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PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
sheepfilms
will byers stan first human second
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
d e v o n
@theartofmadeline
Keni
blake kathryn
almost home
taylor price
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Mike Driver
One Nice Bug Per Day
#extradirty
shark vs the universe
seen from Malaysia
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@dndndrawing
Right, considering the current state of corporate politics on this site, and that it seems that only those affected seem to be actively speaking on the matter, it is up to I, the only fucking cishet on tumblr, to drag this out to a wider audience.
REBLOG IF YOUR ACCOUNT IS A TRANSFEM SAFE SPACE.
We need to show these higher ups how much we truly value them.
Ranger/animal companion duo where it turns out the elf is the animal companion and the wolf is the ranger.
Had a similar concept that hasn't come to fruition - yet.
During a Pathfinder Kingmaker campaign I played a Cavelier, at the end of said campaign his after story was that he was conscripted into thr far army for 100 years and a day. When they came back his horse Maximus' dappled coat was now made of stars and he was a bit, 'er, uplifted.
We talked about another campaign sometime where Maximus' foal has a human familiar.
some of my favourite cryptids are just
some fucking regular beast
but
BIG
(Beast of Busco, that one taxidermy frog, etc)
like i get where the confusion comes with like frogman and mothman but no
no man element
no human in there
just fuck in.
l a r g e t u r t l e
just a regular ass beast but B I G
Snapping turtle
ya
the beast of busco was this cryptid that's just. a regular ass snapping turntle
that was reported to be around
FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS
Ok so not cryptid related but
I’m running a DnD group and they came across a purple worm.
(never you mind that they’re accidentally way under level for this, quiet you)
It’s a messy fight, but as soon as the druid finally got spat out the wizard succeeds on a polymorph on the purple worm and says “I turn it into a turtle!”
(implying box turtle, but for a purple worm? where’s the style? the pizazz?)
So instead it turns into a large-sized, hungry, pissed off snapping turtle
(still pretty scary for the gnome tbh)
So I sent them this, as a lil present :)
Story Time: Get a load of what happened to me at Starbucks today.
There’s a running joke among people who know me personally that I unwittingly go out in public with a sign on my forehead stating “I Am Non-Threatening. Come Talk To Me.” Because if there’s a chance a bizarre conversation with a total stranger is going to happen, I’m typically the person it happens to.
Some context: I have been pretty darn sick this week. (It’s not Coronavirus, don’t worry.) Since the work in my queue for my day job is comprised entirely of audio narration right now, and I currently sound like a waterlogged Demi Moore, I haven’t been able to work these last couple of days. As a result, I’ve been using my down time to knock out as much of Manu’s redesign as possible. Today, to ensure I didn’t spend the day languishing in sinus misery, I medicated the crap out of myself and took Manu to the Starbucks down the block from my son’s day care.
I hit the bathroom, then picked an empty table, but as soon as I sat down with my venti Comfort Tea and started tweaking the inks on my iPad, I felt the eyes of the man next to me looking over my shoulder.
When I looked up, he had his phone out. “I’m sorry,” he said (in a thick accent I couldn’t place geographically), “I don’t want to disturb. I notice you art. You are artist!”
I tried to smile. “Yes, I’m... Well, I’m trying to be,” I croaked.
He leaned in, like he was sharing a secret.
“I am artist, too.”
He stuck out his hand.
I gently took it, grateful for the bathroom trip I just took in which I washed the scourge off of my fingers.
“Can I?” he asked, holding his phone up.
“Take a picture? Uh... sure,” I said. It’s not like he would be able to steal Manu out from under me or anything, I figured. The panel I was tweaking was magnified out to Guam.
“I am artist. Architect and Designer,” he clarified while he steadied his phone over my iPad. “I am Ilker. What is your name?”
“I’m Venessa” I said, trying to be polite. This, I thought warily, is precisely how I get myself into trouble. I’m too damn nice.
“You know, I come to America twenty years ago from Turkey...”
I put down my stylus. This was going to be a while.
“I like Turkey,” he explained. “I like the country and I like the people. But I am artist. I am not... religious man.”
I nodded.
“I told my wife I was going to go to America and she said, “what are you going to do? You don’t have job! You don’t have money! No Visa!” And I said, “I am artist and architect. I will paint and sell my paintings.
