The artist in thee
- Thread starter Labyrinth
- Start date
All of my digital painting is such. I am actually an abstract painter, and pen and ink illustrator. I just don't put any of my non-digital work up on the net. I am actually quite experienced at figure drawing (I've been doing that for about 5 years of 4-hour studios). With figures it's all about: gesture, then form form, then line. You should have the basic shape of a person down in the first 10-20 seconds of a drawing. That allows you to see the movement, proportions and pose of your figure. Then establish forms. Ignore light for the time being, ust focus on making us see what things are shaped like, shapes are within everything. Then you can go in with line and texture and all that rendering fun. That's the most basic advice I can give.SharPhoe said:
Here are some basic exercises that will break the way you draw but will allow you to relearn how to draw the figure:
Gesture: Use your off-hand (for me that's left) and a piece of conte or charcoal on a larger surface (at least 18x22"), you have 4 seconds to draw the figure... Go!
Shape: Draw objects, not by how the light is hitting them, or how lines form, but rather by shading things that are far from you dark and getting lighter as it gets closer to you. Use more complex things like fabric folds or human figures to get a variety in tone which will force you to establish forms with this method.
Line: Blind contour. That's all I can say. Try drawing something overly complex, entirely blind, for about 30 minutes. Your hand will hate you, but you will get quality of line like you've never seen. (If you don't know, with blind contour drawings, you use a soft pencil -at least 5B- and press harder depending on the degree of shadow the line is in)
All of this is making me kinda wish I had taken more art classes.... except that I hated being told what to draw and having my hard work graded like any other assignment. Everything I know now, I learned myself, from books, or from other artists.Fightgarr said:
On a tangentially related note: Would anyone here happen to own a violin?
I only get one good picture out of my stupid hands about three times a year, although there's WAY more I'd like to do.
The first one is The Shroud, a character from a story of mine called "Dead Girl"
[http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=viewImage&friendID=35151272&albumID=170047&imageID=69288576]
This second one is a design for another story. It's called the Crown of Thorns
[http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=viewImage&friendID=35151272&albumID=170047&imageID=68115070]
I did this one just to get used to Photoshop (photoshop gets spell-checked?) and it's of course what I used for my avatar:
[http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=viewImage&friendID=35151272&albumID=170047&imageID=68115066]
The first one is The Shroud, a character from a story of mine called "Dead Girl"
[http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=viewImage&friendID=35151272&albumID=170047&imageID=69288576]
This second one is a design for another story. It's called the Crown of Thorns
[http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=viewImage&friendID=35151272&albumID=170047&imageID=68115070]
I did this one just to get used to Photoshop (photoshop gets spell-checked?) and it's of course what I used for my avatar:
[http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=viewImage&friendID=35151272&albumID=170047&imageID=68115066]
I've said this to many people on many occasions (I think I've told this to Nuke a couple of times at least), most colleges will have free sessions with nude models. You just have to look for them. And hey, learning from other artists is what it's all about. All my teachers are artists before teachers[small]... except one... and she's a *****...[/small]SharPhoe said:
I have it on good authority (that is my own memory [which really isn't 'good authority]) that Labyrinth has no less than two electric violins and that Vanguard10(some other numbers) plays a good deal of violin as well.
I have three. I also have stock photos available of two of them here [http://labychan-stock.deviantart.com/gallery/#Music].SharPhoe said:
If you need anything not present in that collection give me a description and perhaps a rough sketch and I'll take it for you.
One of my mother's colleges asked me to draw a bunch of stuff for their Chem classes to point out what foolish shoes people wear into the lab that they really shouldn't. Here's my stuff so far. Note: These are all actual shoes students have tried to get in with.
OH, okay, thanks. I need a particular pose done with a violin for another picture idea. I'll have a rough MS Pain sketch to put up here in just a moment...Labyrinth said:
EDIT: Okay, here we go.
Here's a few more of my Deviant Art stuff, through Terragen:
Also, you can now buy these as prints. I've managed to create these as prints now for sale, if anyone's interested, directly through the DA pages
http://trivun.deviantart.com/art/Red-Sky-At-Night-151678600
http://trivun.deviantart.com/art/Sunset-on-Lake-Geneva-151677606
http://trivun.deviantart.com/art/Island-in-the-Mist-114852168
Also, you can now buy these as prints. I've managed to create these as prints now for sale, if anyone's interested, directly through the DA pages
http://trivun.deviantart.com/art/Red-Sky-At-Night-151678600
http://trivun.deviantart.com/art/Sunset-on-Lake-Geneva-151677606
http://trivun.deviantart.com/art/Island-in-the-Mist-114852168
Literary works welcome?
