love what you do. In addition, I advise you to clearly define for yourself what the rational purpose of your work is. I spent a lot of time wondering why I should create my own art if there are already millions of cool artists. Find your benefit to yourself, others, and the world. This will help in difficult times when the wave of emotions subsides.

Perhaps we should start with the last one, inspiration. Do what you love, love what you do. In addition, I advise you to clearly define for yourself what the rational purpose of your work is. I spent a lot of time wondering why I should create my own art if there are already millions of cool artists. Find your benefit to yourself, others, and the world. This will help in difficult times when the wave of emotions subsides.

Lack of stable practice. For various reasons, I often quit drawing and had to go back to the beginning every time. Drawing is about knowledge and skills. So even if you remember the structure of the skull and the process of drawing, your hands and brain still need time to adjust technically.

If you wanted to hear some practical step-by-step actions, then unfortunately I won't be able to help you with that. You need to visually show the process (and there are endless topics to study) with explanatory support and feedback on the final result. Perhaps someday I will be able to open my courses or share quality tutorials with you.

Maybe this quick tip will help you. If you are just starting out, I would advise you to draw more quick sketches, small finished drawings. I also like an old saying. "Your work should look complete at any stage." Whether it's a sketch, working with color or whatever. It doesn't mean that you have to dwell on each of them. It means that you need to have a basic understanding, and even if it's not perfect, you should be able to do each stage. I hope I was able to make that clear.

But also don't be afraid of full-fledged illustrations that require a lot of sweat. Why do my words contradict? For example. At the institute, we hardly ever made quick sketches or small illustrations. We painted few pictures and spent several weeks on each one. This is not good. Because while we were trying to perfect the coloring of the picture, we were already "forgetting" how to work with composition. And as I said, regularity plays an important role and it is a great exercise for the brain. So take breaks, alternate your workload, and always learn something new to see progress.

I was able to test how much better it works on my own students (I started teaching at a private art school in my final year of university). Children who refused to do quick exercises quickly burned out on long, full-fledged drawings. Children who drew only quick sketches were afraid of difficulties and as a result drew worse and worse. It was only when I had to insist on maintaining a balance that they started without enthusiasm at first, but later said how great it was and were grateful. We also alternated topics, from free choice of anime or anything to classic still lifes. They learned to love both.

By the way, it was while teaching that I realized how important it is to structure information and drawing stages in your head. To check if you have learned everything well, try explaining and teaching others. You will immediately notice if you have any gaps.

Since we're on the subject, I'll tell you about my path, which is quite typical. But I promised to show you some of my old drawings. Unfortunately, most of the photos have not survived, but here is what I found. And while some of the drawings are still at home in my hometown, the drawings from the university were successfully sold to junior students (haha, does it work like that for you too?).

Beginning. Art school (5-11 years old). Most of the time fooling around with peers, the rest of the time being forced to draw something you don't like. Complicating factors: the complete absence of a learning process (teachers did not show or explain anything at all and everything was done at the level of children's intuition). A few high-quality tutorials on the Internet would have given me more than all the training there (we can talk separately about how difficult it is to find high-quality drawing courses even now. I had no luck with that at all. Pay attention not only to how the courses advertise themselves, but also to what their students can do, what they study, how the material is presented, what teaching methods are used... Don't waste your money). The result: I hated drawing. I didn't even want to think about a sheet of paper and a pencil. And I say this with all the love for the memories of those times. And yet, I'm still grateful for my childhood.

Still lifes and nature are interesting! I realized this when I became an adult, gained experience and saw the meaning and beauty in them, and then I became sincerely interested in the process. If they tell you that by painting still lifes you will learn to paint anything, they are not lying. It is a good base for understanding shapes, textures, colors and space.

By the way, an additional problem of motivation at that time was that at that time, becoming an artist, designer, illustrator, animator, drawing anime or something similar was on the level of "becoming an astronaut". At the time, I didn't even think about the possibility of this. "You just have to find a normal job." Do you know what I mean? It's good that times are changing.

Already at the construction college (I was planning to become an architect) (I was 14-15 years old), I started drawing in class out of boredom. I drew what I was interested in. I was surprised myself, but this accident (or was it?) marked the beginning of everything. I still consider those times to be the best for my mental health and my creativity. I still can't get back the "wings" of inspiration and carefree spirit I had. Ah, youth (ha ha). Unfortunately, then I had to give up everything again and go to work alongside my studies.

