Crow!

(G1 Prowl for the win, he’s also surprisingly sassy??? lol)

Thank you! IDW Prowl is interesting in his own way, but nothing beats a sweet Prowl for me! I love drawing Prowl as a little weirdo with good intentions but poor social skills. It's one of my favorite things 😌

There’s a running joke among people who know me personally that I unwittingly go out in public with a sign on my forehead stating “I Am Non-Threatening. Come Talk To Me.” Because if there’s a chance a bizarre conversation with a total stranger is going to happen, I’m typically the person it happens to.

Some context: I have been pretty darn sick this week. (It’s not Coronavirus, don’t worry.) Since the work in my queue for my day job is comprised entirely of audio narration right now, and I currently sound like a waterlogged Demi Moore, I haven’t been able to work these last couple of days. As a result, I’ve been using my down time to knock out as much of Manu’s redesign as possible. Today, to ensure I didn’t spend the day languishing in sinus misery, I medicated the crap out of myself and took Manu to the Starbucks down the block from my son’s day care.

I hit the bathroom, then picked an empty table, but as soon as I sat down with my venti Comfort Tea and started tweaking the inks on my iPad, I felt the eyes of the man next to me looking over my shoulder.

When I looked up, he had his phone out. “I’m sorry,” he said (in a thick accent I couldn’t place geographically), “I don’t want to disturb. I notice you art. You are artist!”

I tried to smile. “Yes, I’m... Well, I’m trying to be,” I croaked.

He leaned in, like he was sharing a secret.

“I am artist, too.”

He stuck out his hand.

I gently took it, grateful for the bathroom trip I just took in which I washed the scourge off of my fingers.

“Can I?” he asked, holding his phone up.

“Take a picture? Uh... sure,” I said. It’s not like he would be able to steal Manu out from under me or anything, I figured. The panel I was tweaking was magnified out to Guam.

“I am artist. Architect and Designer,” he clarified while he steadied his phone over my iPad. “I am Ilker. What is your name?”

“I’m Venessa” I said, trying to be polite. This, I thought warily, is precisely how I get myself into trouble. I’m too damn nice.

“You know, I come to America twenty years ago from Turkey...”

I put down my stylus. This was going to be a while.

“I like Turkey,” he explained. “I like the country and I like the people. But I am artist. I am not... religious man.”

I nodded.

“I told my wife I was going to go to America and she said, “what are you going to do? You don’t have job! You don’t have money! No Visa!” And I said, “I am artist and architect. I will paint and sell my paintings.

“So I come to America alone. To New York City. I sit outside, and I paint. And people, they liked my paintings. They bought them. This one for $30, that one for $50.

“One day, a man comes over to me and he say, “I like your painting. I see you are also architect.” And he gives me his number and asks me to go to meeting at his office. Because he wants to offer me a job. He starts to talk about a building contract.

“I tell him I don’t know anything about contracts. I have no Visa. I am not American citizen. But he says, “That’s okay. I will take care of everything. You will have nothing to worry about.” And this man, he gave me a job. $173,000 a year. And my wife, he gave her a job too. She was project assistant. I bring her and my two daughters over from Turkey.”

“Wow,” I said, not fully believing the veracity of what sounded like a full-on immigration fairy tale.

“Here,” said Ilker, unlocking his phone and opening up his Facebook app. “I show you my work.” He paused and looked up at me. “I am interrupting. You don’t mind?”

At this point, I was invested. I had to see. Because whatever he was about to show me would either prove or disprove this yarn he was spinning. “Please,” I said, gesturing for him to go ahead.

He opened his photos and my jaw dropped. His work... was UNREAL.

“This is building I designed on Madison Ave.... And this one in Chelsea...”

Holy crap. I had just been to Chelsea with my sister last month on a trip to see a broadway show. I had crossed the intersection of the building he was, at this moment, telling me he designed.

He flipped through more buildings. These, he’d designed in Washington, DC. In Bethesda. In Arlington. All beautiful, streamlined, modern structures I had visited and parked my car in front of. He told me he did much of his concept work freehand. That he worked exclusively in natural media. His preferred media was pen, ink, watercolors, and chalks.

Between photos of his wife and daughters, he went on to show me photos from the RUSSIAN EXHIBITION OF HIS ARCHITECTURE ARTWORK.

Y’all, I was stunned. I couldn’t believe the talent I was sitting next to. Scattered among these gloriously rendered images of some of the most beautiful building concepts I’d ever seen were paintings of scenes in Central Park, the National Mall, and nudes from a life-drawing session he attends from time to time.

