#glitch textiles

[squid----s]

Glitchy fig for a friend

[jamesusilljournal]

Brave New World, Yarn on canvas, Takuma Fujimoto, 2022

[patternbase]

MATERIAL STUDIES // Gold Chain Glitch by @patternbase

[alexgadart]

Part 1

“Just Like Everybody Else” 2023

2.5m x 2.5m x 2.5m

Acrylic painting on canvas, screen print on paper and fabric, quilt, embroidery and installation

My final undergrad project

“Just Like Everybody else” is a metaphorical representation of a catharsis of a complex and intersectional identity of transness, queerness, disability, mental illness and autism spectrum disorder; the specific traumas caused by such issues and the mask put up by one to appear Just Like Everybody Else

[aworldofpattern]

Imari Dragon dinner plate, Seletti x Diesel Living

From the Classics On Acid collection. Porcelain, £67.

[inkypeace]

[visgae]

I'm very normal about nettles. I found a patch of winter retted nettles that were the perfect level of dead for fibre extraction! Will do an update video about what I make with it soon :)

[blackmoldmp3]

ive moved past my dry and detailed explanations of disasters youtube phase and into my silent videos of flax being processed into linen by hand youtube phase

[foxyou-too]

deddimaag

[archivalstories]

Glitch Textiles was founded in 2012 by Brooklyn based artist and designer, Phillip David Stearns.

"Our textiles render the subtle structures of our digital reality into intimate, tactile materials. We believe that the digital world has a vital materiality, one that has the power to touch and move us. That is why we make Glitch Textiles. Intertwined threads of warp and weft read as a metaphor for the elegantly complex relationships that digital networks enable us to weave around ourselves."

[squid----s]

Planning the glitchy gig

[artinovo]

I like this style of portrait photo hybrid! 😉 #abstractart #artist #photo #digital #digitalart #artprints #original #futureart #textile #pixelism #atmospheric #warm #designer #glitch #scifilandscape #creative #textural #graphic #decor #homedecor #interiors #contemporaryart #pixels #digitalartist #ethereal #windblast #interiordecor #stylish #abstractart https://www.instagram.com/p/CqXJIqNvexj/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[patternbase]

Glitch Pattern #011 — Abstraction by @patternbase

Available on KnownOrigin

(via GIPHY)

[factorialsotherfandoms]

Fic 2 from the hurt/comfort exchange, pre-canon Tazercraft forming their soullink via horrible physical and mental trauma, and a little bit of soulbonds healing you if you're in close enough contact.

This one was a gift for the lovely @echotunes ^-^ ~1.7k

Warning on this one for bit a bit grim on the whole 'PoV character is choking to death on their own blood' thing, plus warning for self harm (reasoning is a bit weird, but it's very much intentional hurting himself) <3

Once again, ao3 or below the cut

Nothing is wrong, not until everything is. Pac and Mike had been out for a little knavery and misdeeds, stealing their way to a small supply of both food and valuables. Nothing more than they could carry, nothing too noticeable - this time - but enough to get by. There was a tail earlier, someone trying to chase them down, and so they took a longcut through the derelict factories between the town center and the abandoned warehouse where they make their home.

They have done this a hundred times before, with most cops too terrified of the danger to risk coming through. Old machinery, rotting floors, burnt out shells and nine inches of dust… Pac and Mike know it very well.

Perhaps they have become complacent, or perhaps treading the same routes again and again has weakened something in the building. Either way they are running and laughing and talking and then-!

One moment Mike is laughing at Pac, perched up and on one of the old textile looms.

The next-

The floor gives way beneath him.

There is only time to see Pac jump out of the way - thank fuck - before Mike is falling, falling through a hole in the floor. He lands hard, in pain, in agony, isn’t really sure what just happened except that it is dark, and it hurts, and there is something hard and long and metal on his chest.

He can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t-

Time glitches and fades and warped, and the weight is gone, the weight should be gone, but there’s nothing, and he can’t-

The blood reached his throat but he can’t breathe, he can’t cough, he can’t even choke. He gasps and he tries but there’s nothing, nothing at all.

He can’t see, can’t breathe, can’t taste anything but the blood as time warps and shifts in a spiral of terror and agony.

Mike knows he is dying, he is certain. He cannot move, cannot breathe; even with the beam removed, his lungs are still crushed in. Pain spikes, blinding, his mouth full of blood, forming bubbles as he desperately gasps for air.

“Mike!” he can hear Pac screaming for him, from somewhere up above. “Mike!”

Mike cannot answer, cannot even cough. He cannot see the owner of the hands on his face, can barely notice as Pac screams for help, help which will not come, help which has never come.

Too late, too late, too late.

