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  1. #31
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    Oy, all these brushes. Blocking she says.

    Being in a first year art class sorta sucks because terminology! "yeah uh yeah perspective, this is hatching, uh"

    what am i even doing

    THANKS FER THA ADVICE THO

    The short-wave radio hissed static and prophecy.
    “Butchers.” It whispered, so desperately soft. “All of them
    Then it died, and there was nothing left to say.

    Sketchbook
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  3. #32
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    HUFF PUFF HUFF PUFF

    work in prooooogress

    Really fucked up on the leg. It should be on the, well, it should be the other leg. I'm not sure why I kept it that way, laziness I guess.

    Will fix it shortly.

    by the way - that's either a bizarre fucking cape billowing out behind him, or some badass trees. CHOOSE YOUR OWN MISTAKE

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    The short-wave radio hissed static and prophecy.
    “Butchers.” It whispered, so desperately soft. “All of them
    Then it died, and there was nothing left to say.

    Sketchbook
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  4. #33
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    ho hum minor changes

    background and cloak/cape/etc.

    nooo progresss~

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    The short-wave radio hissed static and prophecy.
    “Butchers.” It whispered, so desperately soft. “All of them
    Then it died, and there was nothing left to say.

    Sketchbook
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  5. #34
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    Well, oil pastels. Something pastels. First attempt at using them, but It was really neat. Like crayons but with more... substance?

    Plus, color seems to make more sense when you have like a couple options to choose from. "Oh I guess I can use these four to achieve blah blah blah" Nothing concrete, just experimenting a little.

    stupid shapeless blobs

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    The short-wave radio hissed static and prophecy.
    “Butchers.” It whispered, so desperately soft. “All of them
    Then it died, and there was nothing left to say.

    Sketchbook
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  6. #35
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    Before and after, a panel from a comic I'm trying to make.

    Woo, 3 month absence. I got a lot drawn, but nothing good to show for it.

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    The short-wave radio hissed static and prophecy.
    “Butchers.” It whispered, so desperately soft. “All of them
    Then it died, and there was nothing left to say.

    Sketchbook
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  7. #36
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    Woo crappy bizarre panels

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    The short-wave radio hissed static and prophecy.
    “Butchers.” It whispered, so desperately soft. “All of them
    Then it died, and there was nothing left to say.

    Sketchbook
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  8. #37
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    Why do I suck at drawing realistic people?

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    Last edited by Laros; July 29th, 2009 at 03:10 AM.
    The short-wave radio hissed static and prophecy.
    “Butchers.” It whispered, so desperately soft. “All of them
    Then it died, and there was nothing left to say.

    Sketchbook
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  9. #38
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    Woo, this is so... adjective.

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    Last edited by Laros; July 1st, 2010 at 01:54 PM.
    The short-wave radio hissed static and prophecy.
    “Butchers.” It whispered, so desperately soft. “All of them
    Then it died, and there was nothing left to say.

    Sketchbook
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  10. #39
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    WELL WELL WELL. Some assorted garbage I drew today, since Easter implies either wizardry or undeath. Science fact.

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    The short-wave radio hissed static and prophecy.
    “Butchers.” It whispered, so desperately soft. “All of them
    Then it died, and there was nothing left to say.

    Sketchbook
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  11. #40
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    Sometimes, I really wish I got replies.

    Anyway, these guys are three villains form a story I'm working on. The Preacher, the Student, the Cult Leader. Guess which is which? Drew 'em a bit ago.

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    The short-wave radio hissed static and prophecy.
    “Butchers.” It whispered, so desperately soft. “All of them
    Then it died, and there was nothing left to say.

    Sketchbook
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  12. #41
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    A barren old tree that never had any leaves - never had, never will -
    stood hunched upon a hilltop where the grass was sparse and browning. A
    barren old tree, hunched atop a dying hill, cast a shadow that never
    faded with the sunlight, was blacker than the deepest shade of night.

    A barren old tree with an endless shadow stood hunched upon a hilltop;
    beneath it, ensconced between the traceries of veins and gnarled roots
    were five stone markers. Beneath a barren old tree with an endless
    shadow, five stone markers lay still; four were blank and always were
    (always would be), but the fifth bore a name.

    The name belonged to no one at all.

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    Last edited by Laros; April 4th, 2010 at 10:08 PM.
    The short-wave radio hissed static and prophecy.
    “Butchers.” It whispered, so desperately soft. “All of them
    Then it died, and there was nothing left to say.

    Sketchbook
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  13. #42
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    My girl, my girl, don't lie to me.

    Tell where

    did you sleep

    last night

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    Last edited by Laros; July 1st, 2010 at 01:59 PM.
    The short-wave radio hissed static and prophecy.
    “Butchers.” It whispered, so desperately soft. “All of them
    Then it died, and there was nothing left to say.

    Sketchbook
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  14. #43
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    Such huge images, christ.

    Last edited by Laros; July 1st, 2010 at 12:00 PM.
    The short-wave radio hissed static and prophecy.
    “Butchers.” It whispered, so desperately soft. “All of them
    Then it died, and there was nothing left to say.

    Sketchbook
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  15. #44
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    So many pictures, christ.

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    Last edited by Laros; July 1st, 2010 at 12:55 PM.
    The short-wave radio hissed static and prophecy.
    “Butchers.” It whispered, so desperately soft. “All of them
    Then it died, and there was nothing left to say.

    Sketchbook
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  16. #45
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    I love how I only decided to post here because I heard I'd get constructive feedback, as opposed to Deviantart (where I only got no feedback).

    And I never get feedback.

    And I still always post more in some vain hope of getting some. IT'S SUCH AN ABUSIVE RELATIONSHIP.

    Also, I'm sort of disconcerted by my unusual focus on black and white images. It's stylistic but rather boring sometimes (most of the time) and I rather wish I could color, but coloring only makes my boring artwork look worse than it already does.

    I should probably try to find ways to practice this.

    The short-wave radio hissed static and prophecy.
    “Butchers.” It whispered, so desperately soft. “All of them
    Then it died, and there was nothing left to say.

    Sketchbook
    Reply With Quote Reply With Quote  

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