When he was done flipping through his phone, he looked at me and smiled. “I hope you don’t mind that I interrupt you. I show you all this because what you are doing is very good. And you should be encouraged. To draw is to make beauty.”

I nodded, a lump in my throat. “Thank you,” I managed. “Your work is astonishing. I don’t even know what to say. What is your name again?”

He held out his hand once more. “Ilker Kocahan,” he said. “I am getting more coffee. Can I get you one?”

I looked at my still-full venti cup. “No thank you. But here, please take my card.”

He held my dinky business card like I’d handed him a treasure and thanked me.

Then Ilker got his coffee, and left the coffee shop.

At some point in his ramblings he talked about America as a place of dreams. How he credits this country with helping him rise to the top of his field where he is now able to sell his paintings for $800-$1000 a piece now that he’s retired. My heart ached to hear him talk about that, knowing how our leadership’s positions on immigrants have taken such a dark and horrifying turn.

Imagine the buildings and museums and public places that would never have been if a business man in the park hadn’t lifted up a Turkish painter who spoke little English.

And now that painter was paying it forward on me.

I still feel pretty darn sick. I’ve still got body aches and a nose that has taken the rest of my face hostage.

But today was a really good day. And I just wanted to share it with you in case you are looking for reasons to keep drawing/painting/dancing/writing. It all counts and it is all good.

If you would like to see Ilker Kocohan’s work, please click here.

As luck would have it, I saw Ilker one last time before my area received the mandate to start social distancing. I came into the Starbucks to work on the “Simon Is On the Ground” comic while waiting to pick up my kid from day care, and there he was, happily chatting with the Starbucks manager, who gifted him with a Starbucks hat while I ordered my tea.

A week had passed since our first meeting, so I wasn’t sure he’d recognize me. Lo and behold, as I turned the corner, I caught his eye, and he waved at me. This time, I asked if I might sit with him, and he warmly offered the seat beside him.

While I settled in, he told me that his project was being delayed and that he was going to leave the area and fly home before COVID-19 could make it impossible to travel. The hat was for his wife, whose only understanding of Starbucks was that Ilker really liked the coffee.

As one might expect, we immediately fell into another conversation about art, except this time, I eagerly abandoned my work to hear him talk.

And friends, did I ever get a master class.

He pulled up a painting on his phone which he’d sold for $800. It was a life drawing in ink and watercolor of a woman in a demure gesture, barely detailed and colored in but for her rose-tinted lips and the shadow cast across her neck. He said he felt sad that he’d sold it because he really loved how it came out.

“This is no detailed like yours,” he said, comparing his painting to my panel of Simon and Baz. “Mine is simple. But in a few strokes, I can capture the life of the lady.”

He took his napkin, turned it over, and pulled a pen out of his chest pocket. “Look there,” he said, pointing to a man sitting a few tables away. He began to scribble away on the napkin, lines and lines and more lines. “You see,” he murmured as he ran his pen over the napkin, “I can, with speed, capture the man. I don’t have hours to ask him to sit. I must let go of the planning.”

In seconds, the man across the room took shape on the napkin in a series of confident if also messy lines. It was incredible to watch.

I could instantly see what he meant. He had not produced a photorealistic version of this person on the napkin. But he had captured the man’s essence. The aura of a real person sitting contemplatively with his coffee while reading the Washington Post. I could feel the life of the drawing radiate from the paper.

(When he was done, to my horror, he crumpled up the napkin.)

I shyly mentioned that I’ve been working hard on my own gesture drawing, but had a long way to go, so he asked to see my sketchbook.

I mean... is there even a word in the English language to describe the combination of dread and embarrassment that precedes showing an art master your crap-ass sketchbook that no one sees but you? I didn’t know what to do with myself as he sat there and flipped through the pages.

Eventually, he nodded approvingly and said, “Okay! Is good. But this is sketchbook like every other.” He gestured at the page. “Where are you?”

I was lost for how to respond, but lucky for me, he’s a talkative guy seemingly incapable of awkward silences.

“The world needs to see you in the lines,” he explained. “Someone can look at my work and know, ‘that painting is from Ilker Kocahan.’ You need to draw more and more so that when people look at your drawings, they will know: this work is Venessa’s work.” Then he shrugged and said, “And who knows. I will maybe see you in two years at this Starbucks, and by then, your drawings will be truly yours.”

I’ve shared this story with some close friends who took mild offense on my behalf at his observations, but I really think it took sitting there watching him draw to understand exactly what he was talking about.

