entre-isaac

[entre-isaac]

✨ boyfriends ✨

[entre-isaac]

ha

ha

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ha

ha

a really rough attempt at helen the spiral

[entre-isaac]

I am so tired of AI, already.

I’m sure that I’m just beating a dead horse by ranting about this. I’m not very active on here, so I am sorry if this has already been talked about a million times by people far better spoken and well known than me. But I wasn’t sure of a better outlet for my frustrations than here.

AI is so fucking disgusting. It’s so ugly. It’s lame. It’s lazy. It’s harmful.

(In case it needs said, I’m referring specifically to AI ‘art’ and media, not useful functions for AI like GPS or search engines, etc.)

I know it’s petty and useless, but any time I come across a single AI-generated post on here, TikTok, Facebook, etc, I report and block the posts. They make me irrationally angry. Especially when they aren’t labeled as AI. Especially when the gullible and uninformed commenters are none the wiser, usually older generations who aren’t aware of what AI even is, but sometimes they’re even fooling younger audiences.

I can’t express the rage I feel when I see some ugly ass fucked up looking ‘baby bat’ and see the comments flooded with old people going ‘isn’t our creator just wonderful,’ and ‘all of god’s creations are beautiful.’ bitch that isn’t ‘god’s’ creation, that’s a computer’s best attempt at mimicking reality.

And don’t even get me started on all those goddamn filters on tiktok, or the ‘what if ___ was a dark fantasy animation.’

I wish people would stop using it. I know they never will. I know that the world we’re entering is an AI- centric future. It breaks my heart thinking about much harder it’s going to be for new artists to gain the attention and credit they deserve, when it’s already hard enough now while AI is still new and evolving. I know we can’t be far off from the first AI-only developed feature film or show.

For now, all we can do is resist. Don’t interact with AI content — not even to call it out or protest. Negative engagement is still engagement. It still boosts the accounts posting the AI bullshit. Just block the accounts, report them if they aren’t properly labeling things as AI or if they’re stealing from existing real artists. Don’t use the stupid ass TikTok filters that turn you into the shittiest possible ‘anime’ character or ‘Disney’ character. They literally all look stupid and the result is never anything shocking. This includes those dumbass meme posts where they input ridiculous things into chatgpt and share the results. They’re still profiting off of AI, even if it’s just for jokes.

[entre-isaac]

day 2 of learning to draw

how the fuck does one draw bodies. or hands.

i’ve been doodling some more since i first attempted it the other day. trying to figure out what my personal style is is interesting. i’m not using any reference/inspiration images for my doodling for this purpose, so i don’t look at anything that might influence my style. not that I think that would even be a bad thing, but idk, i’m just curious to try and figure it out without any references first. and honestly i think looking at refs might stress me out bc i know i’ll get frustrated if i can’t match the reference well enough.

super lucky that my partner is an actual artist (and a very talented one) who already has procreate and who has been very supportive and helpful as i’ve been dabbling in the world of art.

starting to do this now as a nearly 26 year old with absolutely no prior art knowledge or experience is a strange experience, to say the least lol. i’m not putting any pressure on myself to learn a bunch of techniques right away, and definitely not any pressure to get anything ‘right.’ i’m just having fun with it. and it’s nice!

[entre-isaac]

i decided to try art today

i don’t know anything about art

i just know that i’m enjoying myself

it’s funny bc you can see the progression in the lil sketch page as i started experimenting with different ‘pens’ and understanding how procreate works. (the painted banner was the first thing i did and is what inspired me to grab my partner’s ipad and do a little doodling)

obviously these are very rough. i am not an artist and i haven’t even doodled anything in like… ten years lol.

but i thought some of them ended up being a little funny, so, here they are

[entre-isaac]

oh.

[entre-isaac]

grantaire, courfeyrac and bahorel

snorting pixy stix off of each other’s chests

just to get a rise out of enjolras when he walks in

[entre-isaac]

rip alice ‘daisy’ tonner you would have loved the nuclear codes.

[entre-isaac]

do we think grantaire has ever used anything more than one bar of irish spring soap for his entire hygiene regimen

[entre-isaac]

enjolras and jonathan sims

and their sweater-wearing, word-stammering, marked-by-the-lonely boyfriends

[entre-isaac]

A Cafe, in parts. One.