“So I come to America alone. To New York City. I sit outside, and I paint. And people, they liked my paintings. They bought them. This one for $30, that one for $50.
“One day, a man comes over to me and he say, “I like your painting. I see you are also architect.” And he gives me his number and asks me to go to meeting at his office. Because he wants to offer me a job. He starts to talk about a building contract.
“I tell him I don’t know anything about contracts. I have no Visa. I am not American citizen. But he says, “That’s okay. I will take care of everything. You will have nothing to worry about.” And this man, he gave me a job. $173,000 a year. And my wife, he gave her a job too. She was project assistant. I bring her and my two daughters over from Turkey.”
“Wow,” I said, not fully believing the veracity of what sounded like a full-on immigration fairy tale.
“Here,” said Ilker, unlocking his phone and opening up his Facebook app. “I show you my work.” He paused and looked up at me. “I am interrupting. You don’t mind?”
At this point, I was invested. I had to see. Because whatever he was about to show me would either prove or disprove this yarn he was spinning. “Please,” I said, gesturing for him to go ahead.
He opened his photos and my jaw dropped. His work... was UNREAL.
“This is building I designed on Madison Ave.... And this one in Chelsea...”
Holy crap. I had just been to Chelsea with my sister last month on a trip to see a broadway show. I had crossed the intersection of the building he was, at this moment, telling me he designed.
He flipped through more buildings. These, he’d designed in Washington, DC. In Bethesda. In Arlington. All beautiful, streamlined, modern structures I had visited and parked my car in front of. He told me he did much of his concept work freehand. That he worked exclusively in natural media. His preferred media was pen, ink, watercolors, and chalks.
Between photos of his wife and daughters, he went on to show me photos from the RUSSIAN EXHIBITION OF HIS ARCHITECTURE ARTWORK.
Y’all, I was stunned. I couldn’t believe the talent I was sitting next to. Scattered among these gloriously rendered images of some of the most beautiful building concepts I’d ever seen were paintings of scenes in Central Park, the National Mall, and nudes from a life-drawing session he attends from time to time.
When he was done flipping through his phone, he looked at me and smiled. “I hope you don’t mind that I interrupt you. I show you all this because what you are doing is very good. And you should be encouraged. To draw is to make beauty.”
I nodded, a lump in my throat. “Thank you,” I managed. “Your work is astonishing. I don’t even know what to say. What is your name again?”
He held out his hand once more. “Ilker Kocahan,” he said. “I am getting more coffee. Can I get you one?”
I looked at my still-full venti cup. “No thank you. But here, please take my card.”
He held my dinky business card like I’d handed him a treasure and thanked me.
Then Ilker got his coffee, and left the coffee shop.
At some point in his ramblings he talked about America as a place of dreams. How he credits this country with helping him rise to the top of his field where he is now able to sell his paintings for $800-$1000 a piece now that he’s retired. My heart ached to hear him talk about that, knowing how our leadership’s positions on immigrants have taken such a dark and horrifying turn.
Imagine the buildings and museums and public places that would never have been if a business man in the park hadn’t lifted up a Turkish painter who spoke little English.
And now that painter was paying it forward on me.
I still feel pretty darn sick. I’ve still got body aches and a nose that has taken the rest of my face hostage.
But today was a really good day. And I just wanted to share it with you in case you are looking for reasons to keep drawing/painting/dancing/writing. It all counts and it is all good.
If you would like to see Ilker Kocohan’s work, please click here.
Ilker Kocahan holds a bachelor’s degree in Industrial Design with a minor in architecture from the University of Marmara, Faculty of Fine A
UPDATE TO THIS STORY! I would have posted this sooner, but quarantine has had the unexpected effect of zapping all my alone-time...
As luck would have it, I saw Ilker one last time before my area received the mandate to start social distancing. I came into the Starbucks to work on the “Simon Is On the Ground” comic while waiting to pick up my kid from day care, and there he was, happily chatting with the Starbucks manager, who gifted him with a Starbucks hat while I ordered my tea.
A week had passed since our first meeting, so I wasn’t sure he’d recognize me. Lo and behold, as I turned the corner, I caught his eye, and he waved at me. This time, I asked if I might sit with him, and he warmly offered the seat beside him.
