Cupid moves in to see a super impressive shot, one only three or four guys in the world could have made, discarded among the trash of a vacant lot. A doodle to follow up yesterdays less than impressive work, at least if you use views/likes as a barometer. Low bars are great.
Like July in winter, a muse as perfect as she is a ghost. She’s intimate with flight, because she’s a bird of the sea. She’s perfect for me, but her imperfectness can never be. I’m only with her, in her royal court at Kush, past the weight of the day, in the dreams of the could have been. She flies with her broken wings and catches my fall, but will never know the depth of it all. She’s a mirage in my mind, of qualities transferred by the shores of my dreams. How I’ve fallen.
This is a painting about wasting time with the wrong person over 18 years and realizing at the end of it all that there’s no chance to find that one true love – she’s a ghost, gone in the corridors of time – the chance has passed, everyone’s jaded, you’ve more memories buried than prospects blooming, there will be no one to electrify every fiber of your being, and that the books and tales of chivalric love were a total lie. Of course you’ll go on, because you still have hope, and you can’t get the morbid irony in death that you can in life, but f**k.
Lust is a mortal sin, I was told, as a lapsed Catholic in childhood. Indeed, the historical record is full of catastrophes resulting from the pursuit of the physical. But Love, L’amour, Liebe…. ah, now THAT has nothing to do with the physical at all. For it is the pursuit of ones spirit, or soul, that thing that makes one perfectly imperfect, wherever it may reside. It’s free of all mortal boundaries and is… purely beautiful.
I didn’t think attention would be drawn away from the meaning behind the art and towards the breasts. Never underestimate humanity. The reason why they were big in the first round was because there was a disconnect in how the shirt followed the body (auto follow vs redirect transforms) that couldn’t be fixed. It left sort of an invisible flattening across the chest if I went smaller. You can see a little bit of it in the girl on the left if you’re still not focused on the hands. I solved it all by changing outfits. Take your pick of which one you like better.
The idea for this digital art popped up around 2am, when my mind was playing out scenes of queerly anomalous and calamitous theatrics that awoke me from my prodigious sleep. I dare not expose my eyes at such an unholy hour to the preternatural light of a monitor to render such visions into artwork. So, with patient resolve, I waited until the sun lifted the veil of night to present this to you.
The title is a reference to the inexpressible horrors enamored paramours inflict on flowers as ancient mythical superstitions of love circulate in their minds. “They love me, they love me not”, is often said, as they mindlessly pluck petals from the decapitated flower in hand; with the last petal attesting to the binary nature of ones feelings towards them. Then, assured of the result, they move on to the next flower or wander away, cheerfully humming, whilst leaving destruction in their wake.
This is all tongue in cheek, of course. I wanted to see if I could put a Lovecraftian spin on an innocuous action. Did I succeed?