Skip to main content

Popular posts from this blog

A Completely Made Up, Fantastical Biography of George David Darrow (1861-1925)

Born in the spring of 1861 in a modest East Anglian village on the wooded edges of Bury St. Edmunds, George David Darrow was the son of a gardener and a washerwoman. A solitary child, Darrow showed early signs of a vivid inner world, sketching woodland creatures and imagined spirits on sheets of whatever scrap paper he could find, much of which smelled of fish or meat that the paper had once wrapped. His youth was shaped by the rhythms of rural life and long hours exploring hedgerows, brooks, and ancient groves. Possessed of a quiet, observant nature and an innate gift for drawing, Darrow taught himself the principles of line and light by sketching the creatures and foliage around him. His Father, Henry Darrow, disapproved of his son’s obsession with woodlarking and hoped that his son would take up a respectable trade. As a young teenager, George was apprenticed to a local stone mason, but his tenure didn’t last the summer. George was found to be carving mysterious symbols into the lim...
Post a Comment
Read more

Illustration Friday "Fat"

I did this one with colored pencil but wasn't real happy with it. I put a Photoshop filter on to liven it up some. I'll probably do it again so I can get it right.
9 comments
Read more

Ballad of Kupkake

       As I look through my huge collection of photography I have stored on hard drives and back up media, I usually come upon images of a cat we named KupKake. When we adopted her, in 2005, she was so very tiny and the name seemed to fit her.      Her intense eyes still stare back at me from her photos. Her gaze still penetrates me deeply.      When she was with me, I felt like our minds were connected and she understood my thoughts. I was also very attuned to her facial expressions, her ear direction and her volatile mood swings. She could be mean. Very mean. She looked the perfect angel but that was very deceiving. She never liked the dog and always let her know with a charge across the room, front claws swinging. The poor dog never knew what was coming. Even I, the only human that seemed to like her most of the time, could receive a quick swat with her razor claws. I would look at my hand and it seemed like nothing had happened. Slow...
Post a Comment
Read more