Monthly Archives: August 2011

From Russia, With Love

I vow!

To not be terrorized by Hands no more! In case you’re wondering, drawing hands is one of the hardest thing for figure drawers to master (I would argue). There are so many subtle and fine differences that can make a drawn hand  look just…. wrong.

This night and last night, I busted out my back copies of Vogue to go on a hand-drawing rampage, realizing that I had a veritable, unplumbed hand-reference-gold-mine right here.  Strewn about my living room floor and un-recycled! Thus I practiced and decided to use my growing hand skillz on this week’s Illustration Friday Prompt: Influence.  And I came up with:

Yep, it's a boy in a parka. He's a Russian boy.

So yeah, nothing to do with ‘Influence’ ahahahaha. Unless it’s an illustration about how easily I am influenced into drawing fur coats and guys. But I tried! I really tried moofies, aber die Dunkel Seite war zu starke! (Oh god, and now the Dark Side just made me write some really bad German!!) Behold my little experiment with colored paper… I actually got several pieces of different colored papers a few weeks ago, but tonight was my rendezvous with the last sheet, yet untainted with mistakes. I attacked it with graphite, white and a peach colored-pencil. Sadly, very little of the shading was transferred by Scannie the Scanner… but the part that counts can be seen just fine. Not to toot my own horn, but pretty nice hand huh….? >:P

All right, I’m done tootin’ my horn.

In the meantime, (–) has a new name now. He’s not just (–), he’s Parkour (–). He’s started his parkour career at the tentative age of five months and now we have to be very careful, since he  worms into our bed (and down onto the floor : ( a lot faster than ever before. At lightening speed. It might even be time to get him one of those cages they normally put tiny kids in….

Cribs. That’s what they’re called.

Poor Parkour (–) may have to be caged. It makes me sad, because I liked his stripey blue bum* wriggling into my sleep space and hearing his little snuffles in the middle of the night, but he’s only going to be moving more and more from here out. Soon he’ll be…. CRAWLING. Fuck. I think that means we have to finally clean up that full chess set that is…. oh, at floor height At infant-choking height. Before we’re digging bishops out of his maw and pawns out of his poop….

*stripey blue bum: Did y’all know that Asian kids have blue butts? Ok, not baboon blue, but their butts have this blue tinge to them…. and so does (–)’s! It fades once the kids are a few years old, but until then, I will enjoy his little blue bummy bum… god, it’s late, that’s probably why I’m talking about my kid’s ass here. Good night, for reals.

Three Boys / One Cup

Book time! Wee, what a selection! Didn’t mean to make it theme reading, but so it turned out to be. Three books, three boys– I’ll start with my favorite.

Portnoy’s Complaint – Philip Roth

From one of the still living emperors of American literature, I finally got around to this book, as recommended by a good friend.. My random but by no means conclusive sampling of Roth’s work so far concludes that he has a healthy and indeed admirable obsession for screwing. Which I’m down with. ‘Portnoy’ however, isn’t about just any boy’s fantasies about screwing–they are specifically a Jewish boy’s desire to ‘put the id back in Yid’, be it in an Isreali hotel room, in between the legs of his shikse (non-Jewish)  illiterate underwear-model girlfriend, or back home in his mother’s kitchen, having some good old-fashioned sexual communion with the liver… (Remember those times? Back when you were… Oh, I dunno. Somewhere between 10 and 18 and you felt that nobody would ever, EVER want to screw you? And so, in your desperation, you violated random objects in your house, including but not limited to foodstuffs and the sofa pillows your mother embroidered with such loving care?) We want to forget that those times existed, but Roth brings them back into blistering and hilarious focus.
Ahaha, just a sample:

-She called me a kike! She’s an Anti-Semitic, Babalu!
-And what do I give a shit? All I know is I got laid, twice. [...]
Oy, civilazation and it’s discontents! I have to know and with details–exact details! What about her nipples? What about her thighs? What does she do with her thighs, Ba-ba-lu, does she wrap them around your ass, like in the hot books, or does she squeeze them tight around your cock until you want to scream, like in my dreams?

Read ‘Portnoy’ and blast all your meek Jewish boy preconceptions to pieces!

