#quick sketch.... and painting exercise

[ragepups]

costa del sol wouldn't be the same without you

[aeb-art]

sighs

[bonelyheartsclub]

♡ Poplar - Valentine's One-Shot ♡

Written by @/duskyskye

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“Splendid, absolutely splendid!”

Poplar gazed at your latest piece, raising it above his head. You’d tried your best to work with the tiny watercolor canvas and brushes he had available for you, but you really thought you could have done better with this one. Especially compared to Poplar’s prowess.

“I don’t know,” you thought aloud, “I don’t think it’s really all that.”

“Nonsense! The way you rendered this flower is lovely! I love the shading you did on the petals.”

“Poplar…you and I both know I was just following a tutorial. I couldn’t do that without help.” Your tone was light as you spoke, though the creeping feeling of inadequacy was still present. Of course, Poplar wasn’t taking that from you.

“Hmm…what I know for certain is that you shouldn’t be nearly this hard on yourself. Everyone begins somewhere, after all! I think you’re off to a lovely start. Now, may I?” Poplar stood, gesturing to the wall. You gave him a shrug and a nod, trying to keep the smile on your face. Without another word, he positioned your piece just above his desk mirror.

“Well, I think that makes for a lovely centerpiece. Done by an even more lovely person.” Poplar smiled, looking at the wall.

You followed his gaze. Yep. That was your piece, alright. Next to the other paintings that he had hanging. They seemed to dwarf yours in quality, the brushwork and delicate detail reflecting Poplar’s talent in his craft. You shuddered a little bit.

Poplar seemed to pick up on your discomfort, his smile faltering as he sat back down next to you.

“Does it really bother you that much? Your painting?”

You gave him a small nod. He sighed, looking downcast for a brief moment before his sockets widened, his smile quickly returning as he turned to you.

“I don’t think I’ve ever shown you my old paintings, now, have I? Oh dear, what a shame. Though surely if you’re so bothered by someone’s early works, you’d have no interest…” Poplar made a point of acting hurt, leaning dramatically against his desk. You giggled at the theatrics. Maybe you were a bit on the theatrical side yourself with how downtrodden you were being.

“Are you acting like that because you think they’re any worse than mine?”

“Darling, I KNOW they are.” Poplar gave you a quick grin before taking his cane and walking to his dresser. With a flourish, he pulled out a well-loved folder from the top drawer.

“I suppose I should clarify before I open this, but I am showing this to you with the express purpose of helping you understand that everyone struggles when beginning in a new medium. I fully expect you to laugh, to judge, and so on. All I ask is that when you reach the life drawing section, you refrain from visibly cringing too hard.” Poplar slid back into the seat beside you, placing the file on the tabletop where you had been working.

“What’s that supposed to mean, anyway?”

“You’ll find out in just a moment.”

You opened the file, which contained a relatively thick bunch of papers. The top started with a few color studies. Each labelled with various brush styles, paint colors, and blending methods. Wet on wet, wet on dry, flat wash, gradients, glazing… all things you had a vague understanding of, but more than you think you would have the patience to complete. You could tell that the strokes and coloring were not nearly as neat as the works that were displayed above your head.

Pages turned from dedicated exercises to a few applications. Circles in various colors were shaded using the previous techniques. He was experimenting with the various colors available to him. You could tell that he had also been following guides with a few of these as he got the hang of the technique. It all seemed fairly rudimentary, but you could tell that he had put a lot of effort in.

At this point it appeared he was branching out his sketching skills as well. Leaves and flowers were a common subject, it seemed. It was at that point that he broke the silence.

“Ash was beginning to garden at around the point I started to commit to bettering myself in the visual arts. It’s interesting, trying to capture the detail in such tiny little things. Though I think you can see that the subtlety is easy to lose.” He finished with a laugh.

Sure enough, the linework was notably shaky. The symmetry he had tried to go for had been lost. The lines clearly lacked confidence, and the veins of the leaves looked more like fur than anything else, somehow. Not that you could do much better if you were going for absolute realism.

“I think you still did a good job.” You said, gesturing to a couple illustrations. “This leaf looks really nice!”

“I’m well aware that they’re wonky, darling. They were my first attempts.” Poplar offered you a smile. “You don’t need to struggle to come up with compliments.”

