#expression

[escapismsworld]

[vaxolang]

•Vincent 2•

Acrylic painting on paper

Size 30x25 cm

[accecakes]

I felt distressed the other day.

Now Soap must feel the same as I :"")

[kafkasapartment]

Counter weights (Gegengewichte), 1926. Wassily Kandinsky. Oil on canvas.

[thirdity]

And why don't you write? Write! Writing is for you, you are for you; your body is yours, take it. I know why you haven't written. (And why I didn't write before the age of twenty-seven.) Because writing is at once too high, too great for you, it's reserved for the great — that is for "great men"; and it's "silly." Besides, you've written a little, but in secret. And it wasn't good, because it was in secret, and because you punished yourself for writing, because you didn't go all the way, or because you wrote, irresistibly, as when we would masturbate in secret, not to go further, but to attenuate the tension a bit, just enough to take the edge off. And then as soon as we come, we go and make ourselves feel guilty — so as to be forgiven; or to forget, to bury it until the next time.

Hélène Cixous, "The Laugh of the Medusa"

[evosushiii]

Sketch page of Elizabeth in a variety of emotions :)

Just for practice but it looked cool so why not share it

[gawki]

Raccoon emojis I made so far. 💕

[thesilicontribesman]

The Lewis Chess Pieces, 12th Century CE, The National Museum of Scotland, Edinburgh

[nataliedecorsair]

Cursed test post lol

[mikolkindle]

[philosophybits]

One never says a quarter of what one knows. Otherwise, all would collapse. How little one says, and they are already screaming.

Albert Camus, Notebooks, 1942-1951

[ask-cupbros-parents]

赤面する子は可愛い /////

テンプレお借りしました 🙏 I borrowed a template

Calix Animi family–>> ♣️ Previous ♥️ -----♠️Next♦️

( The posts of this family series are not in story order )

🚫Do not repost or trace/copy my artwork! 🚫AI learning prohibit

[kafkasapartment]

Elizabeth, 1948. Franz Kline. Oil on canvas.

[thirdity]

Every day we slaughter our finest impulses. That is why we get a heartache when we read those lines written by the hand of a master and recognize them as our own, as the tender shoots which we stifled because we lacked the faith to believe in our own powers, our own criterion of truth and beauty. Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. There is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, only to discover what is already there.

Henry Miller, Henry Miller on Writing