gold powder


Kintsugi or kintsukuroi is the Japanese art of fixing broken pottery with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum, a method similar to the maki-e technique As a philosophy it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise.”

I don’t think I’ve mentioned this on my blog before, but in my non-nail-art life I am a psychiatric nurse, and I work with children and adolescents struggling with severe mental illness.  Some of the kids dig my nail art, so lately I’ve been trying to paint designs that I think they’ll enjoy.  This is one of those, because it embodies the hope I have for all of them (and for myself as well): that we can find a way to live with our broken bits that makes our lives more beautiful, not less.


Champagne Gold Chrome


Kintsugi or Kintsukuroi is a Japanese technique of repairing broken pottery with lacquer or resin mixed with powdered gold. They believe that when something’s suffered damage and has a history it becomes more beautiful. 

100 Pearl Drawing Challenge

Draw every pearl. Every. Single. Pearl.

Tag finished drawings, weather it’s Pearl 1 or 100, with the tag #100pearlchallenge

1. White
2. Cream
3. Champagne
4. Ivory
5. Dark Cream
6. Dark Champagne
7. Pearlescent
8. Crème Rose
9. Light Rose
10. Rose
11. Silver Rose
12. Mocha
13. South Sea Pearl
14. Light Gold
15. Gold
16. Bright Gold
17. Taupe
18. Beige
19. Copper
20. Yellow
21. Lemon
22. Matte Gold
23. Bronze
24. Antique Brass
25. Brown
26. Cocoa Brown
27. Deep Brown
28. Burgundy
29. Powder Almond
30. Matte Almond
31. Oyster
32. Peach
33. Matte Peach
34. Rose Peach
35. Rose Gold
36. Rosaline
37. Powder Rose
38. Coral
39. Pink Coral
40. Matte Pink
41. Pink
42. Orange
43. Red
44. Cranberry
45. Bordeaux
46. Blackberry
47. Maroon
48. Fuschia
49. Amethyst
50. Mauve
51. Lavender
52. Lilac
53. Matte Lilac
54. Light Purple
55. Matte Light Purple
56. Purple
57. Matte Purple
58. Deep Purple
59. Aubergine
60. Indigo
61. Plum
62. Light Plum
63. Matte Light Plum
64. Powder Blue
65. Light Blue
66. Turquoise
67. Teal
68. Lapis
69. Dark Lapis
70. Sapphire
71. Petrol Blue
72. Matte Sapphire
73. Matte Light Sapphire
74. Blue
75. Matte Blue
76. Navy Blue
77. Night Blue
78. Mystic Black
79. Black
80. Tahitian
81. Sea Green
82. Scarabaeus Green
83. Jade
84. Mint
85. Light Green
86. Olivine
87. Matte Olivine
88. Matte Green
89. Green
90. Emerald
91. Peacock Green
92. Dark Green
93. Pewter
94. Silver
95. Platinum
96. Light Gray
97. Matte Gray
98. Gray
99. Dark Gray
100. Charcoal

Good luck!

ff-sunset-oasis  asked:

Heyyyy Andrea so I'm just wondering what are your thoughts on Blaise Zabini's mom? Like, I'm always love how you occasionally slipped her into your stories with Blaise, usually just some passing mention but the descriptions always got me very intrigued - so just want to ask what's your thoughts/views about her? Thanks <3

HA HA it’s not like I’ve been waiting my entire life for someone to ask me about blaise zabini’s mother or anything that would be dumb that would be i ns a ne im fine let’s do this:

