Hello, it's me back at reading again, at an undead snail's pace :')
The drawing of Nathaniel and Thel with the stained glass window hits different after reading chapter 3 and knowing that Nathaniel takes photos of corpses (which is a detail I enjoy so much, Victorian corpse photography is something ingrained into my head since childhood, it has a special place in my heart)
Also, shoutout to Lénore's unflattering description of poor corpse/vampire Thel 🤣
YES you get it! Post-mortem photography is fascinating, an obvious inspiration for this guy - I'd like to add that his photographs and the way I describe them is also heavily influenced by the work of Joel-Peter Witkin, which I've been obsessed with ever since an art teacher introduced it to me years ago (I've added a few of his pictures below.)
Back to the stained glass artwork, there's another layer of reading (and echo to the main storyline) if you know about Blow-up, the movie poster it references, where a photographer starts spiralling after inadvertantly photographing what he believes to be a murder.
Len's judgemental monologues were so fun to write haha, I'm glad they resonate with someone :') Anne Rice lied to her and now her stinky boyfriend looks like roadkill, I'd be salty too tbh
Keep the report cards coming, I love them!
(Some Witkin below the cut, content warning for NSFW and dead bodies - heed it if that's not something you wish to see. Dead dove inside, etc:)
The text is also available as a PDF download >here<, if tumblr's formatting isn't your cup of tea.
🇫🇷 Quant à la version originale fr, ça se passe >ici<
General trigger warning for horror, and all the themes that are to be expected within the genre. More specific warnings below the cut if you don't mind spoilers:
Content warnings:
Main themes: death, grief.
Graphic depictions: violence / gore / body horror, self-harm / suicide.
And although I'm a bit on the fence about putting this under graphic depiction, know that sexual assault is implied throughout - the only (somewhat) explicit scenes woud be a notable body horror metaphor in ch.18, and a short catacomb scene in ch.22-1.
Underlying themes: religious trauma / abuse, addiction.
Additional CW: homophobia (most specifically Hollow Hills chapters starting ch.11), some mild nsfw and sexual content, creepy crawlies.
Look! Look at that scraggly wet rat of a man, truly the most accurate depiction of him to have ever graced this blog
Sketch comm by the wonderful @beidak-art !
Chekhov's axe! Initially used as a prop for their black metal band, but also perfect for slaying vampires (and more.) Anya can't be bothered to keep things at her place, so let's invade the guitarist's space instead.
I have one (1) good sketch of her and you'll see it again:
Post-its (and some pictures) on the wall pertain to the band as well, one of them reads (in french): "axe, coffin, corpse." Perfectly average shopping list. Whether they need an actual dead body or not is up to interpretation.
Hi!! Just wanted to say I love your bat drawings aaa
I found you bc of your ocs Maila and Ash from a few yrs ago and I love them sososo much, I was wondering if I could use one of them as a pfp with credit ofc!
It's okay if not, hope you have a good day regardless ^0^
Thank you! Go ahead, I'm fine with that :)
(reminder that there's a FAQ linked in the pinned post btw)
Poor neglected Maila & Ash, they're overshadowed by the novel OCs but I'll get back to them eventually! I hope you don't mind me hijacking your ask to repost some older art, I still like them a lot:
Movie posters but make them queer (and a bit gothic, why not.)
(EDIT: I like the contrast in the original version but the lines look too muddled, which bothers me greatly given that they're an integral part of the artwork - a light background doesn't convey quite the same thing, but I think it's more suited to the intended style.)
Ref under the cut for the curious:
Do you ever wake up one day and decide to redraw an entire lineart from scratch?
I found that my current issue with digital art and the way I approach it is that it enables perfectionism to such a point that, with soft pencil-type brushes especially, I keep obsessing over minuscule details; shaping, weighting, erasing, redrawing lines zoomed in to a ridiculous degree instead of finish anything. Lately, I've been striving to replicate the way I draw lineart with traditional mediums like posca and felt pen: once a line is put to paper (well, the tablet), it's done. No room for mistakes. Hard-edged watercolour brushes seem to do the trick for me; the bad habits still resurface when I lose focus of the bigger picture, but so far it's been paying off.
Also! This was intended as a simple doodle, but wouldn't that be a waste of a good pose? I think it'd be an interesting one to fully render.
Tagged by @purrlockswatson : "Get to know my OCs tag game: write according to how the character would if they were here and had access to Tumblr"
I read too fast and picked Nath, the most overlooked one due to looking like a regular guy (and my favourite, full offence to the crowd-darling goth I draw all the time anyway), without realising this was more of a roleplaying prompt - realistically, he wouldn't have a Tumblr (or any internet presence for that matter) and if you were to ask him these for the world to see, he'd probably tell you to fuck off.
