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Edited by II Smiggles II:
8/13/2015 1:10:54 PM
730
Art Hub
We often find ourselves discouraged by those that can do what we love better than us.
We also often forget that they struggled and put a lot of work to be where they are now.
One doesn't simply wake up one day and have been granted unsurpassed talent in any particular subject.
The time old method of honing your craft is to practice.
But sometimes that isn't enough. You need guiding hands. Support. Reassurance and peers to lean your shoulder on.
In this thread you can discuss your art blocks, inspirations, favorite artists, share tutorials, and give your hand to your fellow artists. Whatever your niche may be, there's someone there to lend an ear and provide a step ahead.
If you have tutorials/videos that may help or artists you find inspiring feel free to share them under the designated sub-thread.
If you want to share your art without a critique say so when you post it.
If you want one make sure to state that.
Some personal guidelines I follow under the cut
[spoiler]
1. [b]Use References. [/b]
Unless you know you've got the feel of something completely memorized by heart and hand you should always use a photo to help you. You will learn faster and with less frustration/pain. Even if you're doing a cartoon piece. Cartoons are simply real things simplified.
2. [b]Do not ever learn anatomy from drawings. [/b]
Art is often stylized and it's not always correct. While it's fine to learn style and carve out your own, studying anatomy from other artist's work will hazard fatal mistakes and minimize actual learning.
3. [b]Keep your old doodles. [/b]
Even if you hate them. You can either later reflect on them to see what you've learned, or as what's happened with me, look back at it and realize it was actually very good. You were only being hypercritical. Old drawings can be salvaged, reformed, or stylized into something magnificent.
4. [b][u]Do not be discouraged by other artist's work! [/u][/b]
I cannot tell you how poisonous this is. I am guilty of it and from first hand experience can tell you how detrimental it is. Your work is an expression of yourself. Different art styles doesn't equal being better or worse than someone else. You can admire someone's style without copying or stripping away your own. Instead of being heart broken by "better" work you should learn from them. Ask them questions. Get advice or see how they view their art. Chances are they think they're nothing compared to the artists that [i]they[/i] look up to.
5. [b]Practice and feel good. [/b]
Enjoy what you do. Don't force it or feel you need to draw/create as much as others. For almost all of us art is a hobby. Hobbies are meant to be enjoyed. Create what interests you even if it's not popular or will get everyone's attention. If you have an uncommon style those that indulge in it will appreciate it all the more.
6. [b]Don't be afraid to experiment. [/b]
You'll learn great things you never would have thought you were capable of.
[/spoiler]
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I am a SAI Paint Tool user. I have little to no advice about Photoshop! I am sorry. I also apologize if I haven't commented on everyone's stuff. I will get to it! (or I will at least "like" it so you know you're not forgotten)
I've been very busy and I enjoy giving well thought out help instead of rushing it between work breaks.
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1 ReplyI don't think I posted this garbage here
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1 ReplyEnjoy shit art
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10 RepliesFirst piece of mine I've shit into this thread. Just broke out a new sketch pad after filling the old one up yesterday. Baby Corpsers from Gears of War
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1 ReplyEdited by Sandtrap: 8/19/2015 7:30:17 AMAnother story of mine that I've started. Rough in progress draft. [spoiler] [i]I’m writing this, in case somebody ever finds this. I don’t know what’s going to happen after today. The Seeders are serious in their claims and insistency. The Earth governments, have labeled any in this affair as a fugitive and a traitor. I’m a fugitive, now, as I write this. I am, an offender to my entire planet. To my species. I’m a doctor. All I’ve ever done was try to help people. The Seeders. They’re alien. They are……so far beyond what anybody ever expected. And yet, here we are. Practically at war. Seeder starships are converging. The Earth governments are beginning to panic. They want all of us dead or captured. But they won’t let the Seeders go through with it either. This is our home too. Even if we have made mistakes. I want anybody to know that the reason I’m doing this, whatever happens after today, however bad history paints me as. I did it because it was right. It was the right thing to do. And I believe that. That’s what makes us so different from them. The Seeders don’t see things like we do. They are singular. To them, our species represents chaos itself. And the fugitive we’re protecting. Na’Kesh’. That name is an alien name. It doesn’t belong as a part of our species. But that doesn’t make it any different from any other name out there. I, and those of us that are left, are doing this because everybody deserves to be free. Everybody, no matter who they are. Alien, or Human. Race, sex, or even species. Whatever happens after today. Please find it in your heart and mind to understand. Please forgive me.