While I'm not participating in Vargas-tober, last month I did this piece as itself.
I had a thought about sitting at the edge of color and life, and the inverse of identities, this was what came of it. Like he's sitting at an inconceivable hole in his personal universe from the outside somewhere, legs dangling over the edge- into it. After he got his own body, I'd imagine his identity would become a constant ".. I can't do that anymore" and maybe while passing a mirror or two - reflective surfaces in public, he'd see his wings, but not as they were, and he'd grieve. (Is it blood again or is it the illumination of the wings across his arms, who knows!)
Metaphor and whatnot aside, my favorite part about this one is the composition of the wings :> found a picture to use as a reference, Tumblr refreshed and I lost it waa.
( @zarla-s )