  • for nineteen years, her name is elizabeth.
  • lizzie, her father calls her, with the same sort of simple, incredulous affection he directs at her mother—her mother, the witch, who brews potions that smell like anise and cinnamon, who wrinkles her nose at the rolling green hills of the english countryside, who wears a gleaming silver scorpion pendant around her neck and tells elizabeth bedtime stories about hot desert nights and crumbling pyramids and brilliant, scheming queens who spilled blood and conquered continents and stole thrones—and all with small, secret smiles on their faces.
  • elizabeth isn’t lizzie.
  • elizabeth goes to hogwarts; lizzie does not.
  • elizabeth is sorted into slytherin; lizzie is not.
  • elizabeth slinks through the halls, learns how to listen and how to lie and how to levitate a peacock feather; lizzie does not. elizabeth collects lipsticks she’s too young for, slick crimsons and glossy violets, highlights the arches of her cheekbones with burnished bronze powder and lines her eyes in liquid, velvety black; lizzie does not. elizabeth speaks and says nothing, lowers her gaze and sees everything, enchants as effortlessly as she entraps; lizzie does not.
  • instead, lizzie goes home for the summer, braids her hair into two neat plaits and picks wildflowers with her father, laughs pretty and easy and loud, loud like she can’t when she’s at school, because the dungeons have high ceilings and long memories and an alarming tendency to produce variables she knows she can’t control; not like elizabeth can.
  • elizabeth doesn’t make mistakes.  
  • lizzie does.
  • lizzie is eighteen and punching her time card at the ministry and dreaming about palm trees swaying in a heavy summer breeze, about pillows of sand slipping through her fingertips, about crystal blue skies and sheer linen dresses and skin tanned a dark, silky brown by the heat of the sun.  
  • and she meets a boy. a man. a visiting diplomat with a lilting accent and a fan of laugh lines around his eyes and a luxuriously appointed suite at the savoy that starts to feel like home—too much, too soon.  
  • “you’re beautiful,” he tells her, and it’s elizabeth whose mouth curves up slyly, invitingly, as she replies, “i know.”
  • “you’re perfect,” he tells her, and it’s lizzie whose heart races, whose breath skips, whose lips tremble as she replies, “i know.”
  • “i love you,” he tells her, and she doesn’t know where elizabeth stops and lizzie begins when she replies, “i love you, too.”
  • and he buys her extravagant gifts and he makes her extravagant promises and then he unceremoniously leaves; goes back to italy—to his wife, to his children, to his peach-pink villa on the mediterranean coast with the sweeping balconies and the sparkling turquoise swimming pool—the day before she realizes she’s pregnant.  
  • the ensuing rage—it’s quiet, really, a low, sad, gentle simmer deep in the pit of her stomach that could rock her to complacency if she let it.  
  • she doesn’t let it.
  • instead, she considers her options. she sends a letter. she opens her own gringott’s vault. she calmly answers, “morning sickness,” when her nosiest coworker asks why she’s been late all week. she sends another letter. she moves into a nicer flat, the kind with a doorman and a concierge and a lot of wealthy neighbors. she develops a strange craving for candied dates. she bides her time.
  • elizabeth calls it justice; lizzie calls it blackmail.
  • the day after she discovers she’s having a boy, she sends one last letter, dusts the slow-drying ink with a gold-tinged powder that smells like anise and cinnamon, and she thinks about hazy, blistering sunsets shimmering red and yellow and orange, about wide-open limestone palaces and gods that expect you to start wars for them and buttery leather sandals caked brown with old blood.  
  • elizabeth calls it justice; lizzie calls it revenge.
  • five months later, she’s gritting her teeth and squeezing the midwife’s hand and desperately wondering if the pain will ever end.  
  • it does.
  • and then she’s staring down at a baby—hers, hers—and he’s impossibly tiny and impossibly warm and impossibly helpless. his mouth relaxes into a pout, and his eyes slit open, glassy and unfocused and so dark they might as well be colorless.  
  • she names him blaise.
  • she names him blaise because blaise is a name that can’t be cut in half, and she watches him sleep while the midwife lectures her about feedings and nappies and the bare spot on her finger where a wedding ring should be. there’s a tightness in elizabeth’s chest, fierce and fearful, both, that does nothing but multiply the longer she looks at him, her son, and she understands—suddenly, and with a perfect stab of clarity—why her father had wanted her to be lizzie.
  • no one has ever hurt her twice.
  • no one will ever hurt him at all.

Jehan who writes poetry like a fifteenth century monk.

Jehan who, given on the day, wears a fine rosé gold dust powder on his cheekbones, along with a shredded hippie vest.

Jehan, the kind of guy who drops his bag and twenty or so bones tumble out and he apologizes like it’s an everyday occurrence.

“Why didn’t jehan make it to the meeting tonight?” “It’s Oscar Wilde’s death day,” “oh, poor thing,”

Jehan, who catches pneumonia from staying in a graveyard through the night in the middle of January

“John Keats died at 26 as an accomplished poet, I have accomplished far less at 21,”

Who writes his poetry with a customized red falcon feather quill and a blood red ink pressed from the berries in a certain remote berry farm in the appalachian mountains

Starry Sunday Branding!

Hey guys! I’m getting better at crafting as I managed to do two sets of heat embossed bags! 

My partner fluff got the materials ready for me! Isn’t he helpful?

After using my Cricut Explore Air to cut out another star face stencil, I started using a watermark pen to trace out the shape of the star.

Afterwards, I had to clean up the residue on both purple and gold glitter using a small art brush. So for example, after applying the gold glitter onto the watermarked areas, the gold embossing powder will look like this:

I then used a heat embossing tool to melt the powder, which then becomes embossed and shiny.

And that’s it for this weekend of crafts! I hope to work on the next comic tomorrow which should be posted on Tuesday evening! 

Have a great night!