[/i][/spoiler] [spoiler] Dust swirled across the road, and smog filled the air in a thick choking blanket, as traffic wound its way through the streets, packed like together like cans on an assembly line. People packed themselves in with the traffic, on foot, winding between the maze of vehicles, all donning masks or some going so far as to wear entire suits. Moreau was never one to wear more than a mask. It was the dust that you could breathe in, that was harmful. But contact with it, although quickly coating one and making their efforts at cleanliness vain, wasn’t a worry. Today was another work day. Early morning to be precise. He was on call again. What else was new? A trained doctor was a rare sight these days. Of course, he wasn’t a true doctor. He remembered the days, before the dust, before the scorching fires, cramped into the back of an ambulance, working to stabilize people on their way to the hospital. On his way to the hospital he was then, and still, here he was now. Where things were no different from the outside world. People stuffed into the buildings like they were on the streets. He paused, standing still on the remnants of perhaps an old road, or the sidewalk, being pushed aside by passerby as they continued on towards their own destinations. Moreau looked up to the sky, to see only dust and smog. And a few stray blotches of sunlight, smothered out by the clouds, shining down on old infrastructure. Oh how they had stood tall once. The skyscrapers of old, now broken and shattered, some of them bent and splintered apart like matchsticks. He used to be a paramedic. Now graciously given the title of doctor by higher authorities, those that were left, at least. He was the doctor and it was his job to fix everybody. An impossible task the he couldn’t manage. How could he? When the sky was wrong, when those old skyscrapers were blown apart like toys, when people were forced to push underground and live there, away from the radiation and the clouds, and when the world governments, those that were left standing, couldn’t fix it, what chance did he stand? Moreau turned his sights back down to the ground, to the dust and the people. The world was broken and dying. Maybe he couldn’t fix everybody. But if he could, he could, perhaps, try. Maybe even, make whatever time they had left peaceful. [/spoiler] [spoiler]Moreau sat with his head back on the chair he rested in, eyes closed. Every day was like this. A mad scramble of people, buzz and noise, crowds. People sick, or dying, injured and all wanting somebody to fix it. Him and the current shift of staff where all doing the same now. Lunch break. Some peace and quiet in a cramped lobby stuffed with chairs. Armed guards outside the doors who would hold back the tides of people, if they needed to. Under old fluorescent light, flickering in some patches, in a corner of the room, sat an old TV, propped up on a chair. Even still, with all of this, the news managed to drone on, and on. Moreau tuned it out, disappearing from the lobby he was in. It was all disappointing anyway. Even back then when things were better. He couldn’t help but smile. Nobody was ever satisfied. There was always something to complain about. And then, everybody really had something to complain about. The world, changing. Nature shifting in balance and falling apart, dragging everybody down with it. Environmental collapse. And then, the inevitable. World superpowers stirred in the dust and storms, clutching to their old empires, wanting to reclaim them and restore them to the glory that once was. The gears of war turned as the last breath of whatever strength remained in people called and rallied, and turned their sights on the only thing left standing. Old hatreds. Moreau opened his eyes to the feeling of shockwaves, a blast traveling through the old building, shaking it on its foundation. Lights flickered, going out before finally struggling to come back on again. Moreau sighed, leaning his head back on his chair. Car bomb? Gas explosion? Maybe, some old warhead or tank going off. It didn’t matter. Nobody in the lobby so much as stirred as another aftershock rolled through the building’s foundation, stirring up dust and beating the old, tired electronics inside. A buzzer went off, old metal ringing before the annoyance of it spurred somebody to move and shut it off. Lunch time was over. Moreau opened his eyes and stared out the windows of the makeshift lobby. Smog and ash. He shook his head. Back to work. Who could say? They might even receive some new inpatients from the recent explosions. [/spoiler] Rough draft and all that. But I'm having a hard time putting words together properly right now. If anybody even reads this, and you happen to spot something that doesn't sit right with you in terms of, well, linguistics, feel free to point it out please. Squeezed in the rest of what I have so far down below in the sub-conversation.