While I settled in, he told me that his project was being delayed and that he was going to leave the area and fly home before COVID-19 could make it impossible to travel. The hat was for his wife, whose only understanding of Starbucks was that Ilker really liked the coffee.
As one might expect, we immediately fell into another conversation about art, except this time, I eagerly abandoned my work to hear him talk.
And friends, did I ever get a master class.
He pulled up a painting on his phone which he’d sold for $800. It was a life drawing in ink and watercolor of a woman in a demure gesture, barely detailed and colored in but for her rose-tinted lips and the shadow cast across her neck. He said he felt sad that he’d sold it because he really loved how it came out.
“This is no detailed like yours,” he said, comparing his painting to my panel of Simon and Baz. “Mine is simple. But in a few strokes, I can capture the life of the lady.”
He took his napkin, turned it over, and pulled a pen out of his chest pocket. “Look there,” he said, pointing to a man sitting a few tables away. He began to scribble away on the napkin, lines and lines and more lines. “You see,” he murmured as he ran his pen over the napkin, “I can, with speed, capture the man. I don’t have hours to ask him to sit. I must let go of the planning.”
In seconds, the man across the room took shape on the napkin in a series of confident if also messy lines. It was incredible to watch.
I could instantly see what he meant. He had not produced a photorealistic version of this person on the napkin. But he had captured the man’s essence. The aura of a real person sitting contemplatively with his coffee while reading the Washington Post. I could feel the life of the drawing radiate from the paper.
(When he was done, to my horror, he crumpled up the napkin.)
I shyly mentioned that I’ve been working hard on my own gesture drawing, but had a long way to go, so he asked to see my sketchbook.
I mean... is there even a word in the English language to describe the combination of dread and embarrassment that precedes showing an art master your crap-ass sketchbook that no one sees but you? I didn’t know what to do with myself as he sat there and flipped through the pages.
Eventually, he nodded approvingly and said, “Okay! Is good. But this is sketchbook like every other.” He gestured at the page. “Where are you?”
I was lost for how to respond, but lucky for me, he’s a talkative guy seemingly incapable of awkward silences.
“The world needs to see you in the lines,” he explained. “Someone can look at my work and know, ‘that painting is from Ilker Kocahan.’ You need to draw more and more so that when people look at your drawings, they will know: this work is Venessa’s work.” Then he shrugged and said, “And who knows. I will maybe see you in two years at this Starbucks, and by then, your drawings will be truly yours.”
I’ve shared this story with some close friends who took mild offense on my behalf at his observations, but I really think it took sitting there watching him draw to understand exactly what he was talking about.
Ilker Kocahan has no imposter syndrome. He is supremely confident in every possible way where his art is concerned. The lines that flowed from his pen were fueled by his soul, not his brain. I didn’t think artists like him existed anymore until I was sitting there looking over his shoulder while he scribbled a man into existence, like it was nothing. When I asked if he plots out the perspective on his building sketches in advance, he shook his head no and doodled this on my cake pop wrapper while he rambled on about the components he likes to include in his architecture concepts:
(Don’t worry. I kept it.)
So when he talked about “finding me” in my sketches, I really think he could sense—by the light scratch of the pencil, the trace evidence on the paper of my erasing and failed attempts—my own lack of confidence, my second guessing and self-doubt. My desire to be as good as other artists instead of my desire to express myself.
And in that sense, everything he was saying about my sketchbook was correct. He urged me to get off the iPad as often as possible. To sketch with ink, which is riskier because you can’t erase it, and in that way, give myself no choice but to commit to the lines.
The conversation turned to lighter things after that. He’s apparently an extremely talented basketball player who loves hanging out with his wife and kids. His daughters are both designers. He thinks quirky viral videos are the best thing about the internet. (I agreed.) He’s weak for New York pizza.
Eventually, he bought me a refill for my tea and asked if I would meet him again in a couple of days so he could talk to me about my artwork and help me with my sketching. He even added me as a Facebook friend. When I left the Starbucks to pick up Colin, I was so excited and overwhelmed and grateful to the universe for bringing me into his acquaintance, I texted everyone in my family about it.
But as fate would have it, that night, the local government released its mandate regarding social distancing. He’s likely in Belarus right now with his wife.