Mike cannot move, cannot even think of moving. Everything is black agony, there is nothing but the choking blood and crushed ribs and-

And Mike cannot move, but somehow, somehow, despite his arms being all but paralyzed he reaches out-

He reaches out, and out, and-

And his hands are caught.

'Mike?'

He screams with organs that cannot scream, on a level deeper and deeper than even his soul. He clings to Pac’s hands that are not hands, sobs with eyes that do not exist, screams a voice which is very much his own - and yet silent all the same.

Pac’s hands remain on his face, but Pac holds his hands. He presses, and touches, and Mike can still feel Pac’s hands and tears on his face, but he can also feel Pac sink against him and in, in, in. Somehow, somehow, Pac seems to seep into his soul, hesitant and confused and Mike can taste that, seeping in and deep until he steals the pain away.

And then their eyes open.

For a moment, just a moment, he can see himself. He sees himself, drowning in blood, gasping for air and his unseeing eyes and struggling and struggling and struggling and struggling and then he falls limp.

Still.

Dead…?

Mike feels himself - Pac? - sob harder and harder and harder, closes his eyes, feels nothing.

Nothing but Pac curled around him, hiding him away, Mike is within Pac and Pac is within Mike and there are nothing and everything and one and the same and Mike-

Mike-

Mike finds something in Pac’s soul, finds some strength there, finds something. He braces against it, shores himself to it, even as Mike- Mike, he reaches back down to his body, hides himself in Pac but reaches out and takes a deep, shuddering breath-

He chokes on his blood.

Pac chokes on his sobbing, but moves anyway, fingers in Mike’s mouth, almost trying to scoop the blood out of the way.

It won’t work, but-

But…

Mike touches his soul to Pac’s, and feels something… Something strange there.

Pac collapses too, beneath the weight of his sobbing, his knees and his body giving in.

Mike…

Pac…

'Pac?'

'Mike! Mike… Mike, Mike, calma, calma, tá bom, calma…'

Pac lays on his chest, right where the metal had been sat. It should hurt, it should hurt, and Mike knows nothing but his best friend - best friend? - pressed hard and against him and a warm, gentle numbness and- and he shifts and he moves and Pac is still there, just collapsed and laying on him, but Pac shifts around, presses his mouth that is not a mouth to bloody lips that are not lips and he breathes. Nothing touches him, nothing is touching him, and yet with air that is not air is forced into Mike’s lungs and-

And finally Mike starts choking, actually choking, coughing and coughing and his chest seizing with it. It hurts, it hurts, it HURTS-

'Mike, calma, calma! Mike!'

He can’t, he can’t, no matter what Pac’s voice in his head says somehow, somehow he has found the air not to breathe, but to choke. He barely feels the hands as Pac gets up just enough to force him onto his side, only to lean down and press himself to the worst of the wounds again.

Mike chokes, and he can’t- he can’t-

He cannot clear it until he feels a hand on his throat and then - suddenly - he is vomiting blood all over the ruined floor beside him.

The last thing he remembers are hands that are not hands cupping his face, and a mouth that is not a mouth still forcing air into his lungs.

---

Waking up is unexpected, and a catalogue of pain. There is a weight atop Mike - not just the extensive bandages but…

'Pac?'

'… Mike?'

The blurry reply is not with words at all, and yet it is words, settled in Pac’s voice but Mike’s mind. The weight moves slightly, one hand coming up to rub at blearly brown eyes and then-

And then Pac hugs him, sobbing into his shoulder.

He cannot speak. Something is in the way, and he cannot speak.

But… But…

'Pac? What happened? Where- What?'

Pac is sobbing too hard to even say his name, every attempt aborted as another sob tears it’s way in. In his heart, in his soul, Mike… He knows, he knows he should be dead - that maybe he was dead, even.

He is still weak, too weak for more than fluttering his eyes partly open. He sees anyway - not what he should see, but as Pac sees, a blurry world but a world that is familiar. The floor of their “home”, fingers pressed into his neck, a pressure of his body and yet indisputably, impossibly alive.

If he was, then what… Pac is lying atop him, curled there - Mike can just about feel it, the way his best friend is curled on his chest, shielding the injuries with everything he can.

'Pac?' his soul calls again, with a terror he’s not sure he understands 'PAC?'

'Here' comes the answer 'I’m here, I’m here, I’m here, you’re okay, I’m right here'.

The essence of Pac seeps into his skin, wrapping carefully around broken lungs as they make their way into his skin. The essence of Mike catches it, their souls entwinning via less easily visualisable contact than before, just marbling oils dropped into swirling water.

“Mike,” Pac speaks with his words. “Mike, I’m so sorry, Mike, Mike.”

'I’m scared' Mike hears, even if Pac doesn’t say 'Mike you scared me, I’m so fucking scared, I thought you were dead'.

