inkwelliann

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we are much alike

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seven mimir

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Multi billion dollar corporations: We make crap AI ads because we rather hang themselves than pay an extra cent for a quality work.

Midsize art supply manufacturer: We commissioned a watercolor artist to make an illustration for every color of our watercolor palette and make it into an art book with swatches.

(Ekaterina Goland for "Old master" watercolors by Gamma)

[inkwelliann]

Leonid Meteor Storm, as seen over North America on the night of November 12-13, 1833, from Bilderatlas der Sternenwelt (Atlas of the Star World) (1892) by Edmund Weiss (Austrian, 1837-1917)

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Adrian Ermolayev's illustration for russian tale "Snegurochka".

Snegurochka (or The Snow Maiden) is a character in Russian fairy tales, a girl made of snow. Since the mid-20th century, Snegurochka has been depicted as the granddaughter and helper of Ded Moroz (Grandfather Frost) during New Year parties for children.

[inkwelliann]

The next addition to my series of Bells Hells in historical art styles (I know I’m pushing it with the word “historical,” here)- Dorian Storm in the style of Yoshitaka Amano.

I can’t say enough about the work of Amano. His influence on the areas of illustration, character design, and fine art are immeasurable. Here’s a couple examples of his truly massive body of work-

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One of the awesome things about chronic pain is that stress and exertion almost always exacerbate it, which means you will consistently get flare ups when you need to be locking in. a second awesome thing is then trying to convince yourself, while doubled over in pain, that you are not faking it to get out of work

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Lets go All Over The Fucking Place with mama

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I am nursing a hangover because my neighbors invited me over for a dinner last night that was actually a high school graduation party for their eldest daughter but what it actually actually was was 16 Hindu families getting drunk and having a dance party in the basement teaching me, the Lone Jew, how to do Indian dances and getting me Quite Drunk while the kids watched YouTube upstairs

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I think I may never be sad ever again. There is a statue entitled "Farewell to Orpheus" on my college campus. It's been there since 1968, created by a Prof. Frederic Littman that use to work at the university. It sits in the middle of a fountain, and the fountain is often full of litter. I have taken it upon myself to clean the litter out when I see it (the skimmers only come by once a week at max). But because of my style of dress, this means that bystanders see a twenty-something on their hands and knees at the edge of the fountain, sleeves rolled up, trying not to splash dirty water on their slacks while their briefcase and suit coat sit nearby. This is fine, usually. But today was Saturday Market, which means the twenty or so people in the area suddenly became hundreds. So, obviously, somebody stopped to ask what I was doing. "This," I gestured at the statue, "is Eurydice. She was the wife of Orpheus, the greatest storyteller in Greece. And this litter is disrespectful." Then, on a whim, I squinted up at them. "Do you know the story of Orpheus and Eurydice?" "No," they replied, shifting slightly to sit.

"Would you like to?"

"Sure!"

So I told them. I told them the story as I know it- and I've had a bit of practice. Orpheus, child of a wishing star, favorite of the messenger god, who had a hard-working, wonderful wife, Eurydice; his harp that could lull beasts to passivity, coax song from nymphs, and move mountains before him; and the men who, while he dreamed and composed, came to steal Eurydice away. I told of how she ran, and the water splashed up on my clothes. But I didn't care. I told of how the adder in the field bit her heel, and she died. I told of the Underworld- how Orpheus charmed the riverman, pacified Cerberus with a lullaby, and melted the hearts of the wise judges. I laughed as I remarked how lucky he was that it was winter- for Persephone was moved by his song where Hades was not. She convinced Hades to let Orpheus prove he was worthy of taking Eurydice. I tugged my coat back on, and said how Orpheus had to play and sing all the way out of the Underworld, without ever looking back to see if his beloved wife followed. And I told how, when he stopped for breath, he thought he heard her stumble and fall, and turned to help her up- but it was too late. I told the story four times after that, to four different groups, each larger than the last. And I must have cast a glance at the statue, something that said "I'm sorry, I miss you--" because when I finished my second to last retelling, a young boy piped up, perhaps seven or eight, and asked me a question that has made my day, and potentially my life: "Are you Orpheus?" I told the tale of the grieving bard so well, so convincingly, that in the eyes of a child I was telling not a story, but a memory. And while I laughed in the moment, with everyone else, I wept with gratitude and joy when I came home. This is more than I deserve, and I think I may never be sad again.

