Greetings;
Welcome to the gutter where my sketches end up.
Autodidact. Card-carrying outsider art. Subjects: fragile humans, feral animals, and whatever melancholia my pens vomit up.
My style is deliberately feral: jagged, overlapping lines clawing over each other, unapologetically crude. Think ink spilled mid-seizure. (The uglier the emotion, the purer the translation.)
I drew this after a week of pacing past the crumbling stone Virgin in the overgrown lot behind my local library. Every day, the weeds crept higher up her robes, swallowing her feet — like the earth was reclaiming her. Tried to capture that slow, quiet rot: how holiness frays when left untended. Technically, it was hell. How do you make a static statue feel like it’s decaying? Answer: let the lines riot. Clawed the ink until her veil blurred into brambles, robes into roots. Sacrilege? Maybe. But saints, I think, are more interesting when they’re halfway buried.
Drew this after rewatching Serial Experiments Lain for the sixth time—half homage, half exorcism. Always related to her hollowed-out stare, that static between “alone” and “lonely.” Tried to mimic the show’s glitch-DNA: cross-hatched the hell out of the screen glare, let the cables writhe like veins. Did it on Ibis Paint, which felt ironically fitting—clumsy fingers fumbling a digital requiem. The CRT’s curve took 17 layers to get right. (Still not right.) But that’s Lain, isn’t it? The closer you look, the more the seams show. “Present day… present time.”
Drew this during a bad week where every thought felt like barbed wire. Kept imagining my anxiety as this... thing, half-corpse, half-overgrowth. The cracks? Those started as accidental brush strokes, but I leaned into them — carved the figure until it looked less like a body and more like pottery shattered mid-bake. Wanted it to feel like the world was suturing itself to the skin. (Also, my hand cramped halfway through. You can tell by the way the cross-hatching goes feral near the left arm.) Funny how the grotesque can be so honest.