i gave her fangs, she has fangs now
brendan george ko / tom hunter / john everett millais / juergen teller
Imants Tillers (Australian,b.1950)
Kangaroo Blank, 1988
Oil stick, gouache, oil paint and acrylic paint on 78 canvases
More ceramics from the kiln today! Second ever attempt to glaze things has gone slightly better but the underglaze darkening is still tripping me up so I’ll make better whale sharks in the future
I’ll list some (a few are already claimed/for other people) of these tonight on the ko-fi shop maybe?? Let’s say 10pm CST
I’m keeping the whale skeleton dish tho sorry >:)
I felt like the fears in this style would be cute as hell, and I was right
tma charactors and what i think they would smell like:
- jon: coffee. the warm sweet kind.
- martin: saltwater, the lonely never really left him
- tim: you dont know ehat he smells like but he smells GOOD
- sasha: old books ::::)
- elias/jonah: pasta
- daisy: a dog
- basira: also books
- melanie: vanilla
- georgie: pumpkin spice
- oliver banks: fall air
- mike crew: the air before a storm
- micheal: the numbers 8 and 11 and the way bowling alleg carpets look
- helen: the way will woods "the normal album" sounds
- annabelle: earl grey tea
- jane: shit, she smells so bad istg
- nikola: shampoo. not the good kind.
- peter lukas: salt water
- jurgen lietner: books and blood
- gerry delano: smoke and paper
- gertrude robinson: old people
- callum brodie: the colour black
- jared hopworth: beef
- simon fairchild: tge smell after it rains
bored border collie: im going to perform psychological experiments on every human member of my household
bored pit bull: i bet i could eat a rock if i tried hard enough
some of my favorite tags
‘Let the atom be a worker, not a soldier!’ Klimentiy Vladimirov Soviet Union 1967
chinese mantou (steamd bread) be like
... what
It wasn't enough for everything to be cake, no...
Before Barbenheimer, there was “Apocalypse in Pink,” the August 1983 theme of fashion/culture magazine SPECTAGORIA. The issue’s controversial imagery of Barbie-esque models attempting to stay gorgeous and glamorous amidst nuclear annihilation sought to, in the words of editor/photographer Sera Clairmont, “revel in the morbid absurdity of the new American condition,” an “anxiety vibrating underneath all our plastic smiles.”
“It’s The Hot Pink Cold War,” Clairmont wrote in her introduction. “It’s ‘Material Girl’ on the radio and ‘WarGames’ at the drive-in. It’s ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’ interrupted by the emergency broadcast signal. We’re told to look sexy, dress fashionable, make money, and spend money, but be sure we’re just the right amount of terrified about the bomb. Get that Malibu dream home, keep working on that perfect body, sip cocktails by the pool in your little pink bikini and watching the stocks go up — but STAY VIGILANT! and for God’s sake vote Republican, because that dream home could melt into a pink plastic inferno at any given moment. Just don’t stop smiling as the blast liquefies your skin into bubbling ooze like a Barbie doll in a microwave - it’s bad for the economy.”
---------
NOTE: This is a work of fiction created by me. This alternate reality horror story is part of my NightmAIres narrative art series (visit that link for a lot more). NightmAIres are windows into other worlds and interconnected alternate histories, conceived/written by me and visualized with synthography and Photoshop.
If you enjoy my work, consider supporting me on Patreon for frequent exclusive hi-res wallpaper packs, behind-the-scenes features, downloads, events, contests, and an awesome fan community. Direct fan support is what keeps me going as an independent creator, and it means the world to me.
From 'Sisters of the Solstice', Rob Sheridan, 2023
I do wholeheartedly believe Wes Anderson is a sick sick freak. I like his movies but I definitely think this guy has like a hidden room in his spacious french apartment that he slips into quietly each night and it is just filled with tiny little doll replicas of all the actors he's ever used in any of his movies and he puppets them around and mimicks their voices and shit. and sometimes he'll text Owen Wilson pictures of his little doll with a comb or something from an untraceable number and pair it with like "see how I take care of you Owen?" and then the following day Owen Wilson will find him at the service table and go, "Geez Wes look at this," and Wes will pretend to be all concerned and horrified but there is this calculating almost eager look in his eyes that unsettles Owen Wilson. and the next time Wes is having a little soiree with all his actors, his beloved beloved actors, maybe Owen Wilson will accidentally get lost on his way to the beautiful bathroom and find that little room and see all those dolls and his throat will hitch with horror. And before he can call Bill Murray or Adrian Brody to look a dark silhouette will appear in the doorway and Wes looks sort of resigned when he says, "I see you finally found my secret, Owen," and Owen Wilson will try and pretend that he's fine with it but they both know better. and Wes will go (the look in his eyes back again) "We both know this can't get out, right?" and he'll grin very suddenly and Owen Wilson will laugh along very nervously and leave the room and eat some brioche and when the evening is over he will rush over to his Prius and frantically click his keys but over the cobbles on the beautiful beautiful street there is the sound of footsteps. and tears are running down Owen Wilson's cheeks but he can't say a word and Wes, emerging from the shadows, will gently touch him on the shoulder and say, "look, I'll drive you to the airport, huh?" and Owen Wilson will try to refuse but they both know it's futile. and, halfway through the drive, Wes Anderson will smile and say, "I'll miss working with you" and then perfectly jump and roll out of the car, wiping off his corduroy pants, while Owen Wilson's Prius swerves into a local patisserie, bursting into flames
i need to get laid or alternatively be put down like a rabid dog but i seriously cannot keep acting like this
my stickbugs keep getting jumpscared by mistaking each other for actual sticks
funniest thing about the thing (1982) is that the titular thing is both a master manipulator who can perfectly replicate anyone but also a big bundle of nerves who flips out and starts screaming and turning into 5000 meat parts at once the INSTANT it’s found out
like at one point the thing replicates a guy who has a heart condition, promptly has a heart attack, and then gets so freaked out by the defibrillator it starts biting people
the thing is a master actor who is absolutely awful at improv and the show keeps going wrong
Unexpected gender euphoria: walking past a couple of older black construction workers while out with Phoebe, beckoned over with a "come here, brother" just to shoot the shit and complain about how white New England is and how hostile it is to black culture and black people. Spoke entirely in vernacular, ended with a "be well, brother".
God. I love being around black people so much. My personal social sphere is pretty varied but the vibe of an all black crowd just feels like home.