Here is the aforementioned statue, by the way.

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So I was at SDCC this year, and I passed a stall in the ladies' and heard someone sobbing inside. Just bawling, fully melting down. My-dog-just-died levels of crying. And I've spent a lot of time in therapy trying to learn better boundaries around helping people, but I'm not made of stone, so I stopped outside the stall door and asked, "Are you okay?"

The woman's breath caught, and she said, "Yeah, I'm fine," in the least fine voice I have ever heard.

So I walked away. Made it all the way to the sinks. Washed my hands. And turned around and went back because nope, not fine, not okay.

"Look, I don't want to be a dick, and you don't have to tell me what's going on, but is there anything that would help? I've got water, ibuprofen, and safety pins, and I could find other stuff."

"No, no, it's fine. I have those too."

"...okay."

I made it to the sinks again. She went back to sobbing like her heart was being torn out one strand of muscle at a time.

An older woman sidled up to me. "Did she tell you anything?"

"Nope. I offered her water and ibuprofen, too."

"Oh! I've got snacks. Maybe that'll help."

"Worth a shot. Oh, hey, I think I have some of my business cards for my Etsy shop in here—I could write my number on one if she needs help later."

"I've got a pen!"

We hurried back to the stall, offered the snacks, and were rebuffed. Finally we slid the card and the pen under the stall door, explained that we were both mom friends/teachers/etc. and trying to help-not-creep, and reluctantly fucked off. I personally felt like shit about it, but I had places to be and I felt like I was close to overstepping the crying woman's boundaries if I hadn't already done so. And if I'd made her feel unsafe, well, she could toss the card.

The following morning, I got a text from an unknown number.

She identified herself as "Rose from the bathroom" and explained that she'd had a hell of a day, with multiple people being cruel to her, seemingly for no good reason. She'd hit her breaking point and fled to the bathroom to cry it out ... at which point two strangers had rocked up, checked on her multiple times, and generally done the dance of most social mammals when a member of their group is in unexplained distress. The two of us had, more or less accidentally, restored her faith in humanity by being worried apes at her. 18 hours later, she was having a much better time, and a lot of it was due to the two of us shoving things under her door.

Anyway, turns out we live about 20 minutes apart, and we're going to meet up for tea after we've recovered from con exhaustion.

So if you ever feel like humans in general and/or fandom humans in particular are irredeemable shits, remember that sometimes the same species who'll ruin your con day will try to slide trail mix and ibuprofen under your stall door in case it helps.

I still don't know what Rose looks like, btw (although apparently she knows what I look like—I mentioned I was in cosplay and she said she'd seen me around). I don't know whether she's cis or trans. So next time you hear someone bitching about trans women in the ladies', feel free to tell them that it never once crossed anybody's mind to ask. If you're crying in the bathroom, you're my sister.

Maybe take the trail mix, though. We apes worry about one another.

[inkwelliann]

Finished another pair of gloves last week, this time in dark brown leather from ItalianSkins and sewn up with some olive green silk thread that was a very lucky thrift store find. (It was in a mixed baggie and I didn't know it was silk until I got home!)

In my glove video I mentioned wanting to re-draw my pattern so the fingers are angled in more tightly, and so the thumb piece is longer, and I did that for these. The thumb fits much better, and the bases of the fingers are no longer too loose.

I also tried the straighter style of fourchettes, but didn't like them as much as the V shaped ones. I think the curved edges put a bit too much material onto the backs of the fingers and made them wrinklier. (Though this particular leather is not the stretchiest, so it may be better with a stretchier one.)

I did 3 rows of feather stitch on the back of the hand, since I'd seen that on an extant pair and thought it looked nice. I used a regular needle for that part because I was worried a leather needle would damage the thread.

[inkwelliann]

Sometimes you just gotta draw your OC as a magical girl

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Red-breasted Pygmy Parrot (Micropsitta bruijnii), male, family Psittaculidae, order Psittaciformes, New Guinea

These tiny parrots are only 8 cm (3 in) in length. (This measurement does not include the tail feathers).

photographs by Lev Frid

[inkwelliann]

jury-rigged. even keel. by the board. three sheets to the wind. loose cannon. son of a gun. pipe down. taken aback.

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NEED: I need to do something physical with my hands like crafting or painting or something like that because I feel coiled up and NEED to do something

PROBELM: 2am

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one of my favorite original girls