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if a girl is reading a really interesting book she shouldn't have to go to work. she's expanding her mind and bettering herself and her employers should understand that
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The Hαnged Man
Commissioned illustration for a tarot card deck.
Prints here!
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in this room
the hours of love
still make shadows.
for Jane, Charles Bukowski
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it still comes as a surprise that closeness cannot be achieved from a safe distance
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â Virginia Woolf, from a Letter to Violet Dickinson written c. January 1909
[TEXT ID: "I appreciate your concern. None of this is your fault. It's me. It's me and my head. / In winter, I collapse." END ID]
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â Frank Bidart, from âHalf-light: Collected Poems 1965-2016; âIn The Ruin."
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âshe did not want to move or to speak. She wanted to rest, to learn, to dream. she felt very tired.âÂ
- Virginia WoolfÂ
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I am the offering, and the fire which consumes it, and the one to whom itâs offered
Prints here! Again, moved all my stuff to Inprntâbetter quality and higher margins than Redbubble.Â
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âi can touch you less gently but i wonât love you less kindlyâ ohm y god
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 One of my favorite illusionary descriptions of one of the paintings from the novel, The Starless Sea by @erinmorgenstern.
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Aaaaaaah Y'ALL. You have no idea how much this book shook me. If you follow my captions, youâll know that Iâm a HUGE fan of tweezer-plucking out symbolisms from novels to integrate into my pieces. Itâs no irony that this book is freakin OOZING symbolism and metaphors, dripping from its pages like honey, and @erinmorgenstern basically served this painting up for me on a platter. Took a few liberties with the key accents, but it otherwise closely follows her description from the novel. ( Somehow Dorianâs character design ended up channeling sexy Aladdin? Not mad? )
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Truly one of many more opportunities to illustrate fantastical scenes from this world.
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Winter Morning
by Louise GlĂŒck
I.
Today, when I woke up, I asked myself
why did Christ die? Who knows
the meaning of such questions?
It was a winter morning, unbelievably cold.
So the thoughts went on,
from each question came
another question, like a twig from a branch,
like a branch from a black trunk.
II.
At a time like this
a young woman traveled through the desert settlements
looking neither forward nor backward,
sitting in perfect composure on the tired animal
as the child stirred, still sealed in its profound attachmentâ
The husband walked slightly ahead, older, out of place;
increasingly, the mule stumbled, the path becoming
difficult in darkness, though they persisted
in a world like our world, not ruled
by man but by a statue in heavenâ
III.
Above the crowds representing
humankind, the lost
citizens of a remote time,
the insulted body
raised on a cross like a criminal
to die publicly
above Jerusalem, the shimmering city
while in great flocks
birds circled the body, not partial
to this form over the others
since men were all alike,
defeated by the air,
whereas in air
the body of a bird becomes a banner:
But the lesson that was needed
was another lesson.
IV.
In untrustworthy springtime
he was seen moving
among us like one of us
in green Judea, covered with the veil of life,
among the olive trees, among the many shapes
blurred by spring,
stopping to eat and rest, in obvious need,
among the thousand flowers,
some planted, some distributed by wind,
like all men, seeking
recognition on earth,
so that he spoke to the disciples
in a manâs voice, lifting his intact hand:
was it the wind that spoke?
Or stroked Maryâs hair, until she raised her eyes
no longer wounded
by his coldness, by his needless destruction
of the flesh which was her fulfillmentâ
This was not the sun.
This was Christ in his cocoon of light:
so they swore. And there were other witnesses
though they were all blind,
they were all swayed by loveâ
V.
Winters are long here.
The road a dark gray, the maples gray, silvered with lichen,
and the sun low on the horizon,
white on blue; at sunset, vivid orange-red.
When I shut my eyes, it vanishes.
When I open my eyes, it reappears.
Outside, spring rain, a pulse, a film on the window.
And suddenly it is summer, all puzzling fruit and light.
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Greeks: Man don't we have a great mythos with thousands of years of lore and stories
Romans:
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Pianist (painting), 2017
by Valeria Lakrisenko.
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