“No, no, I genuinely think they’re good! Especially for first attempts.”

“Then I suggest you continue onwards. Though while you do, would you mind if I make a sketch of my own while you continue to peruse?”

“Go for it.”

Poplar nodded, pulling his sketchbook and a pencil into his hand. You flipped to the next page.

Poplar had shifted from leaves and flowers to objects that you recognized from around his room. A porcelain plate with floral decoration that he displayed on the other side of the room. A plush that he had carefully mounted on top of his shelves. What you assumed was either an older bed of his, or one of his cousin’s, as it wasn’t the one you were next to currently. Each had what looked like at least an hour of work poured into them. Even if they weren’t the best sketches, you could see he was gaining a better eye for detail as he worked at it.

Then you flipped to the next piece.

You could only ASSUME that what you were looking at was his first attempt at drawing chicken. 

You looked back at Chicken, who had been fast asleep on their pillow for the majority of their visit. You turned in your seat, looking between the sketch and the real thing.

“Ah. You found it.” Poplar broke into a fit of giggles. “It’s absolutely awful, isn’t it? It’s alright to laugh.”

Well, it was…certainly an attempt. Poplar had gone VERY heavy on the wrinkles. One eye was notably misshapen compared to the other, and the muzzle was disproportionately long for a cat. The end product was what you could tell was Chicken from the approximation of feline traits and almost nothing else.

“I don’t know, I think you did ok.”

“No, I absolutely crashed and burned. There are only two reasons that that sketch isn’t in the bin. The first is that when I’m struggling with a piece, it reminds me that I could do so much worse. The second is that when I’m feeling overconfident, it humbles me.”

Hearing him talk…yeah, you knew what you sounded like now.

“Should I continue going through this, or do you think that your point came across just fine?” You asked him, a slight hint of comedy in your tone. The stack that you had left to sort through wasn’t thick.

“Oh, by all means, continue. I’m still working on what I’m doing over here. Though if you’re curious about any of the other pieces within, you only need to ask.” Poplar looked up at you from his paper, gesturing to you to continue.

So, you did.

While none of the pieces invoked the same level of shock in you that Chicken’s portrait did, you could see the purpose of these sketches was very much to learn the ropes of anatomy and shape. It wasn’t like you had much room to speak, of course. It was more of a comparison to his current work than anything else. You could see things improving as you thumbed through each sheet of canvas, each work growing more refined as you went on. By the end, you could see a couple of full pieces that started to look very nice.

“So?” Poplar eagerly piped up as he saw you close the folder. “What are your thoughts? Do be honest about it.”

“It’s your beginner’s folder. I think you showed a lot of promise even back then, even if your pieces weren’t always the best work.” You stated bluntly. Poplar smiled at your tiptoeing.

“Now, tell me: how many folders in do you think I am now?”

“…I have no clue.”

“Fifteen. All as big as this one. Plus at least three sketchbooks. It’s a hobby, but I’m quite dedicated.”

Your eyes widened. Wow, no wonder there was such a jump in quality between then and now.

“No kidding you’re, ‘dedicated.’ I can see that all that work paid off.”

“I’d like to think so. Of course, everyone has areas in which they can improve with their artwork. I’ve just been working hard enough and for long enough that things come to me more naturally than they once did. For instance:”

Poplar thumbed through the sketchbook he was holding to an earlier page. On it was a similar picture of Chicken, this time with more precise proportions. A marked improvement from what you had seen before.

“I see. You did an amazing job on that.” You reached out, gently touching the paper.

“I’m glad you think so! Though I find I’m still not the best at rendering skin folds. They look more like the folding you’d find on clothing than the kind you’d find on skin. It doesn’t help that I can’t use myself as reference, what with the bones and all.”

Poplar closed the sketchbook, looking you directly in the eye.

“I never want you to feel bad at where you’re at in your art journey, my love. We all have to start somewhere, and personally, I think yours is much better than mine. What matters is that you’re trying, because if you keep doing that, then you’ll get to where you want to be eventually.”

You looked back at the piece he’d hung up on the wall. Sure, it was more of an attempt than anything, but maybe it wasn’t so bad. You chuckled.

“Yeah, I got you. I appreciate the reassurance, Poplar.”

“Any time, my love. Now, are you curious as to what I was working on while you were distracted with my crimes against art?”