Ilker Kocahan has no imposter syndrome. He is supremely confident in every possible way where his art is concerned. The lines that flowed from his pen were fueled by his soul, not his brain. I didn’t think artists like him existed anymore until I was sitting there looking over his shoulder while he scribbled a man into existence, like it was nothing. When I asked if he plots out the perspective on his building sketches in advance, he shook his head no and doodled this on my cake pop wrapper while he rambled on about the components he likes to include in his architecture concepts:

(Don’t worry. I kept it.)

So when he talked about “finding me” in my sketches, I really think he could sense—by the light scratch of the pencil, the trace evidence on the paper of my erasing and failed attempts—my own lack of confidence, my second guessing and self-doubt. My desire to be as good as other artists instead of my desire to express myself.

And in that sense, everything he was saying about my sketchbook was correct. He urged me to get off the iPad as often as possible. To sketch with ink, which is riskier because you can’t erase it, and in that way, give myself no choice but to commit to the lines.

The conversation turned to lighter things after that. He’s apparently an extremely talented basketball player who loves hanging out with his wife and kids. His daughters are both designers. He thinks quirky viral videos are the best thing about the internet. (I agreed.) He’s weak for New York pizza.

Eventually, he bought me a refill for my tea and asked if I would meet him again in a couple of days so he could talk to me about my artwork and help me with my sketching. He even added me as a Facebook friend. When I left the Starbucks to pick up Colin, I was so excited and overwhelmed and grateful to the universe for bringing me into his acquaintance, I texted everyone in my family about it.

But as fate would have it, that night, the local government released its mandate regarding social distancing. He’s likely in Belarus right now with his wife.

I won’t lie and say I’m not devastated that I lost the chance to be his student for an afternoon. But the impression these coffee shop chats left on me was profound. I think about it all the time. For one who struggles with feeling like the artist version of Pinocchio waiting around for permission to be a real boy, it makes all the difference in the world to linger in the huge, unstoppable energy of someone who lives without an inner critic.

I hope I get to see him again after the quarantine is over. I’d love to see if I can fulfill Ilker’s prophecy and meet back at that Starbucks in two years with a different sketchbook in tow. One that I can hand over knowing without doubt or trepidation that anyone looking for me in the work need look no further than the bold stroke of my hand.

Taken the last time we chatted:

That said, you can imagine how my heart sank when last night he sent a message out to his Facebook friends letting us know he contracted Coronavirus and has been hospitalized. He’s been ill for two weeks now.

I asked for his consent to share this with friends in case it could inspire some good vibes, and he agreed. If you felt moved by his wisdom and kindness in the above posts and feel inclined to send a healing thought his way today, I would be grateful. While I believe his constitution is strong thanks to his being so active, this virus doesn’t discriminate, and the world needs humans like Ilker Kocahan right now. (Or at least, I do.)

I am happy to report that he is back home from the hospital as of this week and reportedly feeling better. He said he feels extremely lucky and credited his healthy/happy lifestyle for his resilience via text message. I quote: 

“No smoking No Drunk Basketball Good food Family life enjoying And happy character” 

While he was in the hospital he generously texted me photos of little notes he’d scrawled on paper napkins of his vitals (temperature, blood pressure, blood O2 levels) since I had asked him to keep me posted. Of all the notes he sent, this one was the most interesting, as it shows they’ve been making patients sleep in a prone position with some kind of ventilation over the face, presumably to leverage gravity in opening up the lungs?

Anyway, I’m so grateful to everyone who sent well wishes and look forward to passing along those kind messages to him after this. Thank you, thank you for those good vibes.  ❤️

I hope that if and when I ever come down with something scary like COVID, I can handle it with as much grace as this guy right here:

🎶 REUNITED AND IT FEELS SO GOOOOD… 🎶

I genuinely never thought I’d write this update. I was almost positive Ilker and I would never meet at that Starbucks again—that the universe had swept this one beautiful encounter into my life only to send a pandemic to sweep it back out again—but to my utter shock and astonishment this morning, I got a text message at 7:45 AM:

“In USA now. Same Starbucks. Same chair now.”

And y’all, I got my shit together. Tossed my sketchbooks into my canvas bag, herded the kids into the car to bring them to school, then jetted over to that Starbucks with burning eyes and a lump in my throat. As soon as I saw him, he recognized me instantly (even with my mask on) and gave me an enormous heart-exploding hug. “Venessa! Is so wonderful to see you!” he said at the same time as I said, “Ilker, my friend! I can’t believe it!”, and he put his arm around my shoulder and quickly led me to the counter so he could order me my usual cup of tea.

