Whole new batch of pendants uploaded! New designs from my more recent art.
-click here- to view them at my Etsy shop.
This post is a continuation from yesterday. -Click here- for part 1.
I pulled out a white gel pen, and started doing something with those splotches. Some of those splotches I had done on purpose; it was the ones from the paper's weirdness that I had to work at more to integrate. I added a dusting of white highlights in those areas, as well as adding highlights to the figure herself.
Softening the hard edges of the gel-pen white. Adding more hints of blues and oranges to the shading.
Giving something a shot that I've been meaning to try for a very long time. If you've worked with watercolors, you'll know that one of the quirks of watercolors is lifting. This can be used to advantage in numerous ways:
First glaze of purple. About 5 minutes (plus the half hour of laying out the initial sketch) into this however I get a nasty surprise. I'm using my usual Strathmore illustration board 500 series, which I usually love. But on very rare occasion, (3 times in the past 11 years of many MANY paintings, so not often at all) I've gotten a bad sheet that has these weird speckles in it that only appear once I put water to the board. They seem to absorb the water differently and puff out. I get really annoyed, but it only seems to be on the lower half, with a little bit in the middle. And I really don't feel like re-sketching the piece.
Oh yes! The fixative has seemed to work quite well, and the paper is still taking liquid and pigment fine. I don't know if this will hold up well for multiple sprayings. We shall see.
Another sprayed layer. Still looking good. I'm a little concerned with whether I'll reach a point where it's too many layers of spray. Already the liquid kind of rolls around a little bit on the surface, rather than being absorbed by the paper immediately. But so far it still seems okay.
The First Moonrise
Moonshadows
I had this sketch languishing in my sketchbook for a while now. It was a first pass at brainstorming ideas for the illustration I did for "Sultana Lena's Gift" for Realms of Fantasy Magazine, some time ago. The final painting focused more on the mechanical bird, but I had some initial ideas to center more on Lena.
Finally got started painting this yesterday. I find it frustrating that the less time I have to paint, the more I procrastinate about finally setting brush to fresh sketch. These days I only have a couple hours that I can snatch in the middle of the day, and then evenings. But often by the time evening rolls around, my brain is too tired to really engage in a piece.
Despite a couple of scheduling setbacks, I've managed to make some good headway in this piece. And after the initial dragging of the feet, I'm eager to dive into it now!
I was reviewing some of the keyword card sketches I've done in the past year, with some thoughts of starting to gather together ink drawings for the next installment of an Inklings book. I came across, for keyword "nostalgia". On this evening when the cricket-orchestra is loud outside my screen door, it stirred some thoughts. I left Summit, New Jersey when I was 7 years old, and there are no fireflies in the places I have lived in California. I remember nights that seemed so black and muggy you were swimming through them. The voices of the older kids I played with bounced from the trees around me as we delved into the darkness. Were there flashlights? I don't remember. I remember the blinking pinpricks of light. I remember the pine trees, and fragrant needles underfoot. And fireflies piercing the fabric of the night. I remember catching the sparks in our cupped palms, and watching them glint from inside the glass jars.
I was squeamish of bugs. Elizabeth was the tomboy, the oldest girl, and the alpha of our group. She would pick up caterpillars from the tree outside my house, hold them between her fingers as they slowly curled up into a tight fuzzy black and yellow ball, and then wriggle straight and arch again in a mesmerizing fashion. She would try to put them in my palm, and I would just stare at her with my fists clutched tight behind my back, shaking my head emphatically, "No no no." She would casually pass her hand across the thread of a dangling emerald-green inchworm, and offer me that living writhing jewel. Sometimes I would tentatively take the proffered gifts. I wanted the older kids to like me and didn't want to be excluded from all their games.
But the fireflies needed no social prod to fascinate me, to entice me into chasing after their sparking flashes, and capture their blinking lights in my hands. They transcended being insectile. They were summer magic. Inevitably, after capture, they would glow and flash in our jars for a while, but then the lights would fade, like banked coals. We watched hopefully, but when they lay dark and still, merely insects once again, we reluctantly unscrewed the jars and let the cloud of lights lift up into the night.