You giggled at his joke.

“Of course.”

Poplar opened the sketchbook back up, turning to a point about midway through.

What greeted you on the page was your reflection, not fully rendered due to the lack of time, but still clearly you, nonetheless. Your hair was perfectly textured, your eyes stood out brightly with a small amount of rendering, and your skin looked as light as the paper it was drawn on.

“Poplar…I’m flattered.”

“Well, you know, I think it has room for improvement. Time to shade and color, for instance. There’s SO much to improve on. After all, it’s hard to compare a pencil sketch to the TRUE work of art that it’s based on…”

“Yeah, yeah!” You shoved him, both of you laughing. “Seriously though, this is gorgeous. Thank you for this.”

“Of course, my love.” Poplar leaned in, planting a gentle kiss on your cheek. “You know that if you ever feel as though you’re lacking confidence, I’m happy to give you any encouragement you need. Even if it means showing you my first attempts at drawing my cat.”

You smiled, not doubting his words for even a second.

“Thank you, Poplar… and you know what?” You pulled a new canvas from the paper stack Poplar had supplied you and confidently took a pencil in your hand. “I’m ready to start on my next piece.”

Poplar’s sockets sparkled; his grin widened from cheek to cheek.

“I’m excited to see what you create, darling.”

[pressgforgoodgirl]

Arthur's Painting (Chapter 2)

Summary: You and Arthur enjoy a laid back afternoon on the ranch, each taking time to enjoy your own hobbies. In recent months, Arthur has taken up a new artistic venture. After enjoying some time alone, you find Arthur working on his new project. 

Pairing: modern!arthur x female reader

Word count: 1,297

Warnings/tags: suggestiveness at the end, Arthur’s self esteem issues show up a tad again

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series masterlist

The sun was just beginning to fall after having risen to its noontime peak overhead. The air was comfortably warm, a light breeze passing by to tickle your skin and hair. You and your husband Arthur spent the morning and early afternoon completing your daily chores. The horses had been fed and watered, turned out, exercised, and clean stalls awaited their return at nightfall. You were even able to enjoy a quick horse ride with Arthur through the woods and fields surrounding your remote property. 

After grooming the horses and returning them to the pasture, the two of you strolled over to the Marstons’ to see if you could help with anything on the farm. They put down their work when you approached, allowing you to enjoy each other’s company for a while. Eventually, they returned to their chores, indicating that they were almost done and that there was no need for the two of you to stick around today, though they always appreciated your offer.

When you and Arthur returned to the ranch, you decided to split off, allowing each other time to enjoy your own hobbies. You adored and loved each other deeply, but you also appreciated moments of solitude, allowing yourself to focus solely on your interests, to let your mind water, to spend time exploring your individuality. You felt wholly connected, as if he really was a part of you, and you him. Spending time alone allowed you and Arthur to reunite feeling as though you were truly an inseperable union composed of two individual souls. 

You often described yourself as a hobby “explorer.” You were amazed, sometimes overwhelmed, by the possibilities life offered you. You found yourself drawn to learn and discover as many things as you could, never committing yourself wholly to one hobby. Today, you had set your mind on making jewelry. You hoped to make a nature-based piece, using as many items as you could from the land surrounding you. 

You started by finding some long blades of grass. You pulled them up and tied them together at one end. Then, you began to braid down the strands until you had the base of a necklace. Next, you would find flowers to weave into the grass. You went on through fields and down by the lake for a while, soaking in the sunshine and clean, crisp air. You watched fish leaping in the water, birds flying overhead, and dragonflies buzzing around you. 

Arthur had been an artist nearly all of his life. It started with sketches from his day to day life. These soon made their way into journals he came to keep consistently, adding notes of memories, thoughts, happenings, etc. When you had first discovered Arthur’s journal, he was incredibly shy, and it took lots of coaxing to let you see even one of his drawings. But as your relationship developed, he opened himself and his work up to you. It was a continuing effort to bolster his confidence and self-esteem, but you were making progress.

Arthur had returned from a trip to town one day with a bag labeled “Leroy’s Fine Arts and Crafts.” Your eyes caught the print, astonished and excited that Arthur had bought something for himself, and art supplies at that. When you asked him what he had purchased, he tried to wave you off, claiming it was “just a few things for his journal.” But you could always see through Arthur’s fibs. 