I won’t lie and say I’m not devastated that I lost the chance to be his student for an afternoon. But the impression these coffee shop chats left on me was profound. I think about it all the time. For one who struggles with feeling like the artist version of Pinocchio waiting around for permission to be a real boy, it makes all the difference in the world to linger in the huge, unstoppable energy of someone who lives without an inner critic.
I hope I get to see him again after the quarantine is over. I’d love to see if I can fulfill Ilker’s prophecy and meet back at that Starbucks in two years with a different sketchbook in tow. One that I can hand over knowing without doubt or trepidation that anyone looking for me in the work need look no further than the bold stroke of my hand.
Taken the last time we chatted:
[UPDATE:] I am absolutely gobsmacked and grateful at the way this post has resonated with so many folks on Tumblr, artists and otherwise. Some have asked whether Ilker and I have kept in touch, and yes, we have! He occasionally messages pictures of building designs he’s working on or happy family photos (which I assume he’s sending en masse to his friends list) and I basically gush in return. I’ll also occasionally drop a line to check in; he knows I’m still working on my inking and sketch work. He remains so very encouraging and kind. He wishes me “happy art days.”
That said, you can imagine how my heart sank when last night he sent a message out to his Facebook friends letting us know he contracted Coronavirus and has been hospitalized. He’s been ill for two weeks now.
I asked for his consent to share this with friends in case it could inspire some good vibes, and he agreed. If you felt moved by his wisdom and kindness in the above posts and feel inclined to send a healing thought his way today, I would be grateful. While I believe his constitution is strong thanks to his being so active, this virus doesn’t discriminate, and the world needs humans like Ilker Kocahan right now. (Or at least, I do.)
Thanks, and I promise to report back with any news. ❤️
As promised, I have an update on Ilker’s condition!
I am happy to report that he is back home from the hospital as of this week and reportedly feeling better. He said he feels extremely lucky and credited his healthy/happy lifestyle for his resilience via text message. I quote:
“No smoking No Drunk Basketball Good food Family life enjoying And happy character”
While he was in the hospital he generously texted me photos of little notes he’d scrawled on paper napkins of his vitals (temperature, blood pressure, blood O2 levels) since I had asked him to keep me posted. Of all the notes he sent, this one was the most interesting, as it shows they’ve been making patients sleep in a prone position with some kind of ventilation over the face, presumably to leverage gravity in opening up the lungs?
Anyway, I’m so grateful to everyone who sent well wishes and look forward to passing along those kind messages to him after this. Thank you, thank you for those good vibes. ❤️
I hope that if and when I ever come down with something scary like COVID, I can handle it with as much grace as this guy right here:
June 16, 2022-
🎶 REUNITED AND IT FEELS SO GOOOOD… 🎶
I genuinely never thought I’d write this update. I was almost positive Ilker and I would never meet at that Starbucks again—that the universe had swept this one beautiful encounter into my life only to send a pandemic to sweep it back out again—but to my utter shock and astonishment this morning, I got a text message at 7:45 AM:
“In USA now. Same Starbucks. Same chair now.”
And y’all, I got my shit together. Tossed my sketchbooks into my canvas bag, herded the kids into the car to bring them to school, then jetted over to that Starbucks with burning eyes and a lump in my throat. As soon as I saw him, he recognized me instantly (even with my mask on) and gave me an enormous heart-exploding hug. “Venessa! Is so wonderful to see you!” he said at the same time as I said, “Ilker, my friend! I can’t believe it!”, and he put his arm around my shoulder and quickly led me to the counter so he could order me my usual cup of tea.
We only had a little more than a half an hour to chat before he had to go to work—a new architecture project here in DC—during which he told me all the things he’s been up to these last couple of years: the sketching classes he taught in Belarus, the Russian exhibition of his artwork (which included a printed translation of THIS VERY TUMBLR POST), his battle against, not one, but two bouts of COVID, and ultimately, the evacuation of his family after Russia’s attack on Ukraine. And as is his way, he spoke of every challenge he and his family have faced together with gratitude for his health, his resilience, and for the small blessings that enabled him to make his way back to the States. I told him how much I appreciated his attitude toward life’s ups and downs because I’ve been learning to count my blessings as well, in large part because he told me to—via text when I was struggling to stay psychologically afloat in the thick of pandemic parenting: “You have health. You have family You have home and food. All will be well my good friend.”