For something totally different, we have The Discomfort Zone. If you read a few entries back, you’ll see that Jonathan Franzen’s ‘Freedom’ almost gave me a heart attack at the tender age of thirty, but as one contemporary American novelist vying for a seat in that glorious and sadly thinning Pantheon of US Writing Gods: Philip Roth, John Irving, Tom Wolfe, John Updike and Norman Mailer, Franzen’s a Big Deal, he’s writing Literature, so this was my attempt to give him another go and see what I was missing. “The Discomfort Zone” is his autobiography of growing up in the middle class in the middle of the century, in the middle of America. As he put it: In the middle of the middle. And though ‘Zone’ did not drive my blood-pressure to the unhealthy heights ‘Freedom’ did, let’s just say that Franzen was one of those kids who would have never. Ever. Ever.

Ever.

Admitted to fucking any piece of lunch meat or inanimate object, no matter what teenage sexual duress he suffered and that may as well be the long and short of why him and I can never get along. I found myself enjoying the writing most when it focused on some random aspect of American culture. Birdwatching, the cartoonist Charles Schultz or after-school church groups. When he focused on himself, for all the supposed ‘self-deprecation’, I got the impression that he thought he was a pretty effin awesome guy. Which is fine, it was the smoke screen that irked me.

Bottom line: Franzen can take the seat vacated by Updike (I never got into him either) but too much brains and not enough balls for this moof’s taste.

Which brings me to: Felching. Do you know about felching? Do you wish to know in intimate detail what it looks, sounds, feels, smells and tastes like? Then look no further, mon ami. My last book of recent times was…. ::drum roll:: Forty Dollar Buttboy. By Jackman Hill. Don’t even ask why I have this book in my house. The details are hazy. If you do end up using our bathroom in the next few months, you will probably find it, nestled on top of the detergent and without having to feel even an atom of guilt, I encourage you to cast off all memories of nuns slapping you on the palms for reading dirty books and open ‘Buttboy’. Skip the first two tedious pages of ‘story’ and get right into the gritty gritty world of hard-core college boy on boy hustling. One page of ‘Buttboy’ provides a better smorgasbord for ‘dick’ and ‘butthole’ synonyms than 1000 pages of another book could even dream to supply (unless it’s Franzen and then he would have to write 100,000 pages), and if you flip around here and there, you will find these two items combined in every possible sexual scenario with a Unicef rainbow of rods from around the globe. Except for Asians. No Asian meatslabs representing in this piece and I want to write Mr. Hill and tell him that if he thinks Asian prongs have no place in the world of nympho-boy hustling, he is sorely mistaken. I mean surely mistaken.

And now I wait with breath that is bated for the next party where I can jump in and say: “Oh felching? Why yes, I know exactly what that is….”

All right moofies. Time to get my sleep because tomorrow, we are going to the Isar. My favorite man is going to wear his Mankini, in honor of summer finally here, and take around my favorite mini-man. I can’t wait to see peoples’ faces… OMFG, you were allowed to have a kid?!?

Swell (Supernova)

yellow and pink = my happy place

Ugh, been so busy, I did not think I would draw anything for this week’s thingie, but then I was at Ws today and we had a little drawing session, as much as you can have with an enraged Nazgul flapping his wings about you. When the little dragon had finally eaten enough souls to rest his weary head, I was feeling pretty swell, because it was quiet, and I was drawing with a good friend and drinking coffee, which is just about my favorite thing to do. Oil pastel, petrol, graphite and some weird/awesome black sludge that resides at Ws contributed to this pic. It’s called ‘Supernova’ and it’s a tribute to summer here in Munich. He finally made the right turn and found us!! (For this week at least =D)

Speaking of ‘swell’ haha, so (I have to lead up to this story a bit) last year, when I was leading one of my groups around the treacherous alleys of NSS (Castle Neuschwanstein), I got bit one fine August day by a fucked up little bug that was thin and gray. It hurt, this bite did, but I paid it no special attention until my foot and ankle (I had been bitten on the ankle) swelled up next morning to Elephant Man sized proportions. And so it stayed for two days.

…. Exactly ONE YEAR LATER (this last Friday) I was bitten by some other fucked up little bug ON THE ANKLE and my leg and ankle swelled up to… You guessed it! Elephant man sized proportions. So I missed Slutwalk, because I could not hoist a five kilo bag of kitty liter on my shoulder and have some douchebag ask me how much for a blowjob, carting around that sexy kitty litter–yes, that would have been my ‘slut costume’, which could not be materialized with an ankle that was swollen and itching. But next year!

Going to go to bed now. However, stay tuned, in a day, but no less than two, I shall have a special post full of sex and violence  books, and in the meantime, sleep tight, my little droogies.

Imperfect – A commision.