“Oh really now?” you had challenged, a wide grin covering your face. “Why don’t you show me then, if it’s just a few things for your journal?”

“Well, you see… now I…” Arthur had stammered back, hand reaching to scratch the back of his neck while a rosy red crept up his hot cheeks, avoiding eye contact. You had been married several years now and been together for even longer. “Why am I so nervous to show her?” he had thought to himself. It wasn’t like him to hide things from you, but he still felt vulnerable when it came to his artwork, no matter how safe he felt with you. 

Sensing the insecurity he felt, you softened your approach. You walked up to him gently, wrapping your hands around his neck. Arthur returned your embrace, resting his hands on your hips, his bag still in one hand. You stroked the back of his neck reassuringly and planted a kiss on his cheek. “You know I love your drawings Arthur, and I love you even more. I’m just excited to see what piqued your interest, is all.”

Arthur’s chest swelled with warmth at your words. He planted a loving kiss on your forehead, then pulled back to show you the contents of the bag. “I saw some oil paintings on the wall at the bar when we were there the other night. I thought I’d give it a shot” Arthur shrugged. “I probably won’t be any good at it, but maybe I’ll enjoy it.” 

You smiled up at him, excited to hear about his new hobby, but sad to hear the self doubt he had voiced. “Whether you enjoy it or not is all that really matters, Arthur” you encouraged. You were sure Arthur would be an amazing oil painter, too, though you didn’t want him to feel any more pressure than he was already giving himself, and you knew it truly wasn’t the point of pursuing a new interest anyhow. So for now, you let his comments about “not being any good” slide. 

Time revealed your predictions to be true. With lots of time and practice, Arthur had become quite adept with oil, creating beautiful paintings of the horses and the landscape surrounding your home. These were the paintings that now adorned the walls of your cabin. 

And so, it was no surprise when after having finished your necklace and again desiring Arthur’s company, you found him at the edge of a field, sitting on a stool, easel propped up in front, painting the sights before him. He heard you approaching, turning around and beaming you a smile. You swore your heart stopped a little bit each time he looked at you like that, no matter how many times he had done it. You came up next to him, placing a gentle hand on his non-dominant shoulder, being sure not to disturb his brush strokes. It was a piece he had been working on for a few weeks now, and it was finally coming together. You stood there, awestruck, unsure if you were captivated more by the canvas or the handsome stud sitting before it.  

You placed a kiss behind his ear. He lowered his brush a moment to turn and plant a kiss on your lips. Returning his gaze to the painting, he said, “Not too bad, huh?”

“Not too bad?” you asked incredulously. “It’s amazing, Arthur. You should be incredibly proud of your work.”

“Aw, you’re just saying that to get me into bed later, ain’tcha?” Arthur joked, still learning how to accept your praises, still learning how to believe them. 

“Oh I know it doesn't take much to get you under my sheets” you teased back with a wink. “But really, Arthur. Just take the compliment, because truly, I mean it. I’m lucky to be with someone as incredibly talented as you.”

“Oh, alright then, pretty lady” Arthur said, letting you have your way and picking up the hand you had placed on his shoulder to plant a kiss on the back of it. “You hungry? Whaddya say I cook you some dinner?”

“Oh I don’t know, cowboy. Will it come with dessert?” you replied with a wicked grin. 

“You dirty woman,” Arthur chuckled back, shaking his head. 

You guessed you would have to wait and see. 

next chapter

series masterlist

[kilesplaysthings]

How the LaDS boys would act if you/MC were a manga/comic artist

Was inspired to do this after watching some of the show Zatsu Tabi the other day lol it’s a cute show! Just a bunch of cute manga authors traveling around Japan

⭐️ Xavier:

Has read his share of manga, his preference is sci-fi, so he’s very supportive of your works

Is more than happy to be a reference model for when you need to figure out how to draw characters fighting and action scenes. He’ll also give detailed pointers about different fighting stances, especially with a sword

Doesn’t see the need for you to have any other male reference model. He should be good enough. That goes for even observing random people while you’re out and about

Many times if you’re together while you’re working on a draft, he’ll take the opportunity during this time to nap. He doesn’t mind the quiet moments you need sometimes to work. It’s peaceful to him

To celebrate you finishing a big milestone of your draft, or if you get your chapter that’s due done early, he’ll treat you to a delicious meal. ❤️

He has a special nook in his apartment set aside for you if you want to do some work while you’re over.

