I don't know where to begin, and I presume that most of my readers are already up to date. But starting with a certain Twitter account, I am constantly amazed that the writer is more than twelve years old. (The level is sort of “Evil is Bad”, “Everyone Else is Wrong” and “Now they're teasing me again!”) I've also learned that he is followed by a responsible adult at all times, which at first sounded good as this wildly twittering thing has been proclaimed President of the United States of America. The adult has a uniform, too. And is holding a football for the kid. Unfortunately it's not any American football but The Football, which is actually a leather case containing the information and means to start a nuclear war and the total eradication of life on this planet. It's not a suitable toy for such twelve year olds. It might contain loose parts.
I've also filled the landscape with factory chimneys; these little trumplings are slowly doing to the planet what a well guided nuclear attack could do more efficiently, but we spare no means... Look! Such cute little fingers!
Now, where were we. I've done some lifting to the toupee, temporarily revealing all the happy little Bluebirds of Bliss.
As for the name, finally, I found this cute little poo-tee-weet from early Trumpery:
“I think I might have more Indian blood than a lot of the so-called Indians [...]”
(See Washington Post.)
And now that he's Chief of the Nation, I thought that he would have some name that sounded more native, hence Chief Tinypaws. But what's in a name. We're all equal, as we'll All Go Together When We Go.
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Update. At finishing time, the boy actually made a tweet so long that it needed two posts.
Yes, for personal reasons I tried to make this little study as uncomfortable as possible; the feeling of being dragged back into uterus with no say at all in a world of silent, quenching rules and equally discrete punishment. I imagine that one of those signs is the law of Müh Bing, a very severe one that must not be broken. Nobody tells you, however, what Müh Bing is. Or which one.
All came from this little sketch in this low resolution (yes, this is a digitally produced nightmare), and I kept some of the thick lines where possible, only refining them slightly.
And so it turns out that I'm human. And actually prone to get tired at times. And the ideas that I churn out -- there are plenty of those -- many of those are beyond realisation. So here we go, just a little sketch, a bissle later than I wanted. Take care.
A little bag-atelle with a bag drawn with the sweet help of Johanna the Muse.
The odd happenings in the background originated as premiere squiggles drawn by aforesaid sweet Muse on the electric pad. These non-figurative riddles I then proofed as figurative, but no less enigmatic figures -- your guess as usual what they're up to. I found that the blank slate in the foreground make a nice contrast to the "stars" in the background -- Christmas lighting of the neighbourhood tweaked and manically multiplied.
Here we see one of the squiggles transformed into... a merry game of Something.
According to Johanna the Muse, the Butterflies have windows because...
...well, she doesn't know really. Perhaps their etherical fluttering is a window to another world, one of Beauty?
Dear Readers,
Happy New Year!
A new spin of our strange little globe around the closest star; a new and fresh little drawing is taking shape.
It might have an entirely different character with colours on, perhaps soiling the purity of the lines, but we'll see -- just a little further down 2017. I might even, just might, give you some clue as to what's going on. But that's not a resolution.