This one's kinda long, but gotten positive feedback from my sadistic friends...
<spoiler=Purgatory>Liam sits there on a bench, in the middle of nowhere.
And when I say nowhere, that's exactly what I mean. There's a great white expanse surrounding him, continuing on as far as the eye can see. He stares off into the distance, lost to himself. There's nothing to see, but he seems to be looking for it anyway. If you were to ask him where he was, he'd honestly tell you that he didn't know. There are no people around to ask him, but he wishes there was. Someone to tell him what had happened. To talk to. To pour out his fears and frustrations. If you asked him how long he'd been there, he'd again say he didn't know. Probably forever.
But he knows that it couldn't be forever. He has memories, lovely memories. Memories of a family. His mother, father, two sisters, a baby brother. He can barely remember their names. The brother was named Jared. The elder sister was Amy. He can't remember the others. He can't even remember his brother being older than a baby. Why? Liam himself is twenty eight, his sister is, was, twenty nine. He doesn't know how he remembers that, but he does. He often struggles to visualize his brother. It is always the same, an eight month old, or younger, with rolls of baby fat and an impetuous little smile that charmed through the coldest demeanour. Where is he now? Where is his family now?
Where is anyone?
The bench was a deep black, obsidian structure. It was incredibly well sculpted, with glimmering surfaces that one can swear they see shapes, faces specifically, until you try to focus on them, and they vanish. Its appearance and style is that of Gothic intricacies, impossibly complex in so many minute ways, to achieve such a basic effect. One odd feature of the bench is the seat itself. It has incredibly sharp edges, miniature cliffs within the seat such that if you sat on it, it could cut your backside easily. Liam sits on the bench gingerly, trying not to apply too much pressure to any of the sharp edges. He surveys both sides of the bench, trying to clear his head of the omnipresent muddle.
The bench isn't symmetrical, he notices. One side has a rough carving on it, which the other side doesn't. It stands out clearly and glaringly against the intricate carvings. He leans over carefully to examine it. It's a word, no, a name.
JASMINE
Every muscle clenches within him, and the sharp edge tears through his trousers, drawing blood. Liam launches upright onto his feet with a shriek. The back of his jeans are completely torn, half the fabric is missing. Through it, you can see many scars on his buttocks and thighs, almost parallel to each other. He moans in pain and stands there for an hour, wishing he hadn't seen the name. He stands there, thoughts empty, until the bleeding stops. He gingerly sits down, all thoughts of what just happened erased. Except for the name. Jasmine.
Unlike the names of his family, the name Jasmine rings through loud and true. She was his girlfriend, no, they were engaged to be married, no, they WERE married. They had personified perfect compatibility and love. She was a strangely silent girl, he had a bit of an issue with silence and talked a lot. She would always listen and respond, he knew that she could hear him, care about him. She suffered arrhythmia, and was always weak. He loved being depended on for a reason he couldn't explain, and he always felt... well, complete when he carried her. She loved him dearly and told him so often, he loved her back with a love that he felt sure could, and must have, far overflowed anything she felt.
It disturbs Liam that he can remember her so vividly when everyone else is faded. He can't imagine why.
In the distance, he can see a silhouette of someone walking towards him. He can't imagine who it would be. They walk with a limping gait, and even from here, he can see that they are in distress. He sits and stares.
He thinks of Jasmine as it approaches. The walk through the forest valley with her perched upon his back. She was laughing, asking him to run, to go faster. She never had moved so fast outside of a motorized vehicle. She could barely walk, let alone run. He felt so happy that day. She had, too. He was sure of it. She had waved a camera around as he ran, snapping photos. The expression on her face was so perfect, he was sure he'd never forget it.
The figure, still far off, has fallen. It struggles, and somehow stands up. It continues to limp, no, stagger, towards him. He continues to stare, and remember.
He remembers the day they had rushed to the hospital when she had a heart attack. She had recovered fully, and tenderly, timidly smiled at him from the hospital bed, where he had spent hours alternately crying and worrying. He had felt so many of his concerns just melt away. It was amazing the power a smile had on people.