Is not ashamed to use his lightning speed to help you get to your publisher to make sure you get your next chapter turned in on time lol

Owns all your works that have been published, displaying them front and center on his bookshelves

🐠 Rafayel:

Isn’t a big manga reader, but it’s a form of art, so of course he supports it!

The Mo art studio is not just his studio anymore. Now it’s a place for you also to work on your manga! And if you have a team, he makes a place for all of you to work together.

Is very curious about what you do. You don’t just draw things, you also tell a story with it! He will ask about your plots and characters and how it develops.

You never need to worry about having art supplies with him. You don’t have something, of course he has it!

Will be more than happy help you ink your panels or coloring them if you ask him

If you will allow him, he will give constructive criticism about your drawings. He will also help you with parts of your drawings that you think need improvement

Some evenings are just spent quietly between you two, with him painting and you sketching out your drafts. There’s been times when you both pull all nighters together because you’re both so deep in your work. You guys had a nice, lazy day afterwards to recuperate

When your works make it big, he will happily make an art exhibit of your manga art ❤️

❄️ Zayne:

He has read some manga when he was younger. Owned a few series that he liked to read in his downtime. Either way, he’s proud of whatever endeavors you devote yourself to, so of course he supports you ❤️

If you decide you want to try writing a medical drama manga, he’ll get quite excited and be happy to offer advice on how the hospital runs and how doctors work to make sure you’re 100% accurate

He’ll quietly work on his charting while you sketch away. Even though you’re both working, he enjoys the quiet. It’s pleasant, because even though you’re both working, he’s with you

However, being a doctor, he is very strict with how long you work. There are times when you’ll go without eating and once he found that out, he won’t stand for that anymore lol

He’ll quietly suggest you take a break and will legit monitor you as you drink some water and eat the food he puts in front of you. Fast food as a quick meal to get back to work? No way. You’re gonna sit down and eat a healthy meal.

Will also suggest going out for a walk to stretch your legs to make sure you still get plenty of exercise.

Sets an alarm for when it’s time for you to put the pencil down and get some sleep. In fact, he’s so worried making sure you take care of yourself that his own work ethic has changed lol

If he hears your publisher is pushing you to an unhealthy level, making you stressed to get your next chapter out, you bet they’ll be getting an official call (and lecture) from your official doctor

Also owns copies of your manga. Has made sure his coworkers at the hospital each have a copy too

Gives you a small smile when he sees your works in a store

🐦‍⬛ Sylus:

Doesn’t read manga, but will start to once he finds out you make it yourself

He will get you whatever you need. Art supplies? Child’s play. Need a tablet and pen for digital art? Cake. More notebooks and paper? You don’t even have to ask.

Will buy you a studio just for the heck of it. If you have a team of illustrators, he’ll fund all of what is needed to get the manga finished for your publisher

If you work mostly at night, he’ll be happy to stay with you, being a fellow night owl

But that doesn’t mean he’ll let you run yourself ragged with working. If you don’t respond to him saying you both should get to sleep as the sun creeps in through the windows, he’ll legit pick you up and take you to the bedroom to snuggle and sleep. You don’t mind lol

Once you’re done and need a break, he’ll be happy to take out for a ride on his motorcycle and will take you to nice sights for further inspiration

Will donate plenty of money to your publisher to help get your series running and will buy plenty of copies of your work once it’s published

Will frame your art around his pad ❤️

🍎 Caleb:

He’s known you for forever, so he’s well aware of your passion to publish manga and has been reading early drafts of your stuff since the beginning.

