I like the word fungal but it doesn't rhyme.
In my previous post on doodles, I mentioned that absentminded sketches help me think creatively. They visually record telephone conversations or other snippets of my subversive mind.
I keep many of my doodles. Little slips of paper appear anywhere and everywhere; deep in a shoe bag, at the bottom of my purse, under the car seat, in my cheque book, or interspersed among important papers at work.
Several of my paintings have begun with a few lines. A quick, amusing drawing (frequently ironic or satirical) can get me going.
I decide to scan this particular doodle to see where it will take me.
The notepad I have drawn on has blue flowers permanently printed in two opposing corners. I assume the they are there to make the pad appear more feminine (cringe). I pretend they aren't there and let my pen go with the flow.
I realize that I must have dropped something on the drawing, tea or other brown liquid because there is a stain on the paper, which affects my thoughts and perceptions.
This poor bloke looks emaciated and hard done by. A cigarette hangs from his mouth.
Using Photoshop, I add a bit of colour here and there to emphasize the shape of his undernourished body. His face becomes somewhat red, (perhaps he's a drinker and would rather ingest firewater than eat).
Initial modifications are done with the mouse but eventually I switch to my digital tablet for fine tuning. A few tiny red lines add bloodshot to his eyes.
I imagine him standing in the darkness of a cheap, smelly room peering through a window that is dusted with grime and smoke.
Straight pink lines suggest a door that I eventually distort to reflect his ruminations. The flowers seem misplaced, yet not. He appreciates beauty but is incapable of holding onto it.
How many souls have I seen staring at a sun that longs to penetrate dirty panes of glass? Way too many.
I keep many of my doodles. Little slips of paper appear anywhere and everywhere; deep in a shoe bag, at the bottom of my purse, under the car seat, in my cheque book, or interspersed among important papers at work.
Several of my paintings have begun with a few lines. A quick, amusing drawing (frequently ironic or satirical) can get me going. I decide to scan this particular doodle to see where it will take me.
The notepad I have drawn on has blue flowers permanently printed in two opposing corners. I assume the they are there to make the pad appear more feminine (cringe). I pretend they aren't there and let my pen go with the flow.
I realize that I must have dropped something on the drawing, tea or other brown liquid because there is a stain on the paper, which affects my thoughts and perceptions.
This poor bloke looks emaciated and hard done by. A cigarette hangs from his mouth.
Using Photoshop, I add a bit of colour here and there to emphasize the shape of his undernourished body. His face becomes somewhat red, (perhaps he's a drinker and would rather ingest firewater than eat). Initial modifications are done with the mouse but eventually I switch to my digital tablet for fine tuning. A few tiny red lines add bloodshot to his eyes.
I imagine him standing in the darkness of a cheap, smelly room peering through a window that is dusted with grime and smoke. Straight pink lines suggest a door that I eventually distort to reflect his ruminations. The flowers seem misplaced, yet not. He appreciates beauty but is incapable of holding onto it.
How many souls have I seen staring at a sun that longs to penetrate dirty panes of glass? Way too many.
"C'mon Diane, it's only a doodle..."
"Yes, and my mind is free to wander."
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