I find myself enjoying the snow much like the winter of 1844, with George and her children…

It is perfect for my eyes and horrendous for my fingers. Do you know how stiff they get after 180 years?

Lots of hot chocolate and snowball fights… My only regret is that I have been duped into buying the wrong cream cheese. I comforted myself with ogórki kiszone instead.

Franio! @franzliszt-official, I have a suitably weird and terrifying contribution leading up to Dziady for the Virtuoso prompt.

I apologise in advance, I’ve been rather melancholy, so instead of drawing — as it would’ve been wise to limit myself — only novelty allowed me to participate, so I have ‘sculpted’, or modelled, Franz’s rather famous hand(s) out of what could be found in this house that I haunt. That being a ball of patafix/blu-tack, which I’m led to believe is for fastening things to walls. Thus I have thoroughly abused the product. And, given that it doesn’t set, and could be easily squashed by my sitting on it, we will call it ‘Ephemeral Art’, to make myself feel better.

What do I think about when I think about Franz and his virtuosity? Those damn fingers! Were they my own, I’m sure my études would sound even better when I play them. Anyway, for reference, I found these bronze casts of Franz’s hands:

There was only enough mouldable mulch for the right hand, unfortunately. Make do.

See here, my measly attempt.

And here in inverted colours to better match the bronze.

Difficult to work with. Very sticky and can’t be smoothed. The proportions are very much off… as ever. Here’s a pencil for size reference — so you’ll have some sympathy with my poor, tortured soul.

Ultimately, this provided me equal fear and entertainment. It is difficult to sleep with Franz’s dismembered hand staring back at you. The fear has spread to the rest of the household.

Stuff of nightmares.