Somewhere over the hills and deep in the desert, a lost chicklit book cries out for its missing cover.
In a lot of ways cats are the black hole of art, because most of their obvious qualities – grace, softness, poise – are present to such an extent that making art about it only makes it worse. It’s no coincidence that basically all the cats in popular culture ignore most of the attributes that make cats cats. They’re all graceless boors: Sylvester, Tom, Garfield, Bill, whoever. (Hobbes is about as debonair as they get, and he’s got some significant lumpy qualities, plus a few meta dimensions – and I’m not counting personalityectomies like the Pink Panther.) It’s an attempt to find something in these animals that we as humans can really relate to.
Oh and by the way I am a cat person. Dogs have different issues when it comes to drawing them, but they’re easier on the face of it, because most of their obvious qualities aren’t quite so unilaterally flattering.
I have actual links to things I enjoy in the links section of the blog, now, so look and partake of fun.
That is supposed to be peanut butter and styrofoam that our protagonist is covered in. I don’t know, man. What this picture really needs is Smell-O-Vision.
There’s this meme on Livejournal now where people are drawing Batgirl. Cute, huh? But I won’t lie: Batgirl never meant shit to me. Lucy, however. Lucy kicks ass. So.
Father had another simple straightforward statement about the ocean, the only valid one I have ever heard. “The ocean,” he said, “doesn’t care.”
This is all you know about the ocean, and all you need to know. Over the seventy-odd years of my life I have seen the wisdom of this statement many times. I have seen powerful swimmers washed ashore dead in an apparently pacific ocean; I have seen infants carried out to sea by a frothing riptide only to be cast back by a succeeding breaker. I have seen a whale crushed by its own weight on a receding tide, and I have seen a strange and wonderful white mare ride a breaker from straight out to sea – we watched her from among other whitecaps on a wind-tossed autumn day, a mile or so offshore, until she breasted the last wave and galloped off down the beach. I knew then and I know now that she came from Tahiti; I’ve seen her in Gauguin’s paintings.