He remembered the day she had arranged a surprise party for his twenty-fifth birthday. So many friends had been there when he got home from work, there was, there was... who was there? He saw many figures, about half masculine, half feminine, and all wearing incredibly similar clothes. All the men moved in sync, as did all the women. But in his mind, all of their faces were missing... it was a grotesque, surreal effect, and he felt a bit nauseous as he remembered it. Jasmine's face wasn't like that, she sat in the chair in the middle of the floor, smiling.
The figure is in front of him, suddenly... and Liam is stunned. It's Jasmine! She stands there, lips quivering, legs shaking! Her lips part, a musical voice floats past him.
"Liam..."
Liam runs toward her, hoping to scoop her up into his arms, to wipe away all the simultaneous emptiness and muddle that he feels. He longs to carry her. To tell her that everything is okay, to have her wrap her arms around his neck. His arms extend to her, and hers toward him. Like a mirror.
And then, out of nowhere, two cars have a head-on collision with Jasmine in between. It's a sight so surreal, so unexpected that Liam drops his arms and stops running. He can only stare in confusion and mounting horror.
Jasmine's eyes widen, and she dies. The cars caught her at the waist, so she flops over ungracefully forward between the small gap between the accordion car fronts.
Liam stares. Neither car's airbag has deployed, nor have their windshields been more than cracked, so he can see the drivers clearly. In one car, the driver is a woman in a red sweater, but her face is entirely blank. No eyes, ears, nose, mouth, or any distinguishing feature. It is difficult to tell, though, for her head won't stay still. If he attempts to focus on any one part of it, the head simply jerks out of the way. In his peripheral vision, he can see that it shakes in such a way and speed as to blur any features it may have, anyway.
As bizarre as the one visage is, the other catches his attention, and is that much more horrible. He blinks and tried to adjust his vision, hoping to reveal that the driver is simply hidden behind a piece of sheared, shiny metal. But there isn't any mistaking it, it isn't a reflection, it is himself! He screams a hopeless scream. The figure in the car does the same. Tears come spilling down his cheeks, tears spill down his doppelganger's as well. The grim scene leaps to his memory, he had been driving, and Jasmine had turned and said something, he had turned his head, he had stopped looking at the road... and he can't remember what had happened. So that was it. He is dead. He is in hell. It is his fate to experience this tragedy, probably over and over, and feel this twisting guilt for eternity. His inattentiveness had killed Jasmine, and the devil wants him to know it.
He turns to run. In only a few steps, he runs straight into the bench. It cuts deeply into his calves. He partly bounces, partly jumps back, and falls over. His breath was heavy. He doesn't believe what he has just witnessed. It can't be true. It very well might not be, the cars and corpse have vanished. But the memory won't go away. He begins to cry heavily, throwing his anger and shame to the nothingness around him. He cries for... for... he doesn't know how long. Probably days. Probably years.
He cries until he can't remember why he is crying.
He lies there for hours afterwards, trying to remember who he is, where he is, or anything. His mind is in a muddle. He notices that the ground is quite hot beneath him, and he feels uncomfortable. He carefully stands up, noticing that his backside and calves hurt. He glances around, and there, a few feet away from him, is a bench. It is made of obsidian, and has intricate carvings all over it. He gingerly touches it. He notices that parts of it are very sharp, but cool. It must be better than the ground to sit on. He lowers himself onto it carefully. He sits there for days, not feeling anything.
Gradually, he begins to survey his surroundings.
There's a great white expanse surrounding him, continuing on as far as the eye can see. He stares off into the distance, lost to himself. There's nothing to see, but he seems to be looking for it anyway. If you were to ask him where he was, he'd honestly tell you that he didn't know. There are no people around to ask him, but he wishes there was. Someone to tell him what had happened. To talk to. To pour out his fears and frustrations. If you asked him how long he'd been there, he'd again say he didn't know. Probably forever.
