kirrtash

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inner light.

find me on instagram!

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Devastating! Art museum gift shop doesn’t sell prints of specific and unpopular painting that struck a cord with you!

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gegyjiji on Instagram

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it is done

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Illustrations for Acts III - V from Shakespeare’s Hamlet by John Austen (1922)

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I dreamed I met Spring inside my fridge

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#the horrors are neverending #by horrors i mean waking up early and going to work #even though i currently work from home #i remember alarms going off at 7am like it was yesterday #waking up early when it's pitch black outside and going out into the cold is torture #every day i dread the day i have a 7am alarm again #you never really escape it unless you're crazy rich #the horrors persist and always lurk behind the corner #can we make working from home the norm... #tags by op

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ketzal_coatl

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Had to experiment with different lighting scenarios for an assignment

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Another prophecy fulfilled…

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Brian Eno and photoshop (1995)

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There's something to be said for the strangeness of therapy and understanding not only why you do things, but why certain things make you feel like Death for no reason and sometimes why other people do things as well.

And its all well and good except its... tiring.

You go, you pay, you scoop out the seeds and flesh with a blunt spoon until you hit the rind, and then you sit there across from a sad, kind professional while the two of you try to sort out how to put it back together.

And no one thanks you for it outright. Your mom calls and you actually pick up for the first time in a month and she says you sound clearer. Your brother has nothing to say about the amphetamines in your bag because he knows something changed enough that he says an "I love you" at the end of a visit and gets one back. Your wife pulls you back to reality and you find affection and touch tolerable enough to do the same for her the week after without your skin crawling.

But then you start to feel muscles pull and things strain. Anger comes (real anger, not snapped frustration, not survival fighting, but deep, indignant flares) and it fires like an engine left to coagulate for years. It feels like an unwieldy hammer too large to control and too easy to swing all at once. You're afraid to pick it up. You're more afraid to have it taken away again.

So you start to demolish your own foundation. You find the rotten pylons holding up your childhood and leave them in the mud. You cannot move them now, only balance new beams better than your parents did.

Then the hardest room is next. The cozy sitting room with the day bed you kept open all hours and days for anyone to rest on, it goes down with the rotten floor. You never knew the mold had reached out here--you thought that was hidden behind the other doors, under your own bed, not in this space. Not here in the warm light of pride, of being kind and useful, where you curled up in too small of a chair and basked, knowing you had earned love with your tired limbs and heavy eyes. You drag the day bed to the curb and apologize to everyone who knocks. The new floor is bare and cold, the silence echoes in the empty room, but you start to ponder what color paint you might like to decorate yourself in. The roller is lighter than you expected. Maybe the bedroom deserves a coat.

And you brace for some pushback. Not everyone likes the color. Someone else compliments the new couch (only a couch now, an overnight bed for the cats and no one else) and someone else asks why you took the old one to the dump without telling them first. Some of them leave. Some of them put a crack in your newly painted drywall as they do. Others stay, asking if movie night is still on. You wipe your eyes and sweep the dust and ask if they'd like a drink before starting. The foundation shivers, but the walls remain.

Its mundane and earth-shattering and boring and the most terrifying all at once. No one will stop you from quitting. Healing is voluntary and the easiest responsibility on a long list to drop, and yet now that the mold is gone you understand, maybe, what it might be like to even want a home in your own mind and skin. Not a hotel, carefully crafted with beige walls and fluffed pillows, but a home.

[kirrtash]

It was in a dream once.

John Evans / Edmund Weiss / Hanna Kim / Ayse Wilson / Gloria Petyarre / Ekaterina Popova / Shaun Tan / William MacKinnon / Mio Kaneda

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Work in progress

#my art #art wip #watercolour #traditional art #i need to remember that right now i like it #'cause it'll end badly 🤣 #I overreached with this one

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there's laundry to do and a genocide to stop by vinay krishnan

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Ink Artwork by Endre Penovác

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The ink bottle lying on your desk... begins to crawl away..???