He then brought up my art. And guess what? I SHOWED HIM MY SKETCH BOOK.
It wasn’t as full as I’d hoped it would be by the time I saw him again, and I sheepishly shared how hard it was to maintain a good sketching practice during quarantine when it seemed I was working nonstop thanks to the day job, proctoring Zoom school for the small man, homeschooling the smaller man, and freelance work. But I had done my best, managing to fill up at least 2/3 of it in addition to the finished work I posted to social media.
Now, we’ve followed each other on Instagram and Facebook since that second meeting two years ago, and while we DM’d on a regular basis and he left the occasional comment on my work, I was never quite sure how much of my finished work he’d seen (or even had time to see given he was still working and teaching abroad). But as he flipped through my book (nearly every sketch rendered in ink) he said, “Is very good! I watch you art change! You grow so much! I am so proud!”
When I tell you I could have burst into a rainbow confetti of heart-eye emojis.
Speaking of rainbows: very gently did he ask about the subject matter of my work, which folks who follow my social media accounts know as being mostly representative of LGBTQ+/BIPOC relationships. With trepidation, I told him that I, myself, was a queer BIPOC artist, and that drawing these relationships was a way to validate and love myself, to validate the diverse love of other marginalized groups, and hopefully paint a world into being where such individuals feel seen, comforted, represented, and protected. He nodded along as I explained this, and ultimately put me at ease when he said, “I am man who love woman. But I do not judge on who is gay, who is not gay. Everyone is welcome. As artist, I care about the lines!”
We returned to talking about family and work after that. I got to spill some secrets about projects I’ve been working on, and he told me he’s still playing basketball. He said he’s 67 but never wants to retire. He told me his daughters are now scattered and nearly made me cry when he said, “I have daughter in Istanbul, I have daughter in New York, and now”—he pointed to me—“I have daughter in DC.” When it was time for him to get back to his office, he asked me to see if I could find a local sketching club where we can sign up for figure drawing sessions, and we scheduled a date on the calendar for us to meet back at the Starbucks to draw.
And I suppose there’s no better way to conclude this little Tumblr saga than by saying there’s no true conclusion. It’s like this little miracle showed up in my life at exactly the time I most needed to practice trusting in my ability to grow and adapt, to stay soft during adversity, hold space for new relationships, and above all, embrace where I am in my creative journey. I’m so grateful to have made this connection and to share the wisdom it’s given me with all of you.
Don’t forget: The world needs to see you in the lines.
love the phrase 'methinks'. me does think. thinketh me do.
YOU
DnD storytime:
The Spousal Unit was creating a new character for a campaign and wanted to play a kobold warrior. SU was trying to find the right character angle, I was reminded of the "Noo me am go too far" comic, as we were giggling about that my brain sparked and I asked, "What if it was named Meam." Which then sparked SU's brain, everyone thinks the kobold has broken Common but kobolds actually refer to themselves in the third person because to use first person in kobold culture is self-centered instead of community centered and therefore rude.
Meam turned into a Hell Knight Tiger Lord moon-touched barbarian were-tiger (which was less effective than his kobold form, because tiny) and spoke most eloquently in Draconic.
Started out as a portrait attempt turned paint test, turned into existential horror you’re welcome. No game related stuff because the city is on lockdown. Anyway I haven’t posted art here since 2017, what’s up with that? ...Oh right, I’m finishing my Masters next month.
rb this with ur opinion on this shade of pink:
This is magenta, and not pink. Unlike pink, magenta doesn’t actually exist. Our brain just invents magenta to serve as what it considers a logical bridge between red and violet, which each exist at opposite ends of a linear spectrum.
TL;DR this color is fake (and also I hate it)
Wait til you learn about Stygean Blue
Your brain is a badly-designed hot mess of bootstrapped chemistry that will tell you that all kinds of shit is happening that has no correlation to physical reality, including time travel. It just makes things up. Your brain is guessing about what’s happening when your eyes saccade, what’s happening in your blind spot, and what the majority of the visible light spectrum looks like, and you don’t know it’s happening because it doesn’t aid your survival to become aware that a lot of what you see is fake.
