Claude & Julia

Wip,

You learn to just scroll past shit you don't like or unfollow people or filter tags. The tldr of fandom is that humans are weird as fuck. And creative, and unhinged, and traumatized, and talented. And amazing. And every single thing that you clutch your pearls about 'well surely someone doesn't want to read/write THAT!' - someone does. Probably lots of people do. And those people are perfectly normal. In their offline lives, they're parents and siblings and they have jobs and friends and they go about their lives and they don't cause any harm. And that's the sticking point. There's this really concerning, frankly highly Evangelical idea that if someone enjoys the wrong kind of fiction, they are obviously a Bad Person. But nothing is that simple, and thought crimes aren't real, and you definitely have some thoughts or ideas that someone else would find fucked up. You don't have to like every kind of fic that exists. I certainly don't. But shaming people for their harmless fantasies about fictional characters is so boring. I saw Goody Proctor enjoying a Toxic Ship! Good for you, I'll alert the pope.

There is something about a powerful and evil man showing the slightest sign of weakness that makes me GO FERAL

I don't know what to start with. That this is the first thing I've remotely gotten close to finishing since I posted last, or that this is literally based on a YTP, or that I didn't even bother with blending and just went flat out child-with-crayons mode (as you can tell).

The Preening Peacock redraw :) with Renault

idk

Надо бы чаще рисовать

Happy St Patrick's day everyone! I love the Old Irish poem Pangur Ban, written by a 9th century Irish monk at the Richenau Abbey in Germany, for his white cat named Pangur Ban. Here's a depiction of the monk and his cat, illustrated with walnut ink, Inktense pencils and Lichen and Riviera fountain pen ink by the Birmingham Pen Company. As for the original poem, here's a translation by Seamus Heaney: Pangur Bán BY ANONYMOUS TRANSLATED BY SEAMUS HEANEY From the ninth-century Irish poem Pangur Bán and I at work, Adepts, equals, cat and clerk: His whole instinct is to hunt, Mine to free the meaning pent. More than loud acclaim, I love Books, silence, thought, my alcove. Happy for me, Pangur Bán Child-plays round some mouse’s den. Truth to tell, just being here, Housed alone, housed together, Adds up to its own reward: Concentration, stealthy art. Next thing an unwary mouse Bares his flank: Pangur pounces. Next thing lines that held and held Meaning back begin to yield. All the while, his round bright eye Fixes on the wall, while I Focus my less piercing gaze On the challenge of the page. With his unsheathed, perfect nails Pangur springs, exults and kills. When the longed-for, difficult Answers come, I too exult. So it goes. To each his own. No vying. No vexation. Taking pleasure, taking pains, Kindred spirits, veterans. Day and night, soft purr, soft pad, Pangur Bán has learned his trade. Day and night, my own hard work Solves the cruxes, makes a mark.

🫦

marg and renault, yay

Forgot to post these two doodles of 1939 frollo