I present to you the work of another painter of fish plates. Y’know how you use ‘scare quotes’ for various purposes, including indicating that you’re not actually sure about The Thing?
Well, this guy was so bad at whatever he was painting that we call him…
The ‘tadpole’ painter:
Here’s another example:
This one was sold as part of the Graham Geddes collection at Bonham’s auction house in 2008 for £2,040.
They describe it as ‘three fish including a wrasse with dorsal spines, an angler-fish, the rounded body with multiple black dots, two large round eyes with pupils, an open mouth with teeth bared, and a ray with pointed face, the body with multiple black dots’.
Which like… bold fucking move missing out the fact that they have legs. Though I can’t say I envy whoever had to write the description.
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WAZZUP! I’m trying a new thing cause it sounds ✨fun✨
So let’s do a DTIYS! Anyone can join in! And I dunno when I’ll close it- so do it whenever :D just tag me if you do!
Change whatever you need or frankly want as long as the premise and characters are the same cause
Yeah why not
Featuring the @askhospilabnovela stars as I procrastinate on my part in it again
Secret hidden information time! Because I caaaaan! Aaaanyway
I’ll draw a little dude for my favorite(s)
Cause why not
Little dudes :D
Anyway if you wanna participate have fun! Aaaand thank you!
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☆ from gold, i am undone
{☆} characters tsaritsa
{☆} notes cult au, yandere, drabble, gender neutral reader
{☆} warnings blood, implied self harm, implied suicide attempts
{☆} word count 0.9k
You weren't meant to be here.
You can feel it in the marrow of your bones– it weighs you down like heavy shackles, gold bleeding from your pores until it is all you know. The taste of ichor on your tongue, the warmth of its invasion beneath your skin, that gleam of gold that lingers in the color of your eyes like specks of dust.
You are changed, and you are whole.
But you are so unbearably broken.
A shattered piece of porcelain hastily put back together with gold to fill the cracks.
Decoration, in the end, for you are not fit to walk as "mortals" do. This gold had filled every empty crevice of your body, spilled the red into your frantic hands and made you bleed so it's callous gold could make room inside your body. It has taken from you many things, given many more, but you scratch and bite and tear until it drips onto the floor and even then it never leaves. It stains the floor no matter how hard you scrub– a permanent reminder of the sickening gold that molds you into something that used to look like you– that does look like you. Desecrated, yet so horribly divine.
All you see is a monster.
Something new, something old.
A hollowed out shell, wounds left to rot and fester until you suited the image of the Creator they bore upon statues and murals, the Creator worshiped in prayers spoken in hushed whispers and joyous chants praising your magnificence.
But what magnificence is there in detachment? What joy is there to be found in carving a God out of a human? They kneel like lambs before the shepherd, but the flock has made you– and you want to unmake them. Unweave the tapestry of their being stitch by stitch until it all falls apart and the world knows the cost of casting molten gold into the shape of a human, knows the price that has been left unpaid.
You want to take it from them. Watch them squabble and pray, blind sheep stepping into the wolf's open maw– to tear the seams of their being until the world is unwound by your heavy hands.
But you know it will not satisfy you.
Nothing does anymore.
You are no wolf. Only the shepherd who guides.
And with every drop of blood spilled, they ripped the humanity from your very bones until your body was the cast in which they made something anew– something gold, something horrific. A monster as much a God, a beast as much a man.
There is nothing left but absolute authority.
You try again and again to mend this act of desecration, to peel back the outer shell and rend the gold from your marrow– but your body cannot, will not, die. It mends itself back into place no matter how damaged, and all you feel is the uncomfortable tug of your body forcing itself to live. You cannot die, but were you ever truly alive at all?
Yet with every cycle, you know only one constant besides the thrum of golden ichor in your veins– cold.
Ice that burns, ice that spreads and festers and devours. Claws that pull you apart until the gold runs thick, teeth that burrow into your bones and rip it out from the source..eyes that witness the fall of a God with reverence– hungering, all consuming reverence.
You welcome it.
It is the first time you felt pain since you were cast into an image of a being you were not meant to be. The sting of cold upon your skin makes you shiver, your body tries to reject it, but you want to welcome it– for a brief moment that lasts only as long as it takes for you to blink, you see the glint of something familiar in the reflection of her empty eyes. Something achingly, horribly familiar– something human, all the more terrifying for it.
Even when Teyvat itself crumples like paper beneath the weight of her sins – of this desecration anew, this wretched heresy – you allow her hands to do it again. You grasp her hands in yours like chains, willing her to shackle you, willing her to pull you apart and make you whole again. To break you until the gold cannot put you back together again.
You long, each time, for those eyes like spears that lodge into your skin– burrow deep and sting deeper, making gold flow like water. You long for the biting tongue, the cutting words and those teeth like weapons– long to see the spite and anger and impure disgust aimed at the woman of silver who leads you down a hall that ends only in damnation. You follow each time like the lamb led astray by the wolf, but you do not wail in betrayal when she sinks her teeth into your throat and devours you whole.
For is it a sin if you welcome it? Has their God sinned, in the eyes of the flock, for welcoming such heresy with open arms? For allowing the wolf into their home?
Is it a sin to be broken beneath the only hands that have loved you?
Is it a sin to want to love, too, those hands and teeth stained in gold?
Then you shall be damned, you swear it. Damned, but gold no more.
For death is the closest you have ever felt to being human.
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Ang ganda yung art mo GGHHHOORLLLL!
I was looking at the line work you do and was wondering: do you ink it physically and then scan it, or is it fully digital? It's really good and gives a solid grit to it and adds texture to your works. How do you do that?
shdhfh maraming salamatttt 💞💕
99% of what I post here is all digital because I don’t really have access to a scanner very often! my inking style looks the way it does because I draw traditionally in my sketchbooks a LOT and the way I ink digitally is Exactly The Same as I do traditionally (which is why you see a lot of double lines in my inking, stray lines, or scribbling when I fill in solid blacks without the fill tool, I also always turn off any stabilization features a brush might have bc I don’t like the way it feels) and I often go looking for brushes that are gritty or crunchy so that it looks similar to the pens I use on paper!
You can see a bunch of the stray lines and general scribbling I did here, which is exactly what my irl sketchbooks look like, and the circled brushes (I edited these after I downloaded them all to have 0 stabilization) are the ones I used for it!
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