Amy enters the hospital room. She talks to the doctor, inquiring anxiously about her brother's status. Her mother and father had already lost one child, and at such a young age! Was her brother doomed to the same fate? The news is happy, although he is still in a coma, even after two days, he is responding to medication. It's just a matter of time. He has a 98% chance of full recovery. Amy breathes a sigh of relief. She stands there, reminiscing of her best friend, her brother. She looks up, and asks about Jasmine. She's in a coma as well, but as long as the medicines don't wreck her poor heart, which was unlikely, she has an excellent chance of recovering as well. Possible as high as 95%. Amy crosses into the other room, and stares tenderly at the woman in the hospital bed. She is also in a coma, and looks incredibly weak and spent. Amy caresses her hair, utters a simple prayer over both of them, and leaves to bring the wonderful news to her parents.
Jasmine leans against a wall. She is sitting on a white chair, so clean and pure that she can barely see it against the pure white wall, the pure white floor, the pure white nothingness stretching for miles off in each direction. Her mind is muddled, and can barely hold coherent thoughts. In front of her is a beautiful, black obsidian wall with hundreds of intricate Gothic carvings engraved into it. She has been staring at it for... for... decades, it seems. She stares at it more, admiring the amazing architecture in front of her. Suddenly, she sees a piece of ugliness.
It's carved like the rest of it, but a word has been carved over what was behind it. She squints to see the word better.
LIAM
A horrible chill resonates through her body...
Kudos to you if you read the whole damn thing, double kudos if you know where the inspiration is from.
This one's kinda long, but gotten positive feedback from my sadistic friends...
<spoiler=Purgatory>Liam sits there on a bench, in the middle of nowhere.
And when I say nowhere, that's exactly what I mean. There's a great white expanse surrounding him, continuing on as far as the eye can see. He stares off into the distance, lost to himself. There's nothing to see, but he seems to be looking for it anyway. If you were to ask him where he was, he'd honestly tell you that he didn't know. There are no people around to ask him, but he wishes there was. Someone to tell him what had happened. To talk to. To pour out his fears and frustrations. If you asked him how long he'd been there, he'd again say he didn't know. Probably forever.
But he knows that it couldn't be forever. He has memories, lovely memories. Memories of a family. His mother, father, two sisters, a baby brother. He can barely remember their names. The brother was named Jared. The elder sister was Amy. He can't remember the others. He can't even remember his brother being older than a baby. Why? Liam himself is twenty eight, his sister is, was, twenty nine. He doesn't know how he remembers that, but he does. He often struggles to visualize his brother. It is always the same, an eight month old, or younger, with rolls of baby fat and an impetuous little smile that charmed through the coldest demeanour. Where is he now? Where is his family now?
Where is anyone?
The bench was a deep black, obsidian structure. It was incredibly well sculpted, with glimmering surfaces that one can swear they see shapes, faces specifically, until you try to focus on them, and they vanish. Its appearance and style is that of Gothic intricacies, impossibly complex in so many minute ways, to achieve such a basic effect. One odd feature of the bench is the seat itself. It has incredibly sharp edges, miniature cliffs within the seat such that if you sat on it, it could cut your backside easily. Liam sits on the bench gingerly, trying not to apply too much pressure to any of the sharp edges. He surveys both sides of the bench, trying to clear his head of the omnipresent muddle.
The bench isn't symmetrical, he notices. One side has a rough carving on it, which the other side doesn't. It stands out clearly and glaringly against the intricate carvings. He leans over carefully to examine it. It's a word, no, a name.
JASMINE
Every muscle clenches within him, and the sharp edge tears through his trousers, drawing blood. Liam launches upright onto his feet with a shriek. The back of his jeans are completely torn, half the fabric is missing. Through it, you can see many scars on his buttocks and thighs, almost parallel to each other. He moans in pain and stands there for an hour, wishing he hadn't seen the name. He stands there, thoughts empty, until the bleeding stops. He gingerly sits down, all thoughts of what just happened erased. Except for the name. Jasmine.
Unlike the names of his family, the name Jasmine rings through loud and true. She was his girlfriend, no, they were engaged to be married, no, they WERE married. They had personified perfect compatibility and love. She was a strangely silent girl, he had a bit of an issue with silence and talked a lot. She would always listen and respond, he knew that she could hear him, care about him. She suffered arrhythmia, and was always weak. He loved being depended on for a reason he couldn't explain, and he always felt... well, complete when he carried her. She loved him dearly and told him so often, he loved her back with a love that he felt sure could, and must have, far overflowed anything she felt.
It disturbs Liam that he can remember her so vividly when everyone else is faded. He can't imagine why.
