Art Tips And A Splatoon Art Demonstration To Help Me Exercise My Wrists Properly? Using Splatoon Terminology??

Art tips and a Splatoon art demonstration to help me exercise my wrists properly? Using Splatoon terminology?? Is this- heaven?

being a self-taught artist with no formal training is having done art seriously since you were a young teenager and only finding out that you’re supposed to do warm up sketches every time you’re about to work on serious art when you’re fuckin twenty-five

*absorbs this into my skin*

As far back as I can remember, I have been obsessed with conformity.

After the school day in grade school, my friends would pull their backpacks off and offer them to their parents. Nothing needed to be said because it was obvious. Of course their parents would take the bag. And they did. I looked at my mother with pleading eyes. I had to beg. It was a 50/50 chance if she took it. By the time she did, the other girls had already run down the street. I was late. I was different.

In shows and books, kids had chores. I never did. I wrinkled my nose and pushed down my irritation. Those kids hated their chores; I couldn’t ask my parents for chores, then. They had to give them to me, and I had to complain. That was normal. That was right. It never happened. I was different.

I hang back in conversations. I wait for other opinions, wait for one I can twist myself to understand and agree with, and then I argue for it. It’s not quite mine, but not quite not mine, either. I might have phrased it differently, or thought about it a little to the left. It’s close enough but I’m still different.

My chemistry teacher said ‘you leave when I dismiss you,’ and I was delighted. That’s a shared experience! That’s a high school thing. I ran to my group chat—I was met with “reallys” and “the fuck” and it was wonderful. It was normal. It was right. “I hate my chemistry teacher,” I said, like reading from a script, a script I so rarely get to act out. They responded right. That was that. It was brief, that elation, but it felt so right, so perfect. It was over so soon, too soon, back to different, back to me.

I can’t like anything until I know somebody else does, too. I can’t believe something unless somebody else does, too. I need somebody to hide behind, some ideal to fit into. A crowd to disappear into. Without one, I’m just me. Different. Weird. Being different is okay if you’re different together. Then it’s not really different at all, is it? It’s the same with someone else. It’s not weird if you’re all weird. That’s just another kind of normal. That’s okay.

I find my new normals and I fade in. I stay there for so long that I begin to define their normal—I become so important they talk about me when I’m not there but that’s not right, is it? I can’t be happy people talk about me when I’m not there, that’s wrong, that’s not blending in- and I’m so happy terrified because I’m important noticeable to them.

I find a new normal, and it’s like a blanket to blend in again. Their normal isn’t anime; they play these phone games, I download them all. Township, Skullgirls, some museum. This is their normal, and I make their normal my normal. It’s easier to remember that their normal is one to imitate instead of define when I’m in person and not online because I’m so bad at in person.

Every sentence has an undercurrent of panic and don’t let them find out what are they going to find out? What am I even hiding? Who am I hiding from?

It’s not like I don’t like the things I make my normal. I get bored with the first, bored with the second, forget about the third, and when I remember it’s with guilt. I return to the game after days on a break only after a painful, genuine, heartbreaking conversation with someone who doesn’t blend in, who rages and yells and is so loud that I wish I could scream with them. But emotion is the one thing I don’t think I can blend in with. When I feel strongly it’s in tears, scared instead of mad and sad instead of angry. Anger is rare and terrifying and it hurts, it always hurts. I don’t think I want to fake that.

I meet her in person and she’s just like me, isn’t she? Not loud or raging, and I knew that, I did—she talked about a real life of quiet and nerves but it’s different to see it, to know that someone scared and quiet can also be loud and raging with me. But I can’t, I can’t even fake that. The mere mention of injustices and misdeeds sends her into a fury, she leaves conversations because they make her so upset. When I’m angry it’s because I pull it up. So rarely am I angry without choosing it, and when I do it turns onto myself. Always.

I return to the game and I return to the new normal, and I’m ahead. He makes self-deprecating jokes, laments at how I got so much further in a month when he’s been playing for a year. How did I mess up a mobile game? Too far, too serious. Too much. I’m the one that catches up, he isn’t—this is wrong. I stop playing.

They start jokes with me as the punchline, and I laugh because that’s their normal, teasing and ribbing and it’s nice, isn’t it? To be part of a joke that’s only about me, to be something that would be missed if I was gone but it’s wrong, they’re doing this wrong. I blend in, I fade back—why am I now something vital? Now I’m sought out, not just invited. A friend holds my hand while I cry. I comfort someone about a grade and bring up a dress to distract her. This is real, genuine—that’s not how it’s supposed to work.

Another friend group—less of a normal to blend into, less of a friendship to uphold. They bring up things they did together without me and I relax—that’s right, that’s how it works. I’m the add-on. I don’t know when to reach out, so I don’t, and I fade into the background.

…this isn’t even about conformity, is it? It started that way—don’t raise your hand when a boy does, they’ll think you have a crush; don’t walk out the door first, they’ll think you’re in a rush—but now it feels like more.

OH MY GOSH! C is also colorblind!!! They would be best friends I have to draw this- I just got into bed but I’m getting right back out- I’m drawing this rn

Inka sees the world in black and white

Both literally and metaphorically

Btw The cartoon one could totally be used as a ref, the rendered one is more of an experiment tho

Inka is colorblind completely bc I just made it up, canon 100%!!!

don’t worry everyone the doctor who wiki has everything under control

AHHH so cute!!!!

Little meet the artist for my first post

I’m still new here but happy birthday none pizza left beef!