Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta.

I like stuff. Lots of stuff. Wanna see? C'mon!
slapdashing:

These are so intricate. You can spot little faces in some of the… Type Worship

slapdashing:

These are so intricate. You can spot little faces in some of the… Type Worship

thebonegirl:

On one afternoon at the IMC I came back to my desk to find Brian Froud standing there puzzling around my work. I took my seat, and we wound up talking watercolor, faeries, and tarot for about an hour. He asked about my tea, thinking that maybe I was using some magical concoction to paint with (which was not the first time I was asked). We both agreed that it was a fun idea, and Brian vowed that he would steal it for his own work.
I was surprised at first by the conviction in his words when he spoke about fae. There is no doubt and no questioning on the matter. They are an accepted part of his life, his art, and his beliefs.
The topic of fae lingered throughout the week. On the last night, while several of us sat bleary-eyed around Iain McCaig as he sketched in our books with unnatural energy at 4am, I found myself with a hushed circle sitting around me. I had been told to tell Iain one of my stories from Ireland, and everyone who was still hanging out in the room attentively joined to hear it. 
Certainly, there was something a little magical hanging around the IMC.

thebonegirl:

On one afternoon at the IMC I came back to my desk to find Brian Froud standing there puzzling around my work. I took my seat, and we wound up talking watercolor, faeries, and tarot for about an hour. He asked about my tea, thinking that maybe I was using some magical concoction to paint with (which was not the first time I was asked). We both agreed that it was a fun idea, and Brian vowed that he would steal it for his own work.

I was surprised at first by the conviction in his words when he spoke about fae. There is no doubt and no questioning on the matter. They are an accepted part of his life, his art, and his beliefs.

The topic of fae lingered throughout the week. On the last night, while several of us sat bleary-eyed around Iain McCaig as he sketched in our books with unnatural energy at 4am, I found myself with a hushed circle sitting around me. I had been told to tell Iain one of my stories from Ireland, and everyone who was still hanging out in the room attentively joined to hear it. 

Certainly, there was something a little magical hanging around the IMC.