heello do you have any tips for noobie artists? ur art is just so very neat to me :) plz never stop arting
Never do what I do unless it is drawing all the time
Use references!! Always use them!!! Seriously please use references never let a stupid little rat in your ear take that away from you, they are always so valuable
If you see art you like, don’t be afraid to basically try recreating the same exact thing. All you have to do is not claim it as youre own, and better yet don’t post it online! It’s for practice, people don’t need to see practice in the end it’s only for you
Tracing is NOT wrong. I’m tired of people saying ohhh tracing is bad don’t do it ITS LITERALLY NOT!!!! Just don’t trace over someone else’s work/images and claim it as your own it’s that easy. If youre struggling with hands take photos of your hands and trace over it! Break them down into simple forms until you have an understanding of them in a meaningful way!
Do some studies of specific things. Struggling with leg anatomy? Draw a page full of legs, just push and pull and scribble and see what works, study images and see how you can reproduce it or stylize it
Never feel like you need to find your own art style immediately, that task is practically impossible. Everything comes from something, be inspired by others take little art bits from styles you like and only then can you create your own style!! (I mean dawg my style can be broken down into adventure time, owl house, invader zim, gooseworx, eddsworld, sr pelo, a few others im probably forgetting)
Don’t worry about broadcasting your work, not everyone needs to know all that you draw, the internet can be a hateful place and it really does suck a lot but also try not to rely on strangers online for support on everything you do, I know it is hard and that approval feel good I cannot deny it but remember to keep some stuff for yourself, a little treat where nobody can criticize you :)
Try to draw everyday! Or having a sketchbook where you make it a goal to completely fill 2 pages a week, and if that’s too much then just some doodles! Art takes a lot of constant practice, and there’s really nothing more fun than just having a little sketchbook with you where you draw random stuff all the time. When I was doing that I would make 2 page mini invader zim comics
I feel like a bit of a hypocrite because I do maybe 1 of these things but i know they are really good, I have done them before and they were super helpful! But in the end I think the best you could do is just keep at it! Don’t let people get you down, do your own thing, break rules if you want, it’s all art and art is AWESOME!!!!!!!
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https://www.tumblr.com/olderthannetfic/748370073567313920/i-think-for-me-one-of-the-big-stumbling-blocks-i
I agree with the points in replies that it’s the pushy loli guys’ behavior that marks them as creepy and you’ll never know the people who are quiet about it, because they are not creepy and show that by respecting people’s boundaries.
But idk… people in the reblogs are insisting that there’s never any relationship between the fiction you like and your IRL fetishes and, cmon. Can we all agree that that’s oversimplified in the opposite direction? Some people do choose particular media because it gets them off. And there’s def anime that wouldn’t appeal to you unless you’re specifically into the idea of fucking lolis being a-ok. It’s different from media that has other features and that’s one element of it, or it’s specifically about that it’s an unrealistic fantasy,
I think the conversation isn’t helped when we act like admitting that means you support censorship or think things should be banned, or support anti style harassment. I mean there’s a difference between the kind of thing anon is talking about with privately judging people, looking out for red flags, deciding privately that you don’t want to hang out with people who are into certain things, vs. harassment campaigns and callouts and trying to get people fired like antis do.
Fiction rarely has an exact 1:1 relationship with what you are into IRL… but it’s also not completely UNrelated all the time, either. Especially when talking about porn. And by telling people it’s ever wrong to even privately judge people for those preferences you ARE in fact discouraging people noticing red flags and also just forcing them to deny their lived experiences.
….is what I think anon was trying to say anyway.
I don’t think erasing all nuance really helps anything but deliver people who’ve had experiences like anon’s into the hands of antis. Like there needs to be a safe space for people especially women and LGBTQ+ people who’ve dealt with abusers and creeps who used media as a part of their abuse, to talk about their experiences without being shouted down for not having the “right” rhetoric.
I think part of why antis are a problem is a lot of people aren’t finding much other room to talk about that. Anti spaces are the only ones that seem to acknowledge that. Like I think anime fandom especially younger spaces really have an anti problem because anime fandom more broadly has such a big creepy dude problem and, even if not every single person who likes loli/shota/etc. is a creep, it’s hard not to notice that the friendlier an anime fan space is to discussing that stuff or discussing rapey slavery isekai or whatever, the more it draws in higher numbers of creeps. You can be a non creep and like that stuff, but it does have an overall higher percentage of creeps who like it than, say, your average shounen action show and let’s not pretend we don’t understand why.