He’s always encouraged your work and says he’s going to throw a big party once you’re published

Is also someone who will monitor your health, knowing how deep you can get in your work. Will make sure you’re drinking plenty of water and have a whole meal plan for you. After all, he’s been used to doing that since you were a kid sketching furiously in your art pad until late in the night

He knows you used to stay up too late on school nights drawing so now that you’re grown he makes sure you get much needed sleep

Has been known to pull your hair back and tie it back into a ponytail or bun so it’s not in your eyes as you sketch

Has asked to be the model for your male protagonists. He just wants to be a part of everything you do

Is prepared for when you randomly decide to up and go out on a “journey for inspiration.” Has taken you on drives and flights to different places so you can see sights that will inspire your manga

Also owns copies of all your works. Will brag about it nonstop and try to give copies of your works to everyone he knows

Will gleefully point out your works to you in the bookstore and tell the cashiers that you’re the author until you tell him to please stop. (Anonymous? He doesn’t know her) But you can’t be too mad at him; he’s just so proud of you and your dreams coming true! ❤️

[seiishindraws]

Hii, I saw your latest post and your art style is so pretty?? What?? I have a question though. How do you do the paint one? Or rendering in general. Like genuinely, I have a problem with rendering and I can't seem to quite understand it on my own. Do you just start with flat colors? Do you do lineart or colors right after the sketch? Is the "lineart" just added later? Painted over? Erased to give thinner and thicker lines?? I'm really curious!!

hi! im not the best painter tbh! though i do have a background in painting but ill try my best to explain

diff artists have different approaches to how they paint but generally yes, you would start out with big shapes first and then go into the details - work big picture first. like, if you squint and the drawing makes sense in terms of value and colour and shape, youre on the right path.

i can kinda show this with a warmup in-class speedpaint exercise we did a couple weeks ago where we were tasked with painting an eye in about 30 minutes (i was late and only had 20 lol)

luckily ive got the layers for this. i start of with a base layer, kind of like a underpaint layer since that's how i personally learned to paint traditionally. i did have a sketch before laying down this base layer under it but i ended up using it for final rendering details lol

after that i started laying down the big blocks of colour. i wasn't necessarily aiming for complete colour accuracy here, i just wanted to match the value. i chose a pink underlayer to influence my colour choices because the underlayer will peak through the blocks of colour i paint over it

and then (forgive me if this seems like "draw the rest of the owl" in terms of progression) but this is where i started going in with finer detail. i did the rest of the render on the sketch layer i had so you can see some of the lines from the sketch here

here's the layers completely seperate from each other

even for the flat colour version of my character, i had an underpaint layer! i used yellow and orange since i wanted her colours to be warm and used a semi-opaque brush to put her colours in rather than using a completely opaque brush

when i wanted to do the painted version, i put the lineart on multiply and reduced the opacity and brushed in some some quick shadows on seperate layer on hard light mode to give me a good base to start painting with

and then i did all the rendering and details on a new layer ontop of everything. i keep the lineart light so i can paint over it easily and also colour pick from it when i want a more distinct line to seperate certain shapes. i unfortunately dont know how to explain this part because a lot of this is intuitive to me and i'm still learning. but you gotta make use of different types of "edges" in painting, and you would generally have more contrast in the focal point of your painting than in other places to draw the eye to that point. i suggest researching the use of edges in painting if you really wanna learn more - because im a terrible teacher haha

for fun here's what the rendering layer for this one looks like on its own and the finished thing for comparison

there's other things you need to learn too, like bounce light, atmospheric perspective, ambient occlusion... and colour theory is always important! i could go on for a long time. there's a lot of pieces to the puzzle and it may seem overwhelming but there's tons of resources online and it will all become second nature to you as you keep practicing

uhh hope that helps!

[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.

[madameoni]

Maghda a commission for ‪@ cattattoos.bsky.social‬

I'm very excited about this one! So I'll rant a bit about it under the cut.

Alright! Foor grammar and lots of typos ahead!

You know, sometimes you get a commission that just fits. I've painted Maghda in the past, and this client was so lovely to return again to get something to celebrate her campaign being finished. I don't remember if they are on tumblr to tag them so I put their blsky username.

This is the piece I made of her last year, another banger in my humble opinion:

Because she is such an interesting character, and the client wanted something to celebrate, I went a bit hard on the sketches. I made quite a few- its not often that I get a lots of ideas, all of them perfectly functional and worthy of showing them to the client.

While dancing with the proverbial muse is nice and fun, as an artist, it really isn't very viable for a career path. As I take art more seriously as a job, I've come to learn how to inspire myself with each piece theme. Gather the client's references, explore some myself, see what matches, what feels right.

Then- trying to convey to the client the idea both with my very messy thumbnails and notes is a nice exercise to check what the hell I'm trying to do with the piece. "This element looks nice" is good, but "this element looks nice and its relevant" is always better.

