riotheclown: clowning (diva great life!)

A gallery was taking submissions of new work under the banner "Hands" and I was going through old photo albums and there under the photograph my father had written the word, "hands". Not his name and my brothers. It was like a message. So I did the painting. It never sold so I gave it to my brother.
riotheclown: clowning (butterfly)
img042"Sea jinn," Lewis says in answer to the unvoiced question. "The marid are the worst. Too beautiful by half. I almost lost me mind with them on Northsea."

Still drawing like crazy. I sort of stole her face from the bald ? woman in Minority Report and then I watched something with Grace Kelly. I think there is some CoCo in the mouth.  She is my new fav. model.  so it is a mash up of beautiful women who are more etherial than sexual.

I have lots of home work coming.  I need to make some sort of flower garden in the holes left by the two trees that died and were cut last year. I need to paint the ceilings in the basement and touch up where a candle smoked in the diningroom.

I have to mix some cement and then smooth out the floor before I can lay new tile.  I am sceeerd.  I never mixed cement before.  I'm told it's like cake mix.  :P
riotheclown: clowning (butterfly)
Read more...nother drawing from walkingdead )

I am trying to draw everyday.  Lately I have been taking photos of my television with my digital camera and then just using the view box of the camera for reference.  After that I scan the drawing and then post it.  I have no doubt that there is an easier way to do this but this means I can sit anywhere in the house and draw.

I love drawing because it shows me how different the seeing and the believing parts of the brain are.  Seriously.  They inform each other but they are different. Seeing is not believing and believing is not seeing.  This is how we can be fooled.  This is why we make lousy witnesses. But if you really work on seeing, and letting go of what you think something should look like, you can render what everyone can recognize, (although, it's hard to say what their brains will do the information!)

This is an post I made way back in 2007 or so about that stuff, that I put in my wordpress blog about this stuff.  I got to teach an art class at my son's school.  Anyway, if you are interested here's the link. the link.  I titled it: Patrick Stewart is a God.  When is that not true?
riotheclown: clowning (butterfly)
img039 (2)I have been posting drawings done from stills over at walkingdead_tv and asked for suggestions on characters people would like to see drawn and Maggie and Glenn were the people's choice, so here they are.  What I like about this couple is that Maggie completely took the incentive and while it started out with Glenn just afraid to believe his luck (which is funny considering the circumstances) we got to see that he really is worth it.  What can I say, I love  a good love story and the sub plot of these too is a good one.

whatever

Mar. 16th, 2013 03:59 pm
riotheclown: clowning (trenchbanal)
darylThis was Daryl's expression when Carol told him how much better off he is now.   She is warning him not to let his brother drag him down again.  Still the irony for both of them is they are actually happier than they were before the apocolyse. Go figure eh?
riotheclown: clowning (trenchbanal)
excommunicant"They found her hanging," Lewis said, following his gaze and then turning a slow circle on the spot so that shadows leaped and fell around James and the dead woman. "The blacksmith cut her down, but they were afraid to touch her after that, so nothing's been disturbed. Thank God for superstition, eh?"

James cast him a quizzical glance, but Lewis didn't seem overly perturbed by the apparent contradiction.

"So?" Lewis prodded.

"She's an Excommunicant," James said, pointing at the grey robe.

"Uh-huh. Go on." Lewis waved him forward again.

Crouching beside her, James held his breath for a long three-count, steadying himself before pushing back the sleeve of the robe with the tip of his index finger to expose her left hand. "Newly so, I'd say." The brand around her ring finger looked raw and sore. He craned his neck to look up at the frayed end of the rope. "Suicide. Not surprising. A significant number of Excommunicants take their own lives."

"How significant?"

"Those who don't are the exception."

Lewis hummed, disapproving, sympathetic. It was hard to tell. The rain was starting to patter on the slats of the roof now, blurring the sound.

Very gently, and with a murmured benediction that escaped him before he could catch it, James parted the woman's hair so that he could peer at her throat. She was greying, he saw, strands of silver amid the brown. The welt on her neck confirmed Liam-son-of-Liam's story that far, at least. The rope itself had been removed. Probably secreted away in a box under someone's bed to frighten the jinn. "Go ahead," he said to Lewis as he inspected the welt, noting the pattern that was presumably made by the knot. "Ask me."

"Ask you what?"

"Why I'm the exception."

"Okay, why are you?"

"I found a book I hadn't read." He looked over his shoulder at Lewis but found his face inscrutable in the fluttering light of the candle.

Above them, the patter of rain became a hiss. Out in the yard in front of the forge, the world was etched by the angled lines of wind-driven water like a barrage of a million silver arrows.

"What happens when you finish the book, then?"

Shrugging, James turned away and carefully stroked the hair back from the woman's face. "There's always a chance I'll find anoth—"

The ground dropped from under him. Groping in the air with one hand, he caught hold of the hem of Lewis's coat. He heard himself say, "Light."

Lewis stepped closer and leaned down to hold the candle over James's shoulder. "Do you know her?"

James didn't answer. Emptiness was yawning open inside his chest, numbing cold. He shuddered against the press of Lewis's knee at his side. The candlelight played across the woman's face, danced and chased rainbows in the iridescent crafted glass of both her eyes. He leaned back against their pull, the distance, the depth. She was a precipice. The villagers had been right to be afraid.



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