We only had a little more than a half an hour to chat before he had to go to work—a new architecture project here in DC—during which he told me all the things he’s been up to these last couple of years: the sketching classes he taught in Belarus, the Russian exhibition of his artwork (which included a printed translation of THIS VERY TUMBLR POST), his battle against, not one, but two bouts of COVID, and ultimately, the evacuation of his family after Russia’s attack on Ukraine. And as is his way, he spoke of every challenge he and his family have faced together with gratitude for his health, his resilience, and for the small blessings that enabled him to make his way back to the States. I told him how much I appreciated his attitude toward life’s ups and downs because I’ve been learning to count my blessings as well, in large part because he told me to—via text when I was struggling to stay psychologically afloat in the thick of pandemic parenting: “You have health. You have family You have home and food. All will be well my good friend.”

He then brought up my art. And guess what? I SHOWED HIM MY SKETCH BOOK.

It wasn’t as full as I’d hoped it would be by the time I saw him again, and I sheepishly shared how hard it was to maintain a good sketching practice during quarantine when it seemed I was working nonstop thanks to the day job, proctoring Zoom school for the small man, homeschooling the smaller man, and freelance work. But I had done my best, managing to fill up at least 2/3 of it in addition to the finished work I posted to social media.

Now, we’ve followed each other on Instagram and Facebook since that second meeting two years ago, and while we DM’d on a regular basis and he left the occasional comment on my work, I was never quite sure how much of my finished work he’d seen (or even had time to see given he was still working and teaching abroad). But as he flipped through my book (nearly every sketch rendered in ink) he said, “Is very good! I watch you art change! You grow so much! I am so proud!”

When I tell you I could have burst into a rainbow confetti of heart-eye emojis.

Speaking of rainbows: very gently did he ask about the subject matter of my work, which folks who follow my social media accounts know as being mostly representative of LGBTQ+/BIPOC relationships. With trepidation, I told him that I, myself, was a queer BIPOC artist, and that drawing these relationships was a way to validate and love myself, to validate the diverse love of other marginalized groups, and hopefully paint a world into being where such individuals feel seen, comforted, represented, and protected. He nodded along as I explained this, and ultimately put me at ease when he said, “I am man who love woman. But I do not judge on who is gay, who is not gay. Everyone is welcome. As artist, I care about the lines!”

We returned to talking about family and work after that. I got to spill some secrets about projects I’ve been working on, and he told me he’s still playing basketball. He said he’s 67 but never wants to retire. He told me his daughters are now scattered and nearly made me cry when he said, “I have daughter in Istanbul, I have daughter in New York, and now”—he pointed to me—“I have daughter in DC.” When it was time for him to get back to his office, he asked me to see if I could find a local sketching club where we can sign up for figure drawing sessions, and we scheduled a date on the calendar for us to meet back at the Starbucks to draw.

And I suppose there’s no better way to conclude this little Tumblr saga than by saying there’s no true conclusion. It’s like this little miracle showed up in my life at exactly the time I most needed to practice trusting in my ability to grow and adapt, to stay soft during adversity, hold space for new relationships, and above all, embrace where I am in my creative journey. I’m so grateful to have made this connection and to share the wisdom it’s given me with all of you.

Absolutely cheesing.

-

So instead he uses a cloth baby sling strapped to his chest plate

He also gave them squirt guns

To add to this: Deadlock absolutely had several meltdowns before emergence that the sparklings were malformed/damaged/mutated strictly because of his past actions

So seeing them healthy and perfect made him extra protective and proud, possessive over them

They bond HARD to Deadlock initially, for reasons in the plot, but Ratchet is fine with it. He isn’t that great or patient with young bittys so Deadlock being the stay at home parent suits him fine

spiderman dances to the beat

a bit tired from artfight so i drew a comic based on something silly i read earlier (cant find it for the life of me)

Headcanon

DBH x F/Reader

RK800 Connors

"Could you braid my hair?"

A simple request, yet it surprised Connor. It had only been a few months since the revolution, and everything was still so new to him. But he considered himself lucky to have people like you and Hank teaching him how to live a normal life. "Of course. I'll just have to look up how."

It hadn't even crossed your mind. Why would an ex-deviant hunter know how to braid hair?