This was the first idea, my notes are about the pose and elements- all making perfect sense. And then- pinterest did its thing and I got bit by the muse.

Yes, Berserk did it first, and Evangelion. But the visual fitted. And I did promised the client skeletons. So despite being a bit weirder than my original very-classical idea, I had to suggest it. And the client was great and chose it.

Next came some quick design for the crown, and putting together the solid references. Once again, using Clip Studio Paint is a blessing- when you work as an artist, and you need to make 3 or more pieces a month to cover your bills, the time you save by having posable assets is money.

I used a skeleton from the asset store, and a skull I purchased from Billelis back before he did NFT bullshit. I have a pack of them and they costed me like 10 bucks so I might aswell use them. I also used my ever trustworthy "Anatomy for the Artist" by Sarah Simblet- where I discovered both in horror and fascination that scapulas are like.. see-through.. if the light hits them right... The human body is horrifying.

Anyway- I think I yapped enough. These pieces were a fascinating challenge for how *easy* it felt- from idea to painting.

This is the magic of picking the right artist for your commissions, folks. You fit the artist's favourite themes and I can guarantee we go the extra mile to make it great.

Actually, these are 2 of 5 sketches I sent. And the client picked 2 pieces to be made. So I'll be posting the other one -another banger if I say so myself- later.

If you read all this mess, I love you.

If you read all this mess and want to commission me, I extra love you, and you can find the info in my pinned.

[lailaelizabeth01]

Observational Still Life Exercise - Week 8 & Week 10

This exercise was an observational still life. We utilized our sheet of canvas paper, in which we previously painted with burnt sienna acrylic, in order to match the background (the background being the mustard-colored cloth.

We then took a photo of the objects from wherever we were sitting, in order to center in on a set few, and really encapsulate our view of the still life from our seat.

With around 3-4 objects serving as the main stage for our eye, we then (optionally) drew a quick thumbnail sketch in order to map out where the objects will sit on the paper.

Once we have an idea of what objects will be painted and where they will sit, we move onto doing a rough sketch of the basic shapes of each object. We could do this in either pencil (lightly) or watered down light-colored acrylic paint.

After drawing the basic shapes, we move onto to the painting aspect of this exercise. While beginning to paint, we need to keep in mind aspects of color mixing; hue, temperature, value, and saturation.

One thing that I noticed about the process was how one has to have patience in order to complete an observational still life. Not only do you have to keep in mind where the objects sit and how many will sit in the piece, but also paying mind to all of the different aspects of color mixing, choosing carefully which parts to incorporate based on the differences between each object. For example, a clear blue bottle will sit differently against the background versus a large red teapot.

I was surprised at how many different colors can all be seen within a single object, even if it appears that it only emulates one kind of color.

Something that I find challenging is finding the exact right color of each of these objects. Something that does help that is closing one eye and bringing the paint that sits on the palette knife next to the object that you are trying to color match. Though, it still poses difficulty in my personal opinion.

[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!! ;;

[k00320853]

Movement Project 17/02/25 - Painting

After my research into Andy Warhol, I've settled into a new direction for my project. Over the weekend, I took several pictures of my family members (my Dad, Mom, and my brother).

In these pictures, I was more concerned with the direction the figures were facing, rather than their expressions. I then took these into Photoshop, turned the pictures into black and white, and overlayed designs onto them; These patterns having been used elsewhere in my project.

I was also concious of the other portraits I had done in this project: namely, the ones of Amy Kelly with the shadows of the bike spokes cast across her face. I see these as a continuation of that idea.

The important bit was to emphasise the eyes, and allow the designs to compliment the features.

Then it was up to the painting studio. In order to practice my draughtsmanship (baby steps, everyone), I made out four thumbnail sketches for each picture (starting off with my Dad), in four different mediums: pencil, pen, oil pastel, and acrylic paints. I stuck to monotones, with the intention to introduce colour at a later stage.

I was quite pleased with the result of this exercise, as I could see definite improvement with each subsequent drawing. Yes, the first pencil drawing is quite bad, only a quick sketch to work out line and form, but by the end, the difference was night and day. Obviously nothing to hang on a wall, but a good foundation for a larger,more serious work.

[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

[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.

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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.