On that note, hyperpigmentation is really normal amongst women of color and we shouldnāt be shamed for it. Dark underarms, dark elbows, dark knees, dark inner thighs, dark spots, and even dark necks are normal. Itās not always indicative of a medical issue the way it is with white women. And even in the case that itās exacerbated due to insulin resistance, that really is not for you to be pointing out. Itās rude and I promise whoever it is is already acutely aware of it.
The sheer amount of people reblogging and tagging this with how they thought they were the only ones and how this has made them cry over the years breaks my heart because I can relate.
Youāre not a freak and thereās nothing wrong with you. Itās literally white supremacy babe.
26-year-old Jamarion Robinsonās grandmother Beverly Nixon said her grandson was bipolar and schizophrenic. Still got shot 76 (!!!) times. Would a white person get the same treatment?
The witness said he saw more than a dozen patrol cars at the complex where US Marshals killed Robinson on August 5, 2016. Why were there no behavioral specialist? Surely one of them would know how to interact with a bipolar schizophrenic better than the police.
Iām absolutely disgusted.
Hereās Jamarionās motherās GoFundMe in case anyone is willing to help.
hello i am here today to not lose track of the art cheats i have discovered over the years. what i call art cheat is actually a cool filter/coloring style/way to shade/etc. that singlehandedly makes art like 20 times better
80ās anime style
glitch effect
glow effects
adding colors to grayscale paintings
foreshortening ( coil )
foreshortening ( perspective )
clipping groupĀ (lines)
clipping group (colors)
dramatic lighting ( GOOD )
shading metal
lighting faces
that is all for today, do stay tuned as i am always hunting for cool shit like this
I'm worried about the next electricity bill bound to come in the next couple of weeks š folks are getting charged like $9000 per megawatt. Fuck the Texas officials who got us into this mess
And while we're here, if youd like to see direct action for holding Ted Cruz responsible for his failure to serve his state, you can do it with a simple text!
TEXT: PJENDN to 50409 to send a prewritten letter to your representatives!
If only if only the woodpecker sighs the bark on the tree was as soft as the sky why the wolf waits below hungry and lonely he cries to the moon if only if only
One time I didnāt and I was broke for like a month but the next time I seen it I rebloged it and a bitch just got 500 out the blue and a 20 gift card
Fuck Iām at a fencing tournament and literally a minute after I reblogged this my dad told me that he talked to the point people and Iām probably going to win a medal.
I need to follow up to say I reblogged this last night, and this morning I got some of the best news of my life, like, a life dream come true news thing.
FUCK, I though it was just another lucky meme but LISTEN. Since a week ago I was waiting a phone call to confirm me if I got a job or not in my university. I reblogged this yesterdayās night ājust for fun and because I donāt want any bagel to be mad with meā, and todayās afternoon, while I was losing my time as always, the professor I was supposed to work with called me and asked me for my personal information to start working with her.
Last time I reblogged this, I was complaining to my mum how I never got to go on walks alone. Then, she legit said to me, āwell why donāt you go down to *censored*?ā Which sheād never let me do before. I had three hours. In a place half an hour from home. It works.
WHAT YOUR PRIVILEGED ASS SEES AS AN OPPORTUNITY TO PROMOTE YOUR SELF INVOLED IDEOLOGY, FLEX YOUR TALKING POINTS AND SHOWCASE YOUR GOOGLED STATISTICS š.... IS A TOPIC THAT MEANS LIFE & DEATH FOR A MARGINALIZED INDIVIDUAL OR GROUP.
with everything going on in regards to the group of trans women who were recently attacked, it's not enough to post "black trans lives matter" and leave it at that. if you truly believe that, you need to be ensuring their survival by donating to and supporting black trans women directly.