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Sorry it looks so bad I only had 10 mins with shitty paper and only 2 pencils
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Little test of mine to see if I could create a resemblance to a character in one of my stories. Sadly, I like making backgrounds for things but those are whole other ballparks so I stuck with just the barebones simple stuff. I guess this would be the equivalent of a sketch. As such, I didn't get all the details either. Service tag on the armour and scar tissue as well. Overall though, good to see that I can create likenesses to things.
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2 RepliesLadies and Gentlemen, I present two things today: 1. A necrobump. 2. A self-portrait I made for a project in Illustrator.
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1 ReplyI'm actually launching a business based around the art industry, aimed mostly at fine artists and photographers for now, hopefully it will be ready by about January Someone like or reply to this post please so I can easily come back to it
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12 Replies[b] [/b]
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Bump for later
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There needs to be more threads like this, so tired of seeing all these religious and political crap. Lots of talented artist here too, I might post something of my own.
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Aha. Another opportunity to write a point of view and feeling from my own perspective. Here we go. Stubborness [spoiler]Only appearing visible to me in certain moments, these little bouts are quite something. Usually occurring when I'm down and out for the count, and I feel as if I can't be arsed to do it anymore, they don't lift me up, or put me down exclusively. It's a very quiet, personal moment for me that happens in the span of only a few seconds. But it's enough to ignite a will that surprises me, upon reflecting on it. The circumstance for this particular event today, was a fall. A trip as my legs, although careful in their steps, lost footing on the slick of tree branches. A drop of a chainsaw by reflex so as not to potentially hurt anything, and down I went, a tumble off a pile roughly 10 feet high, into the dirt. An emotional blow to my already crippled mood for the day, and a very real physical feeling of air escaping lungs as it was knocked out forcefully, and the telltale feeling of an old acquaintance of mine, running all across my back. A pivotal moment where I silently ask and particularily enjoy the notion, of just not giving a shit and calling quits. And then it happens. I feel the dirt in my fingers, feel the soft warm ground I lay on, and I stop. Rest a moment and catch some air. And then I stand up again. I know full well the pain that will no doubt bug and plague me. I know how much and how, so easily, I could just pack up and call it a day. But I remember that I came out here for a reason. It was never for myself. It was for somebody else. And I see the challenge. Almost as if it were a mocking blow to test my patience and mood, as if it were already not visibly upset. I see the challenge at hand, and all I have for a conclusion is a very simple answer, that means everything to me. "No."[/spoiler]
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2 RepliesWork in progress I've started. Started sketching out a concept and went from there. Adjusting some details as I go along. Frankly, I'm amazed I even got any semblance of a face I was acceptable of. But still working on adding the last little parts I'm thinking of.
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Edited by Sandtrap: 1/20/2015 11:35:59 PMI don't know how you folks count the digital aspect of things or if you even call it art. But I may as well make myself useful and post my shit here too. I'm a fan of Gmod art. And for any that know the engine you'll know just how much effort and knowledge is required to create anything decent. So. For starters. I made this today. I'll be using it as my profile image in places where I can use custom stuff. As a larger picture I'm largely satisfied with this save for the pixelation around the head crest of the chieftan. Should have worked on that before my final shot, but as a small picture for a profile, it isn't noticable so I managed to stumble my way into something decent.
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5 RepliesI made this with a photo app. Does this count as art? [spoiler]Oh my god, it's smiggles.[/spoiler]
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Edited by Sandtrap: 8/23/2015 8:37:06 AMOh hey look I did something lazy and five minutes-ey. A really, [i]really[/i] rough concept piece of a starship from a story I'm writing. This is a small craft, roughly one story building sized, essentially run of the mill cannon fodder. Belongs to a race I've coined as "Seeders." Seeders are insectoids, and make their starships out of the most common material available in the galaxy. Asteroids. Anywho. This is incredibly lazy work for me. Kinda bugs me. But it was nice to make. In hindsight, I see where I could have used a new tool I acquired in-engine as well. And I need to find a way to make electricity arcs.