In the distance, he can see a silhouette of someone walking towards him. He can't imagine who it would be. They walk with a limping gait, and even from here, he can see that they are in distress. He sits and stares.
He thinks of Jasmine as it approaches. The walk through the forest valley with her perched upon his back. She was laughing, asking him to run, to go faster. She never had moved so fast outside of a motorized vehicle. She could barely walk, let alone run. He felt so happy that day. She had, too. He was sure of it. She had waved a camera around as he ran, snapping photos. The expression on her face was so perfect, he was sure he'd never forget it.
The figure, still far off, has fallen. It struggles, and somehow stands up. It continues to limp, no, stagger, towards him. He continues to stare, and remember.
He remembers the day they had rushed to the hospital when she had a heart attack. She had recovered fully, and tenderly, timidly smiled at him from the hospital bed, where he had spent hours alternately crying and worrying. He had felt so many of his concerns just melt away. It was amazing the power a smile had on people.
He remembered the day she had arranged a surprise party for his twenty-fifth birthday. So many friends had been there when he got home from work, there was, there was... who was there? He saw many figures, about half masculine, half feminine, and all wearing incredibly similar clothes. All the men moved in sync, as did all the women. But in his mind, all of their faces were missing... it was a grotesque, surreal effect, and he felt a bit nauseous as he remembered it. Jasmine's face wasn't like that, she sat in the chair in the middle of the floor, smiling.
The figure is in front of him, suddenly... and Liam is stunned. It's Jasmine! She stands there, lips quivering, legs shaking! Her lips part, a musical voice floats past him.
"Liam..."
Liam runs toward her, hoping to scoop her up into his arms, to wipe away all the simultaneous emptiness and muddle that he feels. He longs to carry her. To tell her that everything is okay, to have her wrap her arms around his neck. His arms extend to her, and hers toward him. Like a mirror.
And then, out of nowhere, two cars have a head-on collision with Jasmine in between. It's a sight so surreal, so unexpected that Liam drops his arms and stops running. He can only stare in confusion and mounting horror.
Jasmine's eyes widen, and she dies. The cars caught her at the waist, so she flops over ungracefully forward between the small gap between the accordion car fronts.
Liam stares. Neither car's airbag has deployed, nor have their windshields been more than cracked, so he can see the drivers clearly. In one car, the driver is a woman in a red sweater, but her face is entirely blank. No eyes, ears, nose, mouth, or any distinguishing feature. It is difficult to tell, though, for her head won't stay still. If he attempts to focus on any one part of it, the head simply jerks out of the way. In his peripheral vision, he can see that it shakes in such a way and speed as to blur any features it may have, anyway.
As bizarre as the one visage is, the other catches his attention, and is that much more horrible. He blinks and tried to adjust his vision, hoping to reveal that the driver is simply hidden behind a piece of sheared, shiny metal. But there isn't any mistaking it, it isn't a reflection, it is himself! He screams a hopeless scream. The figure in the car does the same. Tears come spilling down his cheeks, tears spill down his doppelganger's as well. The grim scene leaps to his memory, he had been driving, and Jasmine had turned and said something, he had turned his head, he had stopped looking at the road... and he can't remember what had happened. So that was it. He is dead. He is in hell. It is his fate to experience this tragedy, probably over and over, and feel this twisting guilt for eternity. His inattentiveness had killed Jasmine, and the devil wants him to know it.
He turns to run. In only a few steps, he runs straight into the bench. It cuts deeply into his calves. He partly bounces, partly jumps back, and falls over. His breath was heavy. He doesn't believe what he has just witnessed. It can't be true. It very well might not be, the cars and corpse have vanished. But the memory won't go away. He begins to cry heavily, throwing his anger and shame to the nothingness around him. He cries for... for... he doesn't know how long. Probably days. Probably years.
He cries until he can't remember why he is crying.
He lies there for hours afterwards, trying to remember who he is, where he is, or anything. His mind is in a muddle. He notices that the ground is quite hot beneath him, and he feels uncomfortable. He carefully stands up, noticing that his backside and calves hurt. He glances around, and there, a few feet away from him, is a bench. It is made of obsidian, and has intricate carvings all over it. He gingerly touches it. He notices that parts of it are very sharp, but cool. It must be better than the ground to sit on. He lowers himself onto it carefully. He sits there for days, not feeling anything.
