Imagine Mortys voice: "Oh geez Hivers, why do I have to do this?" Actually you don't have to imagine, just listen.
Three more Inktober inkings with pictures ruthlessly torn out of Hjemmet magazine from 1969. I wasn't even born then. In 1969 I mean, not at the time when I tore the magazine. Just clarifying if you were left pondering about that thing. At least I think I was born before I tore the pages.
Hmm...
I think I have to come back to that later. Being born and not... borning.
First there's this stupid crystal.
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Funny (not haha funny but sad funny) how hard it is to draw something so simple like a crystal. Freakin' hard!
So I though one of these people have to be named Crystal, taped them to my sketching book and started the excruciating drawing part of this inktober thing I have going on here, thought that I might as well crystallize the people I chose to take part on my terrible experiment, was horrified of the result, tried to make it better by adding color to it in Photoshop and still couldn't quite pinpoint the exact spot where my drawing is the most awful. Awfullest. It's all just awful.
I could have tried and tried this again and again, draw, draw and draw until my fingers would bleed and that would also automatically be the ink when inking, but decided to evaluate it's goodness with my eyes closed and just imagine how it looks, decided that now it's okay and moved on.
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I thought that one knot is not enough so I drew lots of knots. So not a knot but several knots. One could say that this drawing is a little bit knotty. There's the Hjemmet magazine OMO washing powder ad knot trousers hanging from a branch with a knot on a knot tree with a tree knot growing from a knot grass and a naughty (k)not alien with hands on knots reaching for the ultimate knot of all knots, not knowing that it's no use as the noose is loose and that he misses a neck to dangle from.
Was that nutty enough?
I could continue joking about death and suicide but let's save something for the next posts.
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Birds, birds, birds and a weird guy.
Creepy stalker.
I wonder, is there an option when stalking isn't creepy?
Unless it's Edgar Allan Poe, then it's not that creepy. Just a little.
But I'm afraid poor Edgar wasn't born in 1969. He was... what's the opposite word for being born, unborn? Yes. That's it. Unborn! Edgar Allan Poe was unborn in 1969 when that magazine article was made where I ripped the picture out of and also there's a second fact to back my argument that this creepy dude is not The Edgar Allan Poe we are looking for.
Do you know it?
Did you guess it?
The second fact?
Isn't it obvious?
Yes.
My thoughts exactly.
It's the smile.
Reading Edgar Allan Poe's work convinces me that he never smiled. Never. Never ever and nevermore. Because life and love is pain all the way from start to finish. From the day you are born to the day that you are unborn. Shear misery.
P.S.
Try to say 1969 with thinking about 1961 and it ends up being nineteensixtywine.
I think it's Friday.
And I don't even drink.