flint ink


I’m starting a Black Sails cult because let’s be honest I would sell my soul for this show. This here is Saint James. In his left hand he holds Meditations, in his right he holds the sword he used to teach Silver how to fight at Maroon Island. 

The iconography of this painting was inspired by depictions of saints on Italian renaissance altarpieces. 

Pencil, ink and watercolour on paper, 23 x 30.5 cm

they’ve been swallowing bullets and drinking poison for three years
the water coming from your sink shouldn’t resemble beer
over one thousand days spent fearing they’ll drop dead
over eight thousand children exposed to lead
so, pardon my french, but this is some fuckery
when did clean water become a luxury? 
add insult to injury and make them pay for this shit
“the water is safe, just don’t drink it”
how are they expected to survive?
you’re making them pay for illness and hives
making them pay for their neighbors falling ill
making them consider writing out their will
twelve gone already; may not seem like much
but twelve is far too many and enough is enough
maybe in two years things will be okay, maybe being okay won’t sound so insane
or maybe in two years i’ll be saying all of this again
we can’t keep quiet, there’s gotta be something we can do
so when will you care? when it’s happening to you?
—  it’s #WorldWaterDay and Flint, MI still does not have clean water
(cc, 2017)

Brush pen Flint. 3.5 hrs. Started with loose sketch, I find it helps my final art have movement. High adrenaline as every line is a commitment! I let go of the idea it has to look like him. I made the coat too short initially and messed up the right hand shading - a spot of paint fix. Ref from the unused poster artwork, I moved the head, the right hand, the left leg and gave the coat more flip. Instagram filter. Might do a bit more work on the legs as they jump out.

Building the ink layers! I’ve never felt so excited about any of my artworks before. When I’m done with the ink I’m going to add some watercolour to give it a bit of colour. I hope it’s all going to work out the way I want because I really want to do these for some of the other characters from Black Sails too. 

Indian ink on paper, 23 x 30.5 cm.


@septembriseur This is an illustration for The Unaccommodated Man by kvikindi that I envisaged when I read it weeks ago. Particularly from this moment, which I loved.

“He does not think that James would ever, ever strike him. But he feels him grip his shoulders very hard, so hard that it hurts, fingers digging into muscle.

James says hoarsely, “I don’t want you to. I don’t want you to have to do that.” He does not loosen his grip, but he pushes his face against Thomas’s shoulder and it takes Thomas a little while to understand that James is weeping, his tears hot through the wet cloth of Thomas’s shirt. He covers one of James’s hands with his own. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “James, I’m so sorry.” And they ride for a long time just like that.”

About 12 hours in all - brush pen and 01 pen. It’s probably too busy all over- the figures are not completely working for me, but I used no BS refs other than shots of random people sitting on horses together. But I’m really happy with the live oaks and the water flow. And the horse, he works quite well. I enjoyed doing this - twisty trees and Bernie Wrightson as inspiration. This was looming in my mind as a “big thing”, I did a fair amount of planning for this one, I did quite a few sketches of Thomas & James but they were not “right” and a trial tree with the brush pen.

Eventually, I got started ^_^

Eta: Better picture.

There have been pretty boys
and prettier girls;
beautiful strangers after nightfall.

But darling, you’re the first
who kissed me like religion
and I wasn’t ready for your faith.

Ancient cities still burn
their citadels in my blood.
Wars will always be lost inside me. 

Maybe one day we can be victors,
but today, you deserve lightning and shivers and fireworks
& all I bring is broken bones.

—  I was barely mortal, and you deserved gods, a.w.
What grew after the fire
We were born of flint spark and black ink plume 
Of forest reduced to cinder reduced to earth, ready to yield 
Of ash cursed skin tatted with the stroked brush of a fire poppy bloom
Of roots knitted in limb and knotted tongue
We are an ode to sorrow unwritten by rain
Forever threaded yet quietly undone