Why does everyone draw and fan cast Blue as this basic ass white girl with no eccentric fashions at all? Like in the books Blues clothes are often really well described and yet everyone wants to draw her in crop tops and shorts. I have a more Blue centric wardrobe than Blue herself according to the fandom.
I would guess that it’s just part of every fandom…. the artists have a picture in their heads and they bring it to life in the best way possible. Sometimes it’s different from what you imagined and sometimes it’s so identical you come to think the artist lives in your head. Just like they invented Adam’s freckles sometime in history, and each of them drew Ronan with a different skin-tone from the other, the way some of them draw Noah with a huge smudge and others with a barely noticeable one… and they draw Gansey so white even tho I believe it said his skin was tanned somewhere in the books? And it’s also the case with Adam.. sometimes they give him blue eyes (that’s the colour I remember his eyes were in the book?) and others give him hazel eyes (I guess they refer to the time when Gansey said Adam was a sepia image?). It’s only normal… no two people read the same book. If you have a picture in your head of blue that you can’t find anywhere here, I suggest you visit the blog of an artist who draws blue best as you imagine, and ask them to draw her with [enter imagined clothes here]
I hope this was satisfying xx
summary: “I want to show you what you’re missing out on. That you’re forgetting the soul you did manage to raise is able to live on, and is now a loving father of his own.” Marinette didn’t look up from the photograph. “If you had bothered to read any of his letters, you would know that little boy in the photograph is ours, and he is alive.” a/n: Been a while since I wrote anything proper for this fandom. Not sure how long this piece will be, but I had a basic idea. Hope you enjoy. ^_^
Once a peacock in a gilded cage, Gabriel Agreste had been reduced to nothing more than an aged pigeon trapped in a crown of barbed wire and self-regret. It was almost pitiful the way he hung his head in shame, refusing to look at her from across the table.
A pile of letters, untouched, were at the centre. Each one neatly folded.
“…Why are you here?” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Did he send you?”
Still looking for the non-sepia Lifted cover image (my files are a little disorganized) but here is one of about a hundred test shots for There’s No Beginning to the Story EP. This was right around the time I got my hands on my first digital camera. I think this EP was shot on 35mm and the full album diorama was digital, but I could be wrong. I know I have an album full of prints like this somewhere that I got done at the local 1-hour photo.
I remember I went out and splurged on a pair of entry-level studio hot lights for this project (couldn’t afford strobes and no setup for them anyway). I tried everything I could to use a pair of $10 metal shop lights from the hardware store but it was impossible. Glare and shadows ruined it.
Construction for the Lifted cover image is the same as here. The backdrop was a posterboard smeared with three colors of kids’ finger paint. The base was a formed chicken wire mesh covered with strips of glue-coated newspaper, and then a layer of sculpted joint compound that was painted and followed with a diluted wash for shading. The foliage was dyed decorative floral arrangement stuff that I stabbed into the joint compound.
I mourned the decision to switch to sepia tone for a while, but I was quickly okay with it. It’s hard to imagine it any other way now. Looking at the original photos makes me nostalgic for that time I spent tinkering with handmade dolls in my old house’s basement, ages ago.
…a large species of cuttlefish that is native to western Indian Ocean, including the Red Sea and Persian Gulf, and much of the Pacific as well. Like other cuttlefish S. pharonis is active at night, hunting at shallower depths for small fish, crustaceans, and other invertebrates.
My Mum’s Final Act Of Love Was To Throw All Her Stuff Into A Skip
Right in the middle of all that brouhaha about sloping bridges and Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Moe, my mum died.
So there I was, in Russia, in the middle of a Top Gear tour, trying to organise her funeral and tell the children and sort out all the legal stuff, with the BBC moaning at me in one ear and a reporter twittering on in the other, and I knew that if I wept, which is what I wanted to do, because I was very close to my mother, the Daily Mirror would run pictures and claim they were tears of shame. It was a gruesome time.
And I knew that when I came home the BBC would still be bleating and the reporters would still be calling, and I’d have to go to her house and start sorting through her things. And where do you start with a job like that? Where did she keep her pension details, the deeds to her house, her insurance certificates? How do you cancel a Sky subscription? Did she have any shares? Premium bonds? And how do you find out if you haven’t got a sister who’s a lawyer?
Luckily, I do have a sister who’s a lawyer, but even though she could handle the paperwork, I’d still have to go through my mum’s things, and that would be a nightmare because I’m such a sentimental old sausage I even find it difficult to throw away an empty packet of fags. I think of the fun I’ve had smoking them and the people I’ve shared them with and I want to hold on to the wrapping as a keepsake, a reminder of happy times.
So what in God’s name would it be like in my mum’s house, surrounded by everything that made it hers, except her? And there’d be all those childhood memories. At some point it would be inevitable I’d find the egg cup I’d used every morning as a child and the cereal bowl with rabbits on it. That would tear my heart out.
At one stage I received a call from a middle-ranking BBC wallah saying they’d had a letter from some MPs, asking if I was going to be sacked, and I really wasn’t paying much attention because I was wondering what on earth I’d do with the mildly fire-damaged Dralon chair that my dad had bought for £4 in 1972.