Iām Amari! Iām 22 years old and Iām a black trans woman. Iām also a 3D artist and Iāve been makā¦ Amari Ferguson needs your support for Amari
Tsunami is an Afrolatinx transgender woman currently incarcerated in Washā¦ Carman Spoto needs your support for Help Free a Black Trans Sex
I'm a Black, non-binary femme ballet dancer and yoga instructor. Already struggling in theā¦ Javier Banks needs your support for Secure Housi
Jasiri, a 16 y/o transgender girl, is looking to get out of an unaccepting household, where sheā¦ Alex Jackson needs your support for Jasiri'
Hello everyone my name is Samathaa Iām a 25yr black trans women. I recently jā¦ Raven Valentine needs your support for Black trans women invo
Beloved NYC abolitionist, freedom fighter, and tireless comrade in the struggle for Black trans liberation, Lady O, is fundraising for long-
I was a survivor of a hate crime. Got hit in the face with a baseball bats in ā¦ Devin Burnett needs your support for Help with teeth extract
We are raising funds to help a Black trans woman escape her abuser. Her abuser hā¦ Rebecca J Nelson needs your support for Help Black Trans
It feels strange writing this. I try not to ask for help because weāre all struggling right now bā¦ Christian Mckoy needs your support for Bb
hi!! i'm sai, a 20 year old black trans person who just recently moved out of a toxic environmeā¦ Sai Land needs your support for Help Sai St
black trans women please feel free to add your links below as well!
The initiative was begun by Ashley Scott and Renee Walters, two Black women who wanted to build a safe space for their own families.
"We needed to create a space and a place where we could be a village, again, a tribe, again," Scott said. "We wanted to create this safe space where we can address our own issues and concerns."
Japanese tea bag maker Ocean-Teabag has been making waves by creating little parcels of aroma in the shape of marine animals. Luckily for us, their wide range of tea bags are available at online Japanese novelty retailer Village Vanguard, maker of such fine products as Space Tea and cat-shaped kitchen utensils.
Ocean-Teabagās earliest designs included beautiful dolphin tea bags filled with blue mallow tea leaves. Steeping them turns your otherwise normal pot of water into a tranquil ocean. Proving to be a hit among tea lovers, Ocean-Teabag expanded their repertoire to many other sea creatures including the sea turtle (butterfly pea jasmine tea)ā¦
the distinctive ocean sunfish (Japanese hojicha ā roasted green tea)ā¦
the graceful manta ray (tropical mango tea)ā¦
and even a blood-thirsty shark (blended herb tea).
The newest addition to their robust series of marine creatures is a tea bag shaped like an innocuous sea cucumber. This little parcel is filled with jasmine tea, as well as a smidgen of sea cucumber powder to lend some authenticity. Ocean-Teabag warns that some people who have a sensitive tongue may find it tasting a little fishy.
The company also crafted a deep sea series that will satisfy even the most adventurous of tea drinkers out there.Ā A few such examples are the anglerfish (earl grey tea)ā¦
the creepy giant isopod (Eastern Beauty oolong tea)ā¦
the horseshoe crab (white apricot tea)ā¦
ā¦and lastly the king of them all, the enormous giant oarfish. ( Delicious Assam tea of epic proportions! ) Just like its namesake, it measures a whopping 19 centimeters (7.5 inches). Drinking tea becomes an art when half of your tea bag hangs out of your cup.
Ā While the notion of turning your cup of tea into fish-inhabiting waters is not new, these tea bags will hopefully conjure up images of gentle ocean waves in your mind.Ā
Story Time: Get a load of what happened to me at Starbucks today.
Thereās a running joke among people who know me personally that I unwittingly go out in public with a sign on my forehead stating āI Am Non-Threatening. Come Talk To Me.ā Because if thereās a chance a bizarre conversation with a total stranger is going to happen, Iām typically the person it happens to.
Some context: I have been pretty darn sick this week. (Itās not Coronavirus, donāt 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 havenāt been able to work these last couple of days. As a result, Iāve been using my down time to knock out as much of Manuās redesign as possible. Today, to ensure I didnāt 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 sonās 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. āIām sorry,ā he said (in a thick accent I couldnāt place geographically), āI donāt want to disturb. I notice you art. You are artist!ā
I tried to smile. āYes, Iām... Well, Iām trying to be,ā I croaked.
He leaned in, like he was sharing a secret.
āI am artist, too.ā
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.