Or.
Try again. Fail again. Fail better. (-Samuel Beckett)

Imperfect. A picture for a friend.

I had been asked by a good friend of mine to draw something featuring her since forever, but so far it’s never worked out. Didn’t have the time, didn’t have the inspiration, etc. etc. But she’s been having a bad run of it lately, this friend I will keep anonymous to protect her innocence, and so i thought here was the time. I’m trying to get back into male drawings, but I am on a hair kick lately, and I said fuck it.

This is what I came up with. Sadly, the photo I took of this too-large-for-Scanny-the-Scanner image looked like absolute shit. So the image looks like shit. You can’t see the graphite I slaved for hours over that actually doesn’t look shamelessly crappy for once. It’s so sad, I so wanted to show it off. Oh well.

My good friend Paintblotch, in case you’re new to my lair, is my art mentor. Last month, I was at her house trying to draw something for my mum on wood, and I fell on that poor piece of wood like a Toth on his mother–30 minutes later, I still didn’t have a light sketch, and the wood was starting to suffer from my rabid erasing. “That’s because you didn’t make a pre-sketch! You need to make thumbnails, before you start a bigger project!” P wisely admonished me, and I admitted to her that I didn’t really DO thumbnails. You have to, she insisted…

So, with this comissioned drawing, I thought I’d go all pro. I would do a THUMBNAIL. And I sat down (my friend is a brunette) and leafed through my newest Vogue, looking for the smokingest brunette I could find to be her photo ref…  Found the chicky, there she was reclining on a wooden deck, eyes closed and looking like she was just resting them a bit after a week long sexothon. Sweet. I drew a little sketch of her and the whole scene in probably five minutes and I thought… yeah, P’s right… this thumbnail thing is great! Here it is, a little sketch… no more agonizing over what will go where. I prudently divided my paper into quadrants and figured I’d just copy them onto the big piece of paper I’d brought expressly for my friend’s picture…

Oh but no, mon frere. That’s not how it went down at all. I was up until all hours of the night. I sank my fangs into the couch. I rolled around on the ground like Proust after too much tisane. No matter what I did, the big final-picture never looked as cool as the shitty little sketch I’d thrown together in a few minutes. I couldn’t believe it. Finally, after much agonizing (and it being four in the morning) I had a finished product, and I looked at it.

My litmus for a good drawing is: Am I sad by the prospect of giving it to someone? If the answer is no, then I know the drawing is not that good. I looked at it now and decided it would not make me sad to give this to my friend.

So I tore the drawing up.

::laugh:: 1 m by .5 meter and TEAR!

The next night, I tried again. (–) sleeps through the night, so that’s the time I have to work/draw/write. While the next drawing was rather interesting and I was saddened a bit by the prospect of parting with it, when my friend saw it, I could tell she was a little disappointed that it did not look like her at all. (It was a bit too anime and the figure too abstracted.) Of course, to be polite, she said she liked it, but I could tell. I could tell. So I asked her to sit for me. I drew her portrait, and then I stared at her face and her eyebrows and her mouth and drew her portrait some more!!

And now, this is what I came up with. Imperfection. But as perfect as I can make her =)

Fuck, I feel like I’ve been trying to carve a statue out of wood and each time I thought I was done, I realized no, what I wanted to carve was smaller and deeper in the material still. But here she is: ‘Imperfection’ is based on one of my best friends and I hope she likes it and I hope it will help her channel her brunette awesomeness to go out and kick more ass!!!!

Obsession

Dream Number Three

I wanted to post for this week’s IF. Usually, drawing prompts bum me out, but this one was a bit up my alley. This pic is called ‘Dream #3″ and it is a CASTRATED version of the totally awesome pic I drew in my Moleskine but which, alas, was dresselled so thoroughly and vigorously by Scannie the Scanner, that I could not post. So this is not the awesome picture; this is just a tribute.

The neutered version.

God, so sleepy. I wanted to write stuff. Very important and deep things were scheduled to go down into this post, but I must go to bed. Dying of the need for sleeeeeeep.

Happy August!

An Unholy Ache...!

Hey moofs.

Wanted to wish you all a HAPPY AUGUST, ringing in the month when it will finally be beautiful here in Munich (ahem ahem) with two pictures celebrating two things I love….

Tentacles…
And gang showers!!!! <3

Gang shower...

So happy August and remember… ‘it’s not gay, if you’re in a three way…
If there’s a honey in the middle, you’ve got lee-way…’ (Probably there’s no honey available if you’re in an all male shower… and that’s fine too >:P)