The idea that I could really become an illustrator was also a matter of fate. I saw one artist from my city who "made it". I looked at her path and thought that I wanted to do it too. So, to try and not lose what I already have, I entered two universities at the same time (to study engineering and graphic design). I like to be autonomous and set an example for myself, but it's also good to be inspired and learn from others.

By the way. Looking at others too much became my big problem during my university years. I faced the problem of analyzing my work and other artists. I couldn't see myself, felt incredible pressure and was torn looking at professionals of different styles and directions. There were too many of them. It was killing me morally. It's better to drop the fear. Easy to say, but sometimes hard to do, I know.

Write down a few areas (fanart, book illustration, character development) and try each one. Choose a few top authors in each area. You can analyze what is currently relevant and for which audience and publications. The current style and color scheme in the industry may even depend on the country. For example, in Asia, children's book illustration has its own favorites, which are significantly different from Europe. Think about who you are working for.

If you choose to go your own way, focusing only on yourself, I also want to reassure you. Each of us already has a style. It is the way we draw now and what we will add during practice (colors we like, techniques we may have seen from someone else, etc.). It's like a snowball that gets bigger as it travels. Only in practice will you realize what is truly yours. Besides, we don't know where life will take us. I honestly could not even imagine that I would be lucky enough to paint fanarts. So you shouldn't choose one narrow direction for the rest of your life. We change and so does our path, which indicates our development. Focus on what you can try right now. This will give you the first impetus.

It's quite interesting that one artist can have a radically different style depending on whether they work with traditional materials or digital. I know an illustrator who likes to draw nature in classic realism, but on a tablet she draws bright stylized drawings. You can be different and that's okay. And I was the person who couldn't get used to drawing on a tablet for years. It can be difficult to find your tools and re-adjust, to get used to other feelings.

About the process. Before you start, make sure you have all the information you need (if you are not just painting for yourself, for relaxation). Sometimes it happens that you have a task, but without clear requirements. It's better to ask the customer (or if you're drawing for yourself, ask yourself) about the idea of the drawing, the format, the technical requirements, the audience it's for, what should be emphasized, what color scheme, what is the reason for it... The more details you know and the clearer you imagine what the result should be, the less likely you are to have to redo everything. This is an opportunity to thank all my customers who provide me with great quality references! Some of them even write a whole story about the characters and the idea and atmosphere the illustration should have. Thank you so much! Thanks to this, I understand your thoughts better and the illustrations become more "alive".

[saemi-the-writer]

XV , XXIII and XXIV for all of your Arcana OCs please 💫

Thank you! *rolls up sleeves* now, here you go:

Btw: cheating a bit and giving 2 theme songs for my OCs!

XV.) What does your MC do to get ready for the day? Do they have a routine?

Niamh is a (very) early bird and has indeed her routine.

She's usually up around 5 o'clock in the morning, after getting washed and dressed, she does her morning exercise - physical then magical - followed by a long meditation. Once Niamh is done meditating, she makes her bed and then goes to prepare breakfast and some lunch boxes. After eating and washing the dishes, she goes down to the shop for a quick check-up and cleaning if needed. Niamh burns some incense in the room for readings and eventually prepares or finishes brewing some potions. If she has some time to spare, she will sit for a bit and read a book or do some crafting.

When Asra is here, she checks on him and wakes him up if needed and the two finish preparing the place before opening.

XXIII.) What is your MC’s theme song?

 I see Fire - Celtic Woman

This would be Niamh during the Plague, right before her death, but it also fits resurrected Niamh.

Rasen - Chihiro Onitsuka

Look, if I could make a show of my AU, this would be my pick for the ending song animation!! (Me crying in "I can't make animatics">_<)

Here's the lyrics translation: Wherever I am, Something is dying, I try to cast off My rusting wrath.

Chorus: I change into a bird Flying away from the crowd My doubts change into feathers I freely shake them off of all of it Life My life My fragile life Finally, I've realized...

This arm stretches out Changing into a branch or thin air Forgetting about you I reach Paradise

In a crowd of people The pace is violent I secretly run away from someone Who clings to my legs

(Chorus)

Life My life My precious life Finally, I've reached it.

XXIV.) What is your MC and their LI’s romance theme song?

Anywhere But Here - SafetySuit

This song screams "Asra" and the pairing to me. The "love that will never be" is when the two still have some doubts and haven't confessed yet.

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

XV.) What does your MC do to get ready for the day? Do they have a routine?