āCan I?ā he asked, holding his phone up.
āTake a picture? Uh... sure,ā I said. Itās 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.
āI am artist. Architect and Designer,ā he clarified while he steadied his phone over my iPad. āI am Ilker. What is your name?ā
āIām Venessaā I said, trying to be polite. This, I thought warily, is precisely how I get myself into trouble. Iām too damn nice.
āYou know, I come to America twenty years ago from Turkey...ā
I put down my stylus. This was going to be a while.
āI like Turkey,ā he explained. āI like the country and I like the people. But I am artist. I am not... religious man.ā
I nodded.
āI told my wife I was going to go to America and she said, āwhat are you going to do? You donāt have job! You donāt have money! No Visa!ā And I said, āI am artist and architect. I will paint and sell my paintings.
āSo 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.
āOne day, a man comes over to me and he say, āI like your painting. I see you are also architect.ā 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.
āI tell him I donāt know anything about contracts. I have no Visa. I am not American citizen. But he says, āThatās okay. I will take care of everything. You will have nothing to worry about.ā 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.ā
āWow,ā I said, not fully believing the veracity of what sounded like a full-on immigration fairy tale.
āHere,ā said Ilker, unlocking his phone and opening up his Facebook app. āI show you my work.ā He paused and looked up at me. āI am interrupting. You donāt mind?ā
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. āPlease,ā I said, gesturing for him to go ahead.
He opened his photos and my jaw dropped. His work... was UNREAL.
āThis is building I designed on Madison Ave.... And this one in Chelsea...ā
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, heād 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.
Yāall, I was stunned. I couldnāt believe the talent I was sitting next to. Scattered among these gloriously rendered images of some of the most beautiful building concepts Iād 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. āI hope you donāt 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.ā
I nodded, a lump in my throat. āThank you,ā I managed. āYour work is astonishing. I donāt even know what to say. What is your name again?ā
He held out his hand once more. āIlker Kocahan,ā he said. āI am getting more coffee. Can I get you one?ā
I looked at my still-full venti cup. āNo thank you. But here, please take my card.ā
He held my dinky business card like Iād 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 heās retired. My heart ached to hear him talk about that, knowing how our leadershipās 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 hadnāt 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. Iāve 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 Kocohanās work, please click here.
Ilker Kocahan holds a bachelorās 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 āSimon Is On the Groundā 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 wasnāt sure heād 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 heād 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 heād sold it because he really loved how it came out.
āThis is no detailed like yours,ā he said, comparing his painting to my panel of Simon and Baz. āMine is simple. But in a few strokes, I can capture the life of the lady.ā
He took his napkin, turned it over, and pulled a pen out of his chest pocket. āLook there,ā 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. āYou see,ā he murmured as he ran his pen over the napkin, āI can, with speed, capture the man. I donāt have hours to ask him to sit. I must let go of the planning.ā
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 manās 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 Iāve 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 didnāt know what to do with myself as he sat there and flipped through the pages.
Eventually, he nodded approvingly and said, āOkay! Is good. But this is sketchbook like every other.ā He gestured at the page. āWhere are you?ā
I was lost for how to respond, but lucky for me, heās a talkative guy seemingly incapable of awkward silences.
āThe world needs to see you in the lines,ā he explained. āSomeone can look at my work and know, āthat painting is from Ilker Kocahan.ā You need to draw more and more so that when people look at your drawings, they will know: this work is Venessaās work.ā Then he shrugged and said, āAnd who knows. I will maybe see you in two years at this Starbucks, and by then, your drawings will be truly yours.ā
Iāve 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 didnāt 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:
(Donāt worry. I kept it.)
So when he talked about āfinding meā in my sketches, I really think he could senseāby the light scratch of the pencil, the trace evidence on the paper of my erasing and failed attemptsāmy 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 canāt erase it, and in that way, give myself no choice but to commit to the lines.
The conversation turned to lighter things after that. Heās 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.) Heās 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. Heās likely in Belarus right now with his wife.
I wonāt lie and say Iām 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. Iād love to see if I can fulfill Ilkerās 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.
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