So, full answers as if it were a regular OC ask (pre-Len's death timeline) below the cut:
Currently reading: Skin - Kathe Koja
Current obsession: Hoarding collecting dog shaped trinkets that remind him of Shelley, Hiero and Egon (in addition to his usual death-related collection)
Currently wearing: He's a shirt and black jeans type of guy, doesn't like to stand out. Might feature some shade of red.
Currently watching: 4 hours long youtube video about human composting (probably)
Comfort movie: Tokyo Godfathers (2003 - Satoshi Kon)
Last thing he texted his partner: Bold of you to assume he didn't just ghost him tbh
Last song: Amigo The Devil - Hungover in Jonestown
Last Google search: are cigarettes safe to eat (healthiest human being alive)
Favourite plant: Rafflesia, the corpse flower - a holoparasite that looks and smells like rotting flesh to attract flies
Zenith ; ruthless, my persecutor lazes high in the sky. The blades of a fan are droning, white noise lulling me to sleep as I watch, absent-minded, the hypnotic ripples of a poster across the partition – silhouette outlined by the halo of a light above, a title, blood-red, your favorite movie – and the geometrical patterns of shutters glowing over the tiled-floor, incandescent crucifixes edged with shades of cold.
Outside, the sound of bones rattling in the breeze echoes through the window left ajar. Funeral mobile, scavenged possession.
The shining of glass on the table; a swig of cool water.
On the wall, the mirror reflects a faint shadow. My gaze shifts to a polaroid, frayed age, ashes inside a metal urn permeated with the stench of gasoline; wilted memories, vacant years. Do you forgive me?
I feel it crawling at my feet, your darkness, creeping into my sanctuary, all around and in me; flayed, charred sinews and knucklebones; its coils lick at my skin, invade, penetrate my throat, gird the fragile bars of my ribcage before asphyxiating me.
Then come the cracks; the rupture.
The sound of bones crackling, the sound of bones cackling, of my ribs in agony, of the hands that tear me apart and burn my rotting carcass from within; myriads of white splinters, death mask, backlit face pressed against the pane.
I open my eyes and smother the embers of yet another cigarette.
On the wall, the mirror reflects a quiet grave. The caress of smoke, your ghost, omnipresent, the sound of my bones rattling in the breeze against shards of glass; a swig of kerosene.
Summer has come once more.
[EDIT: Added the english translation, original french below:]
Un jour d'été (Annexe Hollow Hills)
Zénith ; impitoyable, mon bourreau paresse haut dans le ciel. Les pales d’un ventilateur ronronnent, me bercent de leur bruit blanc tandis que j’observe, absent, les ondulations hypnotiques d’une affiche sur la cloison – une silhouette découpée dans le halo d’une lumière en amont, un titre rouge, sanguin, ton film favori – et les entrelacs géométriques des persiennes mi-closes sur le carrelage, crucifix incandescents ourlés d’ombres froides.
Le cliquetis des os qui s’entrechoquent dans la brise résonne de l’extérieur, depuis la fenêtre entrouverte. Un mobile funéraire, possession charognarde.
Scintillement du verre sur la table ; une gorgée d’eau fraîche.
Sur le mur, le miroir reflète une ombre indistincte. Mon regard fuyant tombe sur le polaroid d’une ère à vif, cendres dans une urne de métal aux relents d’essence ; souvenirs fanés, années vacantes. Me pardonnes-tu ?
Je les sens ramper au sol, tes ténèbres, s’insinuer dans mon sanctuaire, tout autour, en moi ; phalanges et tendons écorchés, calcinés ; leurs volutes viennent me lécher la peau, pénétrer ma gorge, m’envahissent, ceignent les barreaux fragiles de ma cage thoracique avant de m’asphyxier.
Puis les fêlures ; les brisures.
Cliquetis des os qui craquent, cliquetis des os qui ricanent, de mes côtes au supplice, des mains qui m’écartèlent et consument ma charogne de l’intérieur ; myriade d’esquilles, masque mortuaire, visage en contre-jour, pressé contre la glace.
J’ouvre les yeux et étouffe les braises d’une énième cigarette.
Sur le mur, le miroir reflète une tombe silencieuse. La caresse de la fumée, ton fantôme, omniprésent, le cliquetis de mes os et des tessons de verre qui s’entrechoquent dans la brise ; une gorgée de kérosène.
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