Réamann's routine is quite similar to Niamh's until a point:

He wakes up early and does his morning exercises then meditation before anything else. After his breakfast, he grooms and feeds Ceres then he checks the to-do list he prepared the previous day. Depending on his schedule, he either starts practising his scales or does some sketches. If he has to meet a client for a painting, he checks the commissioned art he made and/or only prepares his material. Once he's sure that everything is ready, he checks to see if he still has some spare time for a morning stroll either to the docks or the forest, or just to get some pumpkin bread. When the time comes, he passes by his sister's shop to get the lunchboxes she prepared for him before going on his day.

XXIII.) What is your MC’s theme song?

 Never-Ending Story - Within Temptation

It definitely reflects a lot about the way Réa sees the world and his "philosophy".

A spark inside us - "The Princess and the Goblin"

This is a bard song, you can't change my mind! Plus, it fits Réamann's optimism.

XXIV.) What is your MC and their LI’s romance theme song?

I bring you a song - Bambi

I know I already picked this song for Muriel my post "Disney themes", but come on! "I bring you a song" / "I'm singing for you" ? Of course, it would make me think of Réamann and RéaMuri!! 😂

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

XV.) What does your MC do to get ready for the day? Do they have a routine?

This family is full of early birds! Erwin is another one! His day starts at 4 - 5 o'clock, and he starts with a cup of strong tea, a bowl of rice porridge and his solo morning training which consists of:

50 lap races

a certain number of press-ups, push-ups and stretchings

training against a dummy - first without weapons, then with his sword

a sequence with his sword on his own

He takes a quick shower/bath afterwards and eats a solid breakfast. Depending on the day, he visits the forge and helps start the fire and sharpens some blades. After that, he checks the schedules and goes to meet the soldiers from night patrols to listen to a quick report. If something needs to be attended to, he goes himself or sends the vice-captain and reports to Nadia if anything is amiss and she needs to be notified.

XXIII.) What is your MC’s theme song?

 Shattered - Trading Yesterday

Post-plague, Erwin became depressed. Niamh died of the plague, the family is grieving and Lucio was "murdered" by fire and he couldn't save him. Poor guy was feeling lost but still tries to move on for his remaining family and loved ones, despite his struggles.

I'll fight - Daughtry

It shows Erwin's kindest and most caring side. He's not one to fight out of pleasure or just to show off, he mostly learnt to survive and protect himself, then he chooses to use his skills to protect his loved ones. Whether "fight" is used figurately or literally, he'll fight for them.

XXIV.) What is your MC and their LI’s romance theme song?

Promise of a Lifetime - Kutless

"The pledge you made to me" <- Erwin definitely made one to Lucio! And not just for his position as the Captain of the guards and bodyguard :p

These two are pining idiots too

[k00282697]

Life Drawing with Eoin -

This week I attended the life drawing workshop with Eoin. In this workshop we were tasked with drawing a figure from life. Last week I attended the life painting workshop with Sylvia so I feel like I had a good grasp of the human form.

Here are the 10 minute sketches we made at the end. I found this process challenging but overall beneficial to my anatomy and sketching skills. Below are the quick 30 sec sketches we also completed.

We also had a quick drawing exercise on brown paper. We all sketched in our own individual corner.

Overall, I hope to bring some of the sketching either my animation or painting pieces.

[k00319458]

For this Monday, I have chosen the charcoal/ink/gesture drawing workshop, Me and You. I have thoroughly enjoyed working that day, having been instructed to do many drawings and quick exercises in a limited amount of time.

Starting with 30-second gesture drawings, I had to slowly adjust pace and scale to suit my timeframe, as well as loosen up my sketching to allow for quicker strokes and fluidity to show movement of the figure.

Once we were instructed to do 2-minute sketches, I found myself more appreciative of the extra time, using every extra second I had in a calculated, meaningful manner.

The next exercise, blind drawing, had let me feel a sense of freedom when lining the page. The continuous line aspect of the exercise was also an interesting experience, having to remember which lines have been drawn and how to connect one feature to another without losing place on the page.

Next, I admit I am disappointed with the 10-minute drawing exercise. Knowing I held a lot more time than before, I crept into my old habits and sketched carefully line by line without looking at the overall gesture AND the general proportions of the figure. If attempted again, I will stray away from making the same mistakes.

Finally, we were given black ink, water, and a long stick with a paint brush at the end (inspired by the drawing week guest artist) to do quick 5 minute figure paintings, all of us modelling in turns. I am very happy with these outcomes overall. Being inexperienced in all mediums of the day yet I slowly gained knowledge of utilising different tools. I find the proportions and line work of the final ink drawings very satisfactory, but I would love to gain even more experience in how ink acts and works with water on paper in the future.