The human eye only has three types of color sensitive cones, which detect red, blue, and green light. Your brain is making up every other color you perceive.
Let’s have a little fun with that thought. This is the visible spectrum of light.
You will of course note that yellow is on the chart. Yellow has a discreet wavelength, and is therefore a distinct physical color. But we can’t see it.
“Sorry, what the fuck?”
What we call yellow is just what our brain shrugs and spits out when our red and green cones are equally stimulated. We have light receptors that can pick up on the physical spectrum of light we call yellow: that’s why yellow things don’t just look like moving black blocks to us. But your brain has no fucking idea what the color yellow looks like.
Some animals have eyes that can perceive the color yellow! Goldfish have a yellow cone in their eyes. If they could talk, they could tell us what yellow looks like. But we wouldn’t be able to understand it.
What your brain actually sees of the color spectrum:
We can measure the wavelength of light, so we know that when we see ‘yellow,’ we are seeing light in that 550-ish nanometers range. But we don’t have a cone in our eyes that can pick that up. Your brain just has a very consistent guess about what color that wavelength of light could be. We decided to name that guess ‘yellow.’ We can’t imagine what yellow really looks like any more than a dog can imagine the color red.
Here’s the funny thing: your brain is never perceiving just one photon of light at a time. Something like 2*10⁸ photons per second are hitting your retina under normal conditions. Your brain doesn’t individually process all of them. So it averages them out. It grabs a bunch of photons all coming from the same direction, with the same pattern, and goes, “yeah, that cup is blue, fuck it, next.”
That’s how colors blend in our eyes. So sure, if a photon of light with a wavelength of 550 nanometers bounces into our eyes, we see what we call “yellow.” But if we see two photons at the same time, coming from the same object, one of which is 500 nms and the other of which is 600 nms, your brain will average them out and you will still see yellow even though none of the light you just saw was 550 nms.
So how does magenta factor into this?
Well, as we’ve just established, when your brain sees light from two different slices of the visible light spectrum, it will try to just average them together. Green plus red is yellow, fuck it. If it’s more red than green, we’ll call that ‘orange.’ Literally who gives a shit, we’re trying to forage over here. There are bears out here and it’s so scary.
What happens if you take the average of blue and red light, which we perceive to be magenta? What’s the centerpoint of that line?
Fucking green.
Hey, that’s not gonna work? We live on a planet where EVERYTHING IS GREEN. If something is NOT green, that means it’s either food, or a potential source of danger, and either way your brain wants you to know about it.
So your brain goes, WHOOPS. Okay - this is fine. We already made up yellow, orange, cyan, and violet. We’ll just make up another color. Something that looks really, really different from green.
And so it made up magenta.
So, physics-wise, is magenta “real?”
No; there’s no single wavelength of light that corresponds to magenta. But you’re rarely seeing only a single wavelength of light anyway. And even when you are, every color other than RGB is a dart thrown on the wall by your meat computer. This is the CIE Chromaticity Diagram:
Explaining this thing is a little more than I want to take on on a Saturday morning, but I’ve included a link above that goes into it a little more. The point is that only the colors that actually touch the ‘outline’ of the shape actually correspond to a specific wavelength of light. All of the other colors are blends of multiple wavelengths. So magenta isn’t special.
Given that color is just a fun trick your brain is playing on you to help you find food and avoid danger, is magenta real?
Yeah, absolutely. Or at least, it’s just as real as most of what we see. It’s what we see when we mix up blue and red. It would be disastrous from a survival standpoint to perceive that color as green, so we don’t. Because it’s not green. Light that’s green has a wavelength of around 510 nm. Stuff that’s magenta bounces back light that is both ~400 and ~700. Your brain knows the difference. So it fills in the gap for you, with the best guess it has, same as it does with your blind spot.
The perception of color exists within your brain, and your brain says you see magenta. So you see magenta.
where’s that quiz where you choose lke 4 colours u like and 4 u dont and it hands your ass on a plate
thank you @cumleaf @@ http://www.astro.com/cgi/atxgen.cgi?btyp=cf
This hurt my feelings
Well fuck me
I have done this thing once every couple months and every time I hate it a little more because it knows me better than I know myself
what THE FUCK
how the FUCK
Even though I asked for this read, I don’t want it
I'm in this and I'm sort of terrified.
oh my fucking god
Everyone go home. The internet is over.