Gradually, he begins to survey his surroundings.
There's a great white expanse surrounding him, continuing on as far as the eye can see. He stares off into the distance, lost to himself. There's nothing to see, but he seems to be looking for it anyway. If you were to ask him where he was, he'd honestly tell you that he didn't know. There are no people around to ask him, but he wishes there was. Someone to tell him what had happened. To talk to. To pour out his fears and frustrations. If you asked him how long he'd been there, he'd again say he didn't know. Probably forever.
Amy enters the hospital room. She talks to the doctor, inquiring anxiously about her brother's status. Her mother and father had already lost one child, and at such a young age! Was her brother doomed to the same fate? The news is happy, although he is still in a coma, even after two days, he is responding to medication. It's just a matter of time. He has a 98% chance of full recovery. Amy breathes a sigh of relief. She stands there, reminiscing of her best friend, her brother. She looks up, and asks about Jasmine. She's in a coma as well, but as long as the medicines don't wreck her poor heart, which was unlikely, she has an excellent chance of recovering as well. Possible as high as 95%. Amy crosses into the other room, and stares tenderly at the woman in the hospital bed. She is also in a coma, and looks incredibly weak and spent. Amy caresses her hair, utters a simple prayer over both of them, and leaves to bring the wonderful news to her parents.
Jasmine leans against a wall. She is sitting on a white chair, so clean and pure that she can barely see it against the pure white wall, the pure white floor, the pure white nothingness stretching for miles off in each direction. Her mind is muddled, and can barely hold coherent thoughts. In front of her is a beautiful, black obsidian wall with hundreds of intricate Gothic carvings engraved into it. She has been staring at it for... for... decades, it seems. She stares at it more, admiring the amazing architecture in front of her. Suddenly, she sees a piece of ugliness.
It's carved like the rest of it, but a word has been carved over what was behind it. She squints to see the word better.
LIAM
A horrible chill resonates through her body...
Kudos to you if you read the whole damn thing, double kudos if you know where the inspiration is from.
...Oh, THOSE kinds of stools. Good.Easykill - who is gone forever said:Hmm... May as well. I was screwing around with both photoshop and my camera, but didn't have anything to photograph, so I ended up taking one of my stools.
Also, I just realized how old this thread is...
A story I wrote, I did not edit it so it got laugh at.
Did edit it this time.
The Vineyard
I came home the skies slightly clearer then before, I walked inside trying to commune to my grandparents about people. Trying to see if I talk enough I will learn something about myself about them. I did not, I'm no closer to solving myself then I was from the day I was thrust on to life. I walked outside grabbing three things I needed to comfort me, my lighter its orange the color of a warm fire but all it produces is a tiny flame a one that is just good enough to light, a single cigarette it gives me the comfort of time and a book, a book that knows me more than I know myself. After reading a comforting chapter something I needed to hear I had a self realization, that I?m unhappy. After that I set it down to go out and walk my backyard. It was cold, a different type of cold one that embraces you and feels you, it seems to know how I feel as if the weather reflect my thought.
I went into my vineyard, its winter so everything is dead right now, before I was about to enter a heard a noise there was people behind me who were moving a couch, a thought went through my brain for a second, "should I help them" I decided not too, but to instead continue my journey into the cold but some how inviting vineyard. I walked around the vineyard. The cold went through my jacket the only thing keeping me warm was the slowly burning cigarette that come closer and closer to my right hand.
The grape vines are dead when I enter the vineyard, I wanted to embrace the gravity of this death to feel it, but this death is special it only temporary it?s only seasonal. Are people like this I thought? "No", I had decided they were not. After finding nothing I walked back to my house, I thought of nature of how its so complex are people anyway as complex as it is, as this entity? I'm not sure before entering my house I turned to look back at the vineyard, the grape vines are dead.
There is tree in my backyard who does not obey winter it still had it's somber look upon it, it had its silly bean shaped leaves. It still desired to continue spreading it's seed. Are people like these?? Maybe? I thought, my cigarette dies the ember falls to the ground and I return to my house, only to return to the cold and the now cloudy skies to grab something, something I did not want to be harmed by the cruel elements, it knows me better then me and deserves that.