'I thought I was dead too' Mike can only reply, the confusing but settling presence of Pac consuming him, taking all pain and fear and anxiety from Mike, and making it Pac’s own. 'I- what happened?'

Only then does Pac pull away. His hand lingers on Mike’s chest as he reaches to a nearby trolley, and takes a scalpel from it.

Usually, they only use such things on animals.

Usually, usually… Mike knows they stole all this, but he thought only he knew how to use it.

And then the thoughts mean nothing, because Pac takes the scalpel and slits his own wrist.

Mike screams. No matter that his throat is worn out agony, his body and his soul can both still scream.

And yet, and yet, he can barely raise his hand, cannot do anything, anything, anything-

“It’s okay,” Pac says, body and mind too. “Stop- Mike, stop, you’ll hurt yourself. Just- just watch.”

Pac takes that hand of Mike’s, and presses their wrists together.

What is Mike wraps around what is Pac, Mike’s hand limp as his soul traces the wound and-

And it heals beneath the touch.

Not fully, not entirely, it leaves an ugly scar, but…

“I couldn’t… I don’t know what happened,” Pac whispers. “But you were dying, you were dying, and you called for me and I-”

The tears start again - both of them are crying this time, tears falling across the sides of Mike’s face even as he lies still on the bed.

'you came'

Mike answers for them.

“I came,” Pac replies. “I came. Mike, Mike, Mike…”

Pac weaves their fingers together, and shifts his hand. Pac looks… weak, fragile, but of the two of them he is the only one standing. 

It’s a mystery for later, one they will never wholly understand. It isn’t normal, it isn’t typical, but…

But Pac leans down to hug Mike, to sob into his shoulder repeating “you’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay” as though it will make the world right, as though it will heal Mike’s ribs and lungs.

A week ago he would have called it impossible, but right here, right now…

Pac’s soul makes itself small as he cries; Mike reaches out, and makes it his turn to wrap around, whispering 'I’m okay, I’m okay, we’re okay'.

[oviraptoridae]

i’m roswell, multimedia artist, computer user, internet animal, thing maker. i make a lot of stuff & this is where i post it!

what to expect:

furries

ttrpg stuff

electronic music

ink drawings

digital collage and glitch art

questionable programming

3d modelling

textile art

what not to expect:

consistency

i’m currently running a game in the Troika! system (and in the process, designing a Troika! compatible ttrpg). find stuff related to that project in the #silversea tag!

where else to find me:

bandcamp

youtube

personal website (will be revamped soon)

i don’t do commissions, but you can provide proof of donation to one of these organizations providing aid to Palestine in exchange for a free drawing.

i don’t believe in intellectual property, use my art for anything you want. i ask that you don’t paywall anything made with my work, and that you consider crediting me, but i won’t tell you what to do. unless stated otherwise, all original, non-contract work shared is under a cc-sa license!

[moochilatv]

Chris Portka presents: A Candle is a Raging Fire!

Debut single released in the winter of 2020

The artist said:

Lockdown, bullshit, etc. I was tired, we were all tired, but this song had been 37 years in the making.

I've been playing music since I was a teenager and now I finally release this song as a proper debut single. I wrote it in 2019 while travelling through India with my fiancé on a trip for her textile / fashion business (pre-COVID times). I also wrote and recorded the music to a series of documentary videos she made while we were in India for her brand Seek Collective (this instrumental music was released as my EP "Soundtracks I").

But this song is much more personal and reflects the long, multi-decade struggle I've had with music. My parents were never supportive of my musical ambitions and actively discouraged me from pursuing music as a career. So I've struggled to make my way through jobs in the tech world - all while keeping the hope alive that someday I'd become a musician.

I've always loved guitar, piano, writing songs, and jamming with friends - but my biggest fear in the world was always singing. It's been my major roadblock to releasing and playing music throughout my life. So 6 years ago I got serious and met a Voice Movement Therapist named Julia Norton who helped me slowly be able to use my voice and sing in front of people. I now practice vocal exercises every day and regularly played at coffee shops in the bay area (before quarantine anyway). That's a long way of saying the lyrics of the song are about this candle - the hope, dream, and wish which I've always held for a life in music. I hope it also reflects the secret desires we hold in our hearts for what we truly want in this life.

The song was mixed by Jasper Leach of @jplrecordings (on Instagram) who also played the organ, tambourine, and some backup vocals. I played, wrote, and composed the rest of the music.

The song was mastered by Christian Wright at Abbey Road Studios.

Chris Portka is an artist and musician based in California's bay area, defying norms with a unique fusion of harsh trash sound and ethereal glitch rock. His music strikes a careful balance between raw and refined.