Okay, you know what? I just reblogged this but I wanna get geeky over it. ‘Cause this is some high-class humor right here, and if you don’t get that you need to be educated so here I am about to do the thing you’re not supposed to do and explain the joke, because I’m just really impressed by this joke’s construction, okay?
So back in Paris in the 1920s, the surrealist movement in art was just starting to take off. The surrealist movement was born from the dadaist movement, which was a response to strict societal ideas of what was “art” and what wasn’t. The dadaists made a lot of works to try and challenge society’s ideas of what art even was in the first place, and this continued on into the more sophisticated abstract works of surrealism.
One such artist, Rene Magritte (also known for his paintings of people with invisible heads, or with fruit for heads), painted a work called “The Treachery of Images,” depicting a pipe, and underneath the words (in french) “This is Not a Pipe.” The words were meant to refer to the fact that the painted pipe was literally not a real physical pipe that a viewer could smoke out of, it was just a painting of a pipe.
The painting was extremely meta, and really challenged the habit of allowing oneself to get so immersed in a work of art that one forgets it is a created representation of life, and not actual life. Understanding that alone takes a good deal of abstract thinking ability. And really appreciating and enjoying it requires a certain amount of one’s own frustration with society’s habit of trying to put limits on the definition of art; and being unable to think outside the box and really see something from all possible perspectives, including the perspective of being completely outside the thing.
Now what’s even more fascinating to me is that modern art movements (and I don’t mean “modern art,” I mean actual contemporary art movements that are being led by our peers) are kinda doing the same thing the dadaist movement was doing, but in reaction to the art that came out of the dadaist movement. Things have circled back around again, and abstract surrealist art is now what society has decided “art” is. And our generation doesn’t accept that. Comics, video games, TV shows and movies, graffiti art, web series, even flash mobs, all of these are our generation’s way of saying, “no, society, you don’t get to define art as strictly as ‘if it doesn’t make sense to me it must be brilliant.’ Art can be simple to understand, art can be accessible to all people, art can make you beg to find out what happens next!” And that’s really interesting to me.
Flash forwards to 2006, when rapper Gucci Mane writes a song called “Pillz” in which the phrase “bitch I might be” was coined and used several times. In the song, it’s used as a sarcastic, somewhat indignant but not wholly angry way to say “it’s none of your business,” in response to a beautiful woman in a club accusing the rapper of being high. The phrase became a meme in 2013, following Gucci Mane’s indictment for assaulting a soldier, when a redditor photoshopped a screencap of news coverage of the trial to reference the song. The photoshopped image changed the previous on-screen text to read “Rapper Gucci Mane responds with ‘bitch I might be’ when asked if guilty”. Again, the usage of the phrase is a sarcastic and indignant “none of your business.” The phrase then quickly gained popularity and was added to numerous other photoshopped images.
Now, memes are really cool as a concept anyways, when you think about them hard enough (I mean, the speed at which an entire world full of young people are able to latch onto something as simple as a phrase that they all mutually find funny, and within a matter of days explore every possible usage and implication of that phrase, including how it might relate to other complex systems of knowledge and understanding such as the rich character and plot developments of stories that generate fandoms), but lets put that aside for now and talk about sarcasm, instead.
Because sarcasm is a very sophisticated, complex, and subtle form of wit. It’s a difficult thing to be able to understand, through tone of voice alone, that what someone says, and what they mean, are two different things. And to be able to discern the actual meaning when the words were not said. As wikipedia says, “different parts of the brain must work together to understand sarcasm.“ It’s even harder when those words are typed and not spoken audibly, as the reader must imagine the tone in the first place. That’s a lot of brain work involved in even understanding the true meaning behind that simple little phrase.
And sarcasm is popular right now. More than popular, it’s a hallmark of our generation. People have been writing lengthy articles and psychological, sociological, and anthropological studies and musings on why we’re so sarcastic. As this article suggests, it’s because we’re so angry. We’re a generation that was promised a lot and the world didn’t deliver. We’re disenchanted, and jaded, and mad. And we vent that through sarcastic humor. We laugh at things older generations don’t think are funny. We have come to expect so much disappointment, that we no longer afford “serious” things the respect we’re told they deserve. Because we no longer believe they deserve it. As the article states, “We are a generation that believes nothing is sacred. And if nothing is sacred everything becomes profane.”