Even by the standards of the time it was a truly hideous piece of furniture, and the years had not been kind to it. Any normal person would give it to charity or use it as firewood. But it was the chair my dad used to sit in. It had a cigarette burn in the arm from the time when he’d nodded off while smoking. I couldn’t possibly give it away, or burn it. And I sure as hell didn’t want it in my house. So what would I do?
There is no single thing in the house of anyone’s mother that isn’t infused with a gut-wrenching air of sentimentality. It’s not just her jewellery or her clothes. It’s the little things as well. Her kitchen scissors, her bathroom scales, her flannel. Every single thing in each and every drawer is as impossible to discard as a first teddy bear.
I would need a very big lorry to handle all the stuff I’d need to bring home. I’d also need at least two months to go through it all. And I’d need about 4,000 boxes of Kleenex.
However, here’s the thing. My mum did not die unexpectedly. She’d known for some time that the cancer was winning and had therefore had time to put her affairs in order. A job she had undertaken with some gusto.
I’d always assumed that “putting your affairs in order” meant writing a will and remembering to reclaim your lawnmower from the chap at No 42. But in the weeks since my mum’s death I’ve learnt that actually there’s a lot more to it than that.
First of all, she had left many helpful instructions about what sort of funeral she wanted. No friends. No flowers. And no mention of God or the baby Jesus. My sister and I didn’t even have to guess what music she would have liked because she’d told us: Thank You for the Music, by Abba.
All the financial stuff was in a neat box with everything clearly labelled. And she hadn’t stopped there. Before she became too weak, she’d had a massive clear-out. Pretty much everything she owned had been thrown into a skip. “It’ll save you the bother when I’m dead,” she had said.
But by far and away the best thing she did in those last few months was to sort out a lifetime of photographs, putting the ones that mattered into albums and, crucially, writing captions. So now I know that the time-faded sepia image of a stern-looking woman in a nasty hat is my great-aunt and that the blurred picture of what might be a corgi was my grandad’s dog.
Ordinarily, I’d have thrown away the endless pictures of what appear to be a building site, but thanks to my mum’s diligence, I now know it was the house in which I was born. And how it had looked when she and my dad bought it in 1957.
I don’t know how long she had worked on her downsizing and the clear-out and the organisation of her things, but it’s something we should all try to do when we know the Grim Reaper is heading our way. Because not only does it spare our loved ones from the hassle of going through every single thing we’ve ever owned but also it spares them from the grief of deciding that the horse brasses and the Lladro figurines really do have to go to the tip.
The only trouble is that there’s one thing my mum did not sort out. Back in 1971 she made my sister and me two Paddington Bears. They were the start of what became a very successful business and they were very precious, but over the years one was lost.
I maintain the sole survivor is mine. My sister insists it’s hers. And she’s the lawyer … so I have the cereal bowl with the rabbits on it, and the Dralon chair.
[image: Sepia toned picture of Scott and Stiles sitting at a table in a coffeeshop. Each holds a mug of black coffee, their arms grazing one another. Scott is turned to face Stiles, smiling at him softly. Stiles wears a plaid shirt and backwards baseball cap. His face is in profile, lips pursed. Scott is wearing a fishnet/mesh shirt and jean jacket with the sleeves rolled up, showing off his tattoos.]
He walks toward the adjacent wall, where family portraits from a similar time period hang sweetly, as if you’d expect to find a fireplace and warm rug beneath them. On closer inspection, the photographs are all post-mortem—funereal portraits of babies, propped up in bassinets, grandfathers in coffins surrounded by frozen-faced family members. All of the images are sepia-tinged. “Look at all these women crying,” he says, and after a pause: “This is depressing as fuck.”
…a species of cuttlefish that is distributed from the Andaman Sea, east to Fiji, and south to northern Australia. Broadclub cuttlefish are the second largest species of cuttlefish, they are dwarfed only by Sepia apama. Like other cuttlefish S. latimanus is capable of changing both its body color and texture. It uses this ability in courtship and to catch prey. S. latimanus feeds mainly on shrimp of the genus Palaemon and will “mesmerize” its prey with rhythmic bands of color.
Photographer Josh Lehrer has taken photographs of the Broadway cast of Hamilton using a camera lens from the mid 1800’s. Two of the beautiful, sepia-toned images were shared by the show’s official Twitter page.
strongity asked me to do a coloring tutorial a while ago, so I thought I’d share with y'all my actual process, instead of being vague about it like I usually am - so here it is! Coloring in Photoshop Featuring Star-Lord…
Progress in Carrie, I added some game play hint info that appears before a set number of rounds, in case folk skip the tutorial. It won’t appear on subsequent plays though it’s set to reset each game or after a lengthy amount of time passes on the menu, in case someone unfamiliar hops on, I guess.
I also made a tiny effect on the round select screen, for each round you complete it animates a gold bar that flashes, to make completion a little more rewarding. Speaking of I got the secret image finished, I showed a preview a few weeks ago. Each challenge completed reveals more of it, and once it’s revealed it fades from a sepia image to colored one.