#gestural abstract

[whiteatticpapers]

watercolour, acrylic inks, india ink and collage on gessoed paper

[disease]

JIM DINE / "RED PEPPER LILIES" / 1999 [screenprint, etching, spit-bite aquatint, power-tool abrasion, aquatint and sandpaper abrasion | 40 × 29 9/10"]

[abstracteddistractions]

James Welling, "In Search Of…", 1981,

Medium Gelatin silver print,

Dimensions 18 x 1

[jadonulrich]

Janna Watson The Cardinal's Song, 2021 Mixed Media on Birch Panel 60 × 60 × 1 3/4 in

[de-mykel]

Enrico Baj. Paesaggio, 1957.

oil on canvas

[letswonderspirit]

New glasses are coming in two weeks but my gesture drawing class is today, girl help I cannot see 😔🫶

[seungho-jang]

see1295_45.4x37.8x1.8cm_acrylic on canvas_2023

[monroeknoxwrites]

i have a prompt for you (or a few lol, but this is the first): wiv and doodles!

The mess hall was much smaller than what Wiv expected. Looking at the size of the space when they boarded, he pictured huge rooms designed for hundreds of Coalition soldiers.

This place, it was closer to a cafe. The tables were sized to match, not the long cafeteria style tables meant to maximize space but individuals ones with three to four seats bolted to the floor. They were spaced enough for the semblance of privacy while anyone talking loud enough could be heard throughout the room.

It worked perfectly to his needs. He was slouched into a chair, legs up, face buried in his sketchbook. He stole furtive glances over it then his pen set to work sketch in board, round strokes, white ink on thick dark paper.

The subject of his undivided attention was Thelnym, eating slices of vegetables one at a time.

They had existed as larger than life in Wiv's imagination since he was a kid – a hero, an idol, the chosen of the progenitors. The real thing did not disappoint.

His style was usually very loose and based on the emotions people invoked in him, capturing their essence in a mess of lines. Thelnym's lines were hard to contain, to define. Wiv sketched to the very edge of pages and beyond. White ink covered the side of his hand. He liked the smudges it caused, the unpredictable nature of it, additions outside his control.

In quick succession he filled five pages. He had to memorize every detail, every feeling, immortalize it.

Their scales became spirals that wandered across rolling, overlapping hills of a body, their hair tangled vines transforming into a sky overhead. And always they were orbited by the vague shape of the woman they dwarfed as a planet does its moon. The woman sending disapproving stares his way. Thelnym didn't look at him once.

Wiv would pay more attention to the woman named Özgür later. He had sketchbooks designated for them all. The Coalition's first paycheck was put to good use stocking up on them before they left.

He didn't really have that much clothes anyway.

[vinitp-1234]

[menciemeer]

by David McGrail

[kkmcaninch]

“I like to pretend that my art has nothing to do with me.” ~ Roy Lichtenstein 

[disease]

"ABSTRACT COMPOSITION (I-III)" PIERO MASCETTI — 1990s [oil on canvas (3) | 7 9/10 × 7 9/10"]

[zytes]

form38

[asemicaustralia]

“The mind of blessing is wise, and it knows that whatever torments or diminishes a person cannot be healed simply from within that diminishment; consequently it addresses the wholeness and draws that light and healing into the diminished area.”

― John O’Donohue, To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Invocations and Blessings

Made in Procreate on iPad

[Image description: Four lines of black vertical abstract calligraphy, with a light brown ink background on white]

[doom-dreaming]

Stars!

"Chief, you have to find cover. Now."

Black spots are swimming in his vision, pinging around his HUD, melding and diverging and zinging and popping. Cortana's voice sounds light-years away.

"Another hit like that and we're toast. Literally. Move!"

Instinct is the only thing kicking his legs into motion, straining against the pain. His shield warning is blaring inside his skull, he can feel portions of his undersuit melting against his skin, he's still seeing stars. A wave of nausea swells and threatens to break, but he swallows it down, collapsing behind a pillar.

The enraged Hunter bellows somewhere close by—too close. He hears the heavy clang of its weight moving around the room, searching him out. He doesn't have long. He grits his teeth, tries to focus on his breathing, reloads his rifle. His shields begin to recharge, not nearly as fast as he needs.

Two grenades left, that was something. He yanks the pin out of one, counts to three, then lobs it around the side of the pillar. The Hunter howls over the sound of the blast.

John hauls himself to his feet and runs, shoving aside the searing pain of the plasma burns. Cortana was right, he couldn't take another direct hit. He sprints through the dissipating smoke, past the Hunter, and launches himself onto a platform on the other side of the room, pivoting on his heel the second he touches down.

The Hunter's back is still turned, but it's starting to shake off the shock of the explosion and swing around to face him, plasma cannon already glowing—his window of opportunity is getting smaller by the second. He fires a burst from his rifle, aiming for the sliver of squirming orange worm-flesh under the armor. The Hunter stumbles as the bullets connect, just long enough for John to fling his final grenade.

The explosion thunders through the room, amplified by the residual energy from the half-charged cannon. White-hot fire roils against lime green smoke. A satisfying splash of rust-colored viscera coats the walls. The Hunter crashes to the ground beside its fallen sibling, twitches, then lies still.

His shield alarm is sounding again, he must've been caught by the fringe of the blast. Nothing pings on his motion tracker. The adrenaline that'd been carrying him through the last brutal fifteen minutes starts to fade, making room for all the stress and pain he'd been ignoring to come screaming back with renewed intensity.

He barely manages to unseal his helmet and rip it off before he vomits. It doesn't make him feel any better; the convulsion tears at his blistered, charred flesh, sending a fresh spike of pain through his chest. The air tastes like metallic smoke, but he takes a minute to just breathe.

"...we've gotta keep moving, Chief." Her voice is closer again, but tinny, projected through the helmet's external speakers. "We can rest when we find a medkit." Authoritative as always. But he hears the concern.

He nods. Spits. Takes one last deep breath before fitting his helmet back on and willing his battered body to carry him to the next room. He's still seeing stars.

[girldraki]

speaking of arguably problematic sims 4 traits i wonder if anyone has coded a bipolar trait. that seems like it would be comparatively simple to introduce mechanically