One could even go so far as to make the argument that the popularity of the statement on the above image is due partially to the attitude amongst today’s youth (especially on tumblr) that one’s own life and choices are one’s own, and not the business of anybody else. This attitude can be seen in everything as simple as the “be yourself” and “follow your dreams” statements many of us were raised on, to the more serious issues we deal with today of discrimination against the LGBTGA+ community, fat shaming, slut shaming, prejudice against muslim people, etc., to political issues like free speech and government invasion of privacy, and even into more subtle ideas present in social media of privacy settings, controlling who gets to see what posts, block and ignore features, and even the philosophy of “nobody can tell you what to post in your own space. If somebody doesn’t like it, they can unfollow.”
None of this would be happening consciously, of course, but we can’t help but be influenced by the world around us. And a phrase whose meaning is essentially “it’s none of your business” is very likely to resonate strongly with a group of people whose fundamental philosophies of polite interpersonal conduct revolve roughly around the same concept.
Taking all this into consideration, this joke is taking a lot of pre-knowledge and putting it all together to kind of say, in a funny way, “stop acting like you have it all figured out, because you don’t. And some things are just not for you to figure out anyway.”
So to sum up, to understand the above image, you must:
have a descent grasp on art history to recognize the original painting.
have good abstract and/or creative thinking skills to understand and appreciate the original painting.
have a good grasp on modern pop culture, internet culture, and current slang and memes (basically, be an active participant in the wider world).
have the complex emotional and interpersonal understanding necessary to understand the subtleties of sarcasm.
understand enough of what’s going on in the world around you that you are disenchanted enough to appreciate sarcastic humor.
participate in our generation’s general philosophy of life and how to interact with other human beings in the world at large.
So basically, if you laughed, you’re smart. :3
If you publicly and unreservedly condemn the actions of Nazis in Charlottesville and elsewhere, including everything from quiet hate speech to vehicular terrorism, can you please reblog this post.
I think a few friends, a few followers, every Jew who happens across this post and my own heart could do with knowing that there are more of you out there than there are of them
In game, we've been trying to clean house in a major city - the local general had been poisoned, the 2nd in command suicided when we found out, the third in command destroyed the evidence but we were able to overthrow him with a local officer the general promoted on the fly. This week we tried to lure out assasins that had been helping us? We'll see. In art, not my linework but I haven't been arting much. It's funny because I felt like using a coloring book was cheating, but I had a lot of fun with the blending and color theory ^_^
Heeeeeeey I actually worked on stuff last night. That's what I get for not having the laptop on during game XD Also the DM has put everything into a horror bent, and when we wrapped last night we're stuck in a longhouse surrounded by undead and half of it is on fire. So now we know what happened to the villagers...
Yaaaaaaar! I'm working on things for an upcoming kickstarter i can't share yet ( #gravityduels ), so here's a jaunty squid menacing you verily ^_^ We're currently investigating deep within a jungle region looking for friends that were enslaved at a mine; we showed up a day after what looks to be a mutiny, so we're now trying to find out what happened. We have two characters whose races are very water bound, so they had to explain exactly how large "land" could be to us. Land is huuuuge o.o
This was done yesterday during Tom’s Game (we were interrogating people about a large base, then we argued over how to attack said base, then we broke for the night, but I did set up the NPC sniperbomberdude to help out, so I participated, woot). I’ve put this piece in for an ink swap, so hopefully sometime next month it’ll be inked by someone else while I ink someone else’s piece.
Yeah, guess what I’ve been playing lately...
Working on the animal/Asian mythology theme for Flip Hue (one of the higher end backer rewards). I also have a dragon and koi fish to complete before getting them onto the cards. In pathfinder we searched some sunken ships (for booty!) and built a town. Probably in a session or two we'll be doing a big banquet and are contemplating having it at our local Indian restaurant XD
The half elf and company are currently fighting orcs. Earlier today we fought giant bees and an anti magic area with an altar. It's been a weird day.