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more undead keith because writing this thing has taken over my life
(and a chunk of said Thing under the readmore...)
The quiet moment passes, the faint cries of night-flying shorebirds distant on the air, and Keith watches them as they drift by. There are no boats left in readiness on Morar beach tonight, nor are the distant sails he recalled visible in the slot where the bay meets the sea. Disappointment upon disappointment — not only is he dead, but his usefulness at this post has evidently perished for the moment as well. His discomfort extends beyond the internal in that moment, as an odd twisting sensation curls its way through his cheek. Keith winces against it, his mouth curling half against his will as the out-of-place, crawling feeling moves upwards towards his cheekbone.
Looking down at his grave-muddied hands, his blood-marred waistcoat, panic fills him as understanding dawns, and he claws frantically at the source of the sensation. He digs his fingernails deeper against his face, and with a quick harsh motion, pulls a thin grey worm free of the hole in his cheek. Cursing, he flings it away and tries to tidy himself as best he can. There’s not as much dripping as he had briefly worried there might be, except for that slick half-dried mess all down the front of his waistcoat. Whoever had buried him had done it hastily, not stopping to neaten up the corpse beforehand. And lucky for him that they had, too — it would have been far more trouble to get free had the grave been any less shallow.
Unsettled again by the revelation of his decayed state, Keith folds to sit on what was previously his grave, elbows resting on his knees and his hands beneath his chin in a manner that purposefully avoids any further exploration of the new holes in his face. Gathering himself somewhat, he attempts to get his bearings. How long had he been buried? This is the question he prefers, for how long has he been dead only raises further and worse questions.
The moon has shifted significantly since he had seen it last, now stretching to form a broad arc of light against a sky as tossed with clouds as the sea might be with waves. But that means little to Keith at this moment. He has no idea of how long he had spent insensible and under earth, and no way of measuring out that time. By the turn of the moon, it could have been anywhere from a few days to a handful of weeks, or even more.
A consultation of his watch does him no good, for he has found already that it is gone entirely, as is his purse. Whoever had buried him had taken little care enough with his body, but had made a quick enough search of it for valuables, for there is little now left of any such thing. Wrapping his arms around himself against the sudden further chill, Keith notices that the epaulette has been cut from the shoulder of his coat. An odd enough choice of twofold theft and humiliation, but one that cuts at him just as decisively as the knife itself had taken hold in wool and in gold bullion, for in that instant Keith recalls that in his death, he had been forced into that decision that he had been so hesitant to make in life.
He had not known, then, that those were to be his last few minutes as a man living and breathing, hale and whole. It was not a proper soldier’s grave he had been given, without even the honor of a coffin to protect his body briefly from the scavengers and creeping insects that would have surely come for him had he remained much longer in the grave. Keith Windham, major though he was, has been abandoned again on the shore of Morar, hidden away out of sight to hide the failure of all involved. And now that he has risen from that death-marked secrecy, would he be any more desired? Would the garrison want a man with death-dripping holes in his face and a rotted, shambling walk, and beyond that, a man who had now disgraced himself twice over?
He had done the best he could for king and country, but could not say that he had given his life fully in their service. A year before, he would have thought it a fit price and a fit gift, to die beneath King George’s banner, for such was the other side of the coin of his expected fate. Toss the silver shilling, watch it spin in the air, catch it in sure sword-callused hands and see how it lands — one side is victory, the other side death.
But the wheel of the year had turned, and Keith Windham has been made to turn with it, swept off his feet by the rush of it as the seasons shifted and carried him along on each battle’s sweeping tide. Had it really only been a year? Keith counts out the days, estimating turning to guessing once again. It had been mid-August when he had set foot in Scotland for the first time, and mid-August again at the last. Somewhere in that year, the bright shilling of his fate has been melted and recast, king’s-head and crest turning to images indiscernible to Keith’s eyes.
Despite it all, it is still easy enough to put it away again, to slip the coin of fate into a pocket and carry it without feeling much of the weight of it at all. Keith is well practiced at such things; he drags himself upright and walks on, the cold weight of the far future no longer heavy in his hand.
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