I came home the skies slightly clearer then before, I walked inside trying to commune to my grandparents about people. Trying to see if I talk enough I will learn something about myself about them. I did not, I'm no closer to solving myself then I was from the day I was thrust on to life. I walked outside grabbing three things I needed to comfort me, my lighter its orange the color of a warm fire but all it produces is a tiny flame a one that is just good enough to light, a single cigarette it gives me the comfort of time and a book, a book that knows me more than I know myself. After reading a comforting chapter something I needed to hear I had a self realization, that I?m unhappy. After that I set it down to go out and walk my backyard. It was cold, a different type of cold one that embraces you and feels you, it seems to know how I feel as if the weather reflect my thought.
I went into my vineyard, its winter so everything is dead right now, before I was about to enter a heard a noise there was people behind me who were moving a couch, a thought went through my brain for a second, "should I help them" I decided not too, but to instead continue my journey into the cold but some how inviting vineyard. I walked around the vineyard. The cold went through my jacket the only thing keeping me warm was the slowly burning cigarette that come closer and closer to my right hand.
The grape vines are dead when I enter the vineyard, I wanted to embrace the gravity of this death to feel it, but this death is special it only temporary it?s only seasonal. Are people like this I thought? "No", I had decided they were not. After finding nothing I walked back to my house, I thought of nature of how its so complex are people anyway as complex as it is, as this entity? I'm not sure before entering my house I turned to look back at the vineyard, the grape vines are dead.
There is tree in my backyard who does not obey winter it still had it's somber look upon it, it had its silly bean shaped leaves. It still desired to continue spreading it's seed. Are people like these?? Maybe? I thought, my cigarette dies the ember falls to the ground and I return to my house, only to return to the cold and the now cloudy skies to grab something, something I did not want to be harmed by the cruel elements, it knows me better then me and deserves that.
Did edit it this time.
"Through destiny's grasp
We fight the wars of yesterday
To feed the bloodlust for years forward
The gift has become a curse
A mistaken name
Who is really in control?
You say yourself
The false preacher speaks through you
I say nobody
Without directive
We fight to death
In honor of the false promises
That we were given
Or is it fear
Of the threats for denial?
We can't spell either of them
The answer lies in front of our blind eyes
Master reality
And die cold-blooded
Or live without truth
And die with a clear conscience
Your logic makes no sense
Or the struggle is a sadistic dragging
Don't you have any worries?
Or is the ignorance a blessing?
You strike me down
In honor of your illusions
Do you dare to look into my gaze?
And see that you are not the only one
To fight for their end
We fight to death
In honor of the false promises
That we were given
Or is it fear
Of the threats for denial?
We can't spell either of them
The answer lies in front of our blind eyes
Are you still a servant?
Or are you part of the newborn minds?
Free yourself if you want to
But don't chain me to the same destiny
We see new visions
After the sins of battle
As our eyes close
What is bliss?
And what is the realization?"
We fight the wars of yesterday
To feed the bloodlust for years forward
The gift has become a curse
A mistaken name
Who is really in control?
You say yourself
The false preacher speaks through you
I say nobody
Without directive
We fight to death
In honor of the false promises
That we were given
Or is it fear
Of the threats for denial?
We can't spell either of them
The answer lies in front of our blind eyes
Master reality
And die cold-blooded
Or live without truth
And die with a clear conscience
Your logic makes no sense
Or the struggle is a sadistic dragging
Don't you have any worries?
Or is the ignorance a blessing?
You strike me down
In honor of your illusions
Do you dare to look into my gaze?
And see that you are not the only one
To fight for their end
We fight to death
In honor of the false promises
That we were given
Or is it fear
Of the threats for denial?
We can't spell either of them
The answer lies in front of our blind eyes
Are you still a servant?
Or are you part of the newborn minds?
Free yourself if you want to
But don't chain me to the same destiny
We see new visions
After the sins of battle
As our eyes close
What is bliss?
And what is the realization?"
Since I'm a huge fan of The Witcher I decided to make a tribute to it. Also, it is a copy of a ingame artwork. Unfortunately I had to photograph it, not scan it.
Hope you'll like it.^^
Hope you'll like it.^^
So I've got a Major Work for art this year. Huzzah. This is an experiment in a particular style of drawing I want to use for it. The detailed shot shows strokes of different colours next to each other, much like impressionist painters used. Unfortunately the light yellows didn't show up in the scan but oh well.
Enjoy, and critiques welcome.
Enjoy, and critiques welcome.