There was music on the air that night. Blissful tunes that wafted through the open window, supplying the oxygen with a sweet taste that settled gently upon the tongue. Music that cared little for the inappropriateness of its presence: it delivered its sonnets carelessly over streets that reeked of death. They never knew where the music came from. Perhaps a lone musician who, in witnessing the grief that oozed across the ground, attempted to remedy the blight in the only way he knew how. Perhaps an ignorant aristocrat, boasting her status and signifying her disdain for the unfortunate, commanding her entertainers to perform despite reality’s aching presence. No matter, the music played. And it was heard.

Huddled in a small room above a cafe, twenty-four ears listened. Twelve mouths whispered delicately to one another. One hundred and twenty fingers intertwined, some loose and fleeting, others clasped firmly, desperately. Amassed in a pile of shivering bodies upon uneven floorboards, it was impossible to discern where one being began, and another ended. They were not twelve– they were one. 

A bottle was passed among the group. Slim rations were shared. Encouraging murmurs were exchanged. But always quietly, respectfully– they would not disrupt the music. 

“Do you recognize the tune?” One asked another.

“Yes,” came a fond reply, a voice that revered music in all its beauty, “The Bloom Is On the Rye.”

“A romance?”

“Of sorrow.”

“How can you be certain?”

“The violin bleeds.”

“What do they sorrow for?”

“Time.”

The eyes of these dear friends seemed to meet one another by instinct. A traveling gaze was spread throughout the room. A building silence, broken only by a stifled sob from one soul in the center. He covered his eyes. His hands were removed by another’s. “What do you sorrow for, Courfeyrac?”

“Time,” came his somber reply. It was met with unease. The friends shifted, limbs untangling, necks straightening– to better look upon one another. 

“You sorrow needlessly,” one spoke up, an inspired light in his eye. “Time has no chains upon our wrists. We are above it.”

“No-one is above time, Enjolras.”

“You are wrong. Many things outlast time. They triumph it. Blood grows beyond it. Love lingers past it. And freedom shall survive longest of all. We are freedom. Time will not touch us.”

“Blood stains. Blood weeps.” 

“Jesus wept,” Enjolras laughed. “And still his name is uttered upon the lips of every man, in every moment.” 

“I do not utter it.”

The music drifted over their heads as the words faded into silence. Again, they shared glances between one another. They shared shoulders, pressed against each other as though to fight off the cold, though it was summer, and the heat of the day still lingered on their sweaty brows. They offered comfort unspoken. Each understood wordlessly what their neighbor required of them. A squeeze to the hand. A brush of the forehead. A kiss to the cheek. An embrace. A kind word. 

But silence can only prevail so long without disruption. This disruption had a name: Grantaire. He had a goal: to incite a reaction. It was his barking laugh that assaulted the tranquility as he stumbled free of the group, raising a bottle above his head. “Such dreary company you all are! I want no part in it. You snivel as if it will make a difference. You hide as if that will prevent the inevitable, which is that come morning, we will all certainly die. Waste not your precious few breaths with sobs, and instead make merry with me!” He brought the bottle to his lips and drank, spilling down his neck. 

His interruption was received with varying responses. There were laughs. There were sighs. There were scowls. There were sad smiles. More than used to the drunkard’s antics, they knew better than to take his words to heart. But between his words, the music played. 

“Come and sit down, Grantaire,” Joly addressed him first, pressing the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “There is no space for your stumbling here. You will fall.”

“Rejoin us,” Jehan, the lover of music, whispered. “If we cannot escape time, we will await her blow together.” 

“Do not entertain him,” Enjolras bit, scowling. “If he wishes to spend his night in a stupor, he may do so somewhere else,” he shot a glare in Grantaire’s direction, speaking to him now. “Have you no respect?” 

“None,” Grantaire laughed. He tripped and braced himself against Bahorel’s back, disturbing the settled group with a ripple of sways and readjustments. Grantaire remained there, leaning, grinning. “There is music! We should dance. We dance with death!”

“Can he be quieted?” Combeferre said with a sigh. 

“There is only one way to quiet a fool,” Courfeyrac returned with a smile. 

“And what is that?”

“The element of surprise.” 

Amidst puzzled glances, Courfeyrac stood and approached Grantaire, who looked upon him with an eagerness, expecting his friend to join in his merriment. But instead, Courfeyrac took hold of Grantaire’s sleeves, and in a flush kissed him.