some unfinished things

I'm back... sort of... I think... maybe

the ones up above are all in progress, it's a sequence of events that I'll try to push into a big story.

 

and two pencil drawings...

...an interlude of self-hate, people-hate, fate-hate, lot-hate, and work-hate...
hopefully be back soon

So, these are all from a previous post, I'm working them all at the same time, layering them up.

(the tiles below, I'm not really certain about.)

1. Face the day

2. A gust of wind and a place for the key

3.

I'm not any good at this but it's the only thing I'm good at.

another work in progress.

not everyone will or can receive it; some are scared it of it; others will try but will be stranded and forgotten; some will lose their way; some will steal it, package it, and make a profit; others will build monuments to it and idolize it; some will write it down; some will talk about it; some will be quite content with letting others do it for them; some don't even know it exists.

man... we always had vision. At some point we just gave it up. And in stead of believing in ourselves we placed the burden on everyone else. Let other people get our kicks for us. So, I'm no longer looking, I'm digging to what was always there. Just me, working, trusting in my ability, having faith. Believing: yes, this is how it's supposed to be... it cannot be any other way.

new happenings

Center: Face-the-daychin-up

the center painting and the one on the wall on the right are from a previous post that I just re-titled: underpaintings. I wasn't expecting them to be underpaintings. But then I started getting like real timid with them. So I started putting on color real thick-like and working it up in layers. Anyway... oil paint is a lot more unlimited than I thought.

A serious case of writers block leaves our caped hero, McMichael frustrated enough to throw a tantrum. Crumpling and throwing his prose straight into the fire; and his table and chair right out the door. He angrily makes his way outside through the plush grass, stops, slouches and sinks into his thoughts. "I'm not good enough" he thinks "and besides... what's the point... what's the use... it's all for n..."
"Looks like you can use some help there friend" a very strange voice immediately stopped McMichaels train of thought and left him looking at a very strange little man in patched red shorts, holding a green flute. The flute was the same shining green as his wild curly hair that was puffing out the sides of his enormous hat that was casting a shadow over his eyes. What was stranger than the little man... was that there was another little man perched atop his hat reading a little red book, minding his own business. He he didn't stop, or even raise one eye when McMicheal started to talk.
"I-I..." He nervously looked back at the house, and at the mess in the front yard. "I..."
"you're having problems writing your book" The green haired man interrupted, startling McMicheal.
"Yes, I uh... I was writing... then I... well it..."
"you ran out of ideas" the man finished again.
"Yes! I've been..." it was really hard for McMicheal to form a coherent sentence, the little man was making him nervous, and very uncomfortable so he just kept stuttering on "I tried to... my story... why I..."
"Ah, you don't know if your story is good enough, if there is a point telling it at all. Well you're in luck there friend, yes, today is your very lucky day..."
McMicheal looked at the little man.

these are some anatomy studies from photos.

some old and new drawings

1.
2. A secret forest symphony.
3. Melville finally decides for the operation.

underpaintings

1/2: Face the day, you've got to man

3:

1. drawings on my desk, and a curtain on my window
2. face the day
3. mr. chesterton and his demons, madame Newsom