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breeden
ursulav

Score!

This morning was "Pack the Christmas crap up" day, characterized by the boxing and the strapping and the labelling and the hacking apart of large pieces of cardboard to make art mailers, and the age-old question of "How tightly can I scrunch a stuffed rhino so that I can shove it in a box with a stuffed elephant and a stuffed tarsier and wedge the whole thing shut through liberal use of packing tape? And while we're at it, how many stuffed animals can dance on the head of a pin?" And then, of course, there's the last minute Divvying Of The Art Amongst The Relatives, a sort've musical chairs where you put paintings that didn't sell with people you couldn't buy for. At first, you nobly attempt to match art to friends and family based on shared affections, in-jokes, themes, and species preferences, and then give it up and just send all the ones with nipples to people who don't have kids.

But in the midst of this annual chaos came a happy surprise, as I waded through the closet searching for a box suitable for the plush safari, and pulled out a box labelled "Art--Crap--Misc." (I believe in truth in labelling.) Opening it up I found the usual array of cheap (and dry) markers, scraps of leather, a container of gesso resembling the Great Salt Lake in miniature, and for some odd reason, a half dozen rooster tail feathers.

At the very bottom was a heavy square halloween candy bag. Curiousity piqued, I pulled it out, opened it up, and discovered the first forty issues of the "Books of Magic," which I didn't know I owned, residing in solitary splendor (and pretty fair condition, too) in a box unopened for the last six years. Which just goes to show that you don't have to be descended in an unbroken line from the Pilgrims to have unexpectedly cool stuff lurking hidden in the closet, even if it's not exactly 'Antiques Roadshow' material, and at the very least, gives me something to read now that I've gone through all the Discworld books yet again.

breeden
ursulav

(no subject)

I have PMS.

*listens to the fading footsteps of half her readers fleeing into the night*

No, seriously, this won't get messy. No gory details, I promise. I have that rare and weird form of hyperactive creative PMS that strikes every few months, which means that I've turned out a heckuva lot of art in the last few days, and will culminate in an eventual collapse into a bag of potato chips and ranch dip. Mmmm....ranch dip....

Err, right. The results are that I've been practicing my exaggeration and foreshortening lately. They always say that you're supposed to be able to render correctly before you can distort convincingly, and I'm finally at the point where, whether or not I can render correctly, I at least think I can, which has given me the confidence to play around with a couple of exaggerated pieces lately, which I've quite enjoyed doing. I dunno if the results have any great artist merit--they started out as a "big pants" kind of lark, and we all know what they say about the big pants thing--or are even any more lively than my usual, but I'll share 'em anyhow.

Kirin Eating Ramen
Shrunken Head

and, for Raynflower, because she's right that there are dozens of lemur species other than the ringtail:
Aye-Aye