Don't bend, don't blink, don't beg, don't scream,

This is what happens when my girlfriend and I plan to study at the convenient and helpful CSUN library, only to discover that the library is fucking closed that day for some festival to take place on the grassy lawn down the steps.

-

Today will be more productive, I swear.

-

-

-

-

mkp.

TRIPTYCH.

A triptych, in essence, is a work done in three panels.
Much like writing an essay, you begin with your opening statement and make three points to support your theme.

-

Since most if my drawings and paintings prior to this figure drawing class portrayed the face/frontal view of a person, I chose to focus on a woman's back, trying to capture the equal beauty it possesses, in comparison to its front. I drew the same girl in all three drawings, during the act of undressing. I didn't want this to be an 0ver-sexual or erotic theme, rather, just the simple act itself.

-

All - 11 x14, colored pencil on bristol.
Approximately 10-15 hours spent on each drawing.
I suggest clicking to view in detail, especially the hair!
-
Now that I've just completed my drawing final, I've now got twenty-one sketchbook drawings, one major composition assignment, two acrylic paintings, a three page reflective paper, a speech to prepare/write, and a math test all due within the next 9 days.
Stay tuned as I die!
-
-
-
-

mkp.

$1.99.

That's how much one Prismacolor pencil costs.
Just for one motherfucking pencil.
And if I want to get my drawings done before they're due, I'll have to run to the nearest Aaron Brothers and buy 3.
OR, I can just continue using my little 2 inch pencil stubs--what my beautiful, expensive Prismas have been reduced to-- and endure the more-than-likely sessions of hand cramping that comes along with it for the next 30 or so drawing assignments.

So: Endure hours of hand and forearm pain or spend $5.97 on three colored pencils? And that doesn't even include the tax.

I think I'll go with a nice nap.




mkp.

Mommy Dearest.

When I was a kid, you told me I could be whatever I wanted when I grew up.

I was six or so when I told you that I wanted to be an artist, just like Leo. And you said that I had talent, and I could do it.
When I was eight, I begged for you to put me into art classes. And I remember every time I'd come home with a new finished drawing, you'd frame it up on the wall because you were proud of me.
When I was ten, I started reading a lot, and I told you then that I wanted to write and illustrate my own books. You promised you would someday read them aloud to your grand kids.
When I was thirteen, I designed dance costumes for a friend. I told you I wanted to go into the fashion industry and sketch all day. Every time I was asked to design something, I'd give you original sketches and photographs of the finished design.
When I turned fifteen, I asked for painting lessons and told you I wanted to become a famous painter one day. You told me you were my biggest fan.
When I turned sixteen, you asked me what I wanted to study in college. I told you I wanted to go into the art field. I don't remember your response. But you sure looked confused.
When I was seventeen, I started looking into some art colleges. You yelled at me when you found out I wasn't applying to any UC's.
When I was eighteen, I planned to attend Art Center in the fall. I was one of very few high school seniors accepted. They offered me a $12,000 scholarship, and the Fine Art chair wanted to meet with me. Yet, you told me I had to go to CSUN to make sure I was going into the right field.
I'm turning 19 in a little more than a month. I hope to transfer to Art Center in a year or two to study illustration. You still ask me if this is really what I want to do.

I wonder if somewhere along the line, I'm going to look at myself in the mirror and ask the same questions you do. Will I call you one day and tell you that you were right? That all of you were right? That I should've kept this as a hobby and gotten a real job? I look around me and all my friends are ditching their talents and hobbies and dreams. Should I be doing the same?

There is a red stinging burn imprinted on my left cheek, just where you intended. There is a taste of salt protruding into the corners of my mouth. My eyes burn. No, I'm not crying.




mkp.