You smiled before sitting down next to him. "I'll teach you, Connor." Grabbing a small section of your own hair, you braided it as Connor's eyes followed the movement of your fingers. "Did you get it?" Connor straightened his back before nodding. "Yes." Your smile widened as you slipped onto the floor, taking a seat between Connor's legs. Connor separated each section evenly, keeping perfect tension from start to finish, wanting the braid to come out neat and symmetrical. His touch wasn't especially gentle, but he tried his best not to pull too hard. "Please let me know if I'm pulling too tightly." You hummed before reassuring him. "No, you're doing good." Connor took the hair tie you offered him and secured the end of the braid, pressing his lips together as he wasn't sure if he should be satisfied with his work. "You're all done. I hope it's to your liking." The braid was slightly loose, with only a few stray hairs."It's perfect. Thank you. Maybe you should braid my hair from now on." Connor felt pleased when he saw your smile. He had enjoyed the quiet moment more than he expected.

RK200 Markus

"Markus, could you please braid my hair?"

The android's fingers froze against the piano keys. Markus offered you one of his gentle smiles as he closed the piano's fallboard before offering you his hand. You took it, and he led you toward the red leather couch. After sitting down, your attention drifted to the television. It displayed a coral reef, and you watched as different kinds of fish swam between the corals. "I need you to look straight, or the braid is going to look crooked." There was a hint of amusement in his voice. Snapping out of your thoughts, you laughed. "I'm sorry, Markus. We wouldn't want that, would we?" His fingers combed through your hair before dividing it into three even sections. For the two of you, moments like these were a quiet way to bond, a chance to shut out the outside world. For Markus, it was also a way to take his mind off politics now that he was recognized as the leader of the androids, the one who had led the revolution. No words were ever needed to fill the silence. Between the two of you, it never felt awkward. "If it feels too loose, I can always redo it," Markus said. "What if we added flowers?" you suggested. His eyebrows lifted in surprise before softening at the idea.

PL600 Simon

"I should cut it... Simon, would you mind braiding my hair?"

The breeze felt refreshing against your skin, but as your hair kept blowing into your mouth, it started getting on your nerves. You sat down on the picnic blanket, letting the shade of the tree shield your face from the sun. Simon rested his back against the trunk, staring out at the ocean, watching the sunlight shimmer across the water's surface. At your request, he turned to you with a small smile and shifted, making room for you between his legs. His touch was incredibly light, almost hesitant as he tried to avoid any pulling. Carefully worked through the tangles in your hair before beginning the braid. "It's okay if you pull a little, Simon," you reassured him. Still, he wished to remain careful. "Am I pulling too hard?" You smiled and gently shook your head. "No." The simple act of braiding your hair felt comforting, almost familiar. Amid all the chaos, it brought Simon a sense of peace he hadn't realized he'd been missing. "I'm glad you joined me," you said softly. "I love spending time with you." His blue eyes widened for a brief moment before he offered you a shy smile, even if you couldn't see it. "Me too" Once he tied off the braid, he gently draped it over your shoulder. "I-is it okay?" His eyes searched yours for approval. You turned to him with a satisfied smile, your fingers brushing over the braid. "It's exactly what I wanted."

PL600 Daniel

The two of you were getting ready for the night. You had just gotten home from work and headed straight for the shower, washing away the exhaustion of the day. Your tired sigh reached Daniel's ears, and he looked over at you with a worried expression. "Rough day?" You blinked before turning to him, towel in hand as you stood in your pajamas, drying your hair. "I don't think my boss likes me very much, but it's alright. I'm still a newbie." You set the towel aside, the scent of your shampoo lingering around you. "Would you like me to brush your hair?" The simple request sounded like heaven. "I'd love that." You set your wine glass on the counter with a soft clink before pouring yourself another small glass. Daniel returned with a hairbrush and a ribbon. You slipped your hand into his as he led you to the couch, where you settled between his legs.

His touch was surprisingly delicate as he carefully worked through the knots in your hair, not wanting to pull it. Soft humming drifted through the living room as you sipped your wine. It wasn't unusual. Daniel often hummed without realizing it. "What is it that your humming, Daniel? You hum it often." The brush stopped for a moment, enough for you to notice before he continued. "It... Emma. It was a song me and Emma had- before she threw me away like I was nothing." Usually he would have an episode but with you he has learned to calm down. To accept the past. "Here, let me braid it." You let him change the conversation, deciding to let it go the same way he did. "There we are. Doesn't that look lovely?" He tied off the braid with the ribbon, turning it into a bow.

AX400 Kara

Another nightmare had almost ripped your heart out, your eyes flying open as anxiety coursed through you. Your head turned towards the clock.

...4:00 a.m...

Knowing you wouldn't be falling asleep again anytime soon...not even sure if you wanted to even try, you quietly slipped out of bed. Maybe some fresh air could help. You made your way into the backyard without disturbing anyone else in the house and settled onto the wooden porch.

All Hail Megatron #1 (2009)