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I AM art.
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You're alive? Yay
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Design I'm working on slowly of an archer
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4 RepliesIt's been awhile since I saw this thread. Kinda missed it. :]
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7 RepliesLast place I'll post this. The lines still bug me and I need to clean it up some more later but ehhh [spoiler]I'll eventually get around to critiquing everyone's art in this thread [/spoiler]
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5 RepliesIn my defense, I haven't taken an official art class
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Hmm. In regards to my little experiment in writing out various emotions I run into, describing them and such, but not giving them direction. I bumped into one of particular note today. Happiness [spoiler]Short lived, these moments are. But in their short burn, like a bright warm fire on a cold, damp and soggy day, I find comfort. It's a quiet burst of light, something powerful that kickstarts everything in me. For a brief while, I feel more than I normally do. It's a life that floods me, quietly. The mere thought of it, excites me. It's a moment of clarity for me, when I realize what I'm doing. I'm aware of my actions, and aware of what they're creating, for somebody. But most of all, it's a quiet expectation and excitement. It's a want, and a need, to see the result in full, played out across somebody's face. A smile. A certain light that shows up in people's eyes in recognition of the stranger who showed up to change their day, in light of the person that they know as a friend, once more, exceeding their expectations. I watch a smile form from my actions on another's face, and I myself am helpless not to smile back. Such is the extent of this feeling that I can't handle it. I am lost and overwhelmed. It is in moments like these, as a pure, simple sense of content finds me, a life in my bones and an energy that makes me feel as if I can do anything, as if I were indeed, indestructible, I bottle it in and hold it for as long as I can. Happiness, a thing I feel in only small, fleeting moments. It is a bittersweet feeling to me. Powerful in that it fills me with life, makes me feel, truly, alive, and pushes me to want create that feeling again, of just pure contentment and life, and to see the result on another human being. Bittersweet, in that as the moment fades with time, I return to my usual, darker self. Once more I turn on myself, and grow confused. I ask myself why would anybody pay such attention to me. Why they would appreciate me so. And, I break. It's a bittersweet moment. A realization for me, fading quickly. Some small part of me recognizes that inside I am not as monstrous as I think of myself. For a moment, I acknowledge the words I've been told face to face from people. In the expressions of those who stare out to me in wonder or shock, out of joy. In that I am, supposedly, a "good" person. And it stings. It's a strange pain. It hurts, far more than the quiet pain of constriction and binding that comes with sadness, my ever lasting depression. But as much as it hurts, to hear and acknowledge who and what I am, if only for a moment, it is one I would never trade away. My strength comes from those I care for. Wanting to see them feel something better. Wanting to see them feel joyous and happy, immune to the pains of the world, immune and so far beyond the reach of all the struggle and hardship that life bestows upon them. Happiness. A fleeting moment for me. Like a star that burns oh so bright. I feel the life and the will in me again, as if it were armour that protected me, allowed me to do anything I wanted, regardless of hurt and pain, regardless of my limits. I could, and I would do anything with that feeling. And with it, with that sensation of wanting to just explode from the sheer feeling of it, I grow calm. And as time passes, as the light fades, as all light does, the short calamity of that great, burning star fades. My world slowly goes dark again in the absence of that wonderful light. But I remember. My world may have gone dark. But for the people whom I directed that will of mine on? They will remember it. And it will make them happy. So long as I have them to look out for, them to make happy, then I will always, be happy, to greet their smiles when I help make them. Even if the feeling is short, like a fast burn, even if it ends and descends back down into dark and leaves me back in this sad state, I will never tire of it. And I will never stop, chasing that feeling, and wanting to see it come to life in others.[/spoiler]
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Edited by Sandtrap: 8/18/2015 7:03:57 AMI figure, I'd like to do an experiment, because on thought, I realize that I've never tried it before. Describing the many various flavors of emotions and feelings. Not in the sense of the why, or how. But in the sense of the feeling. To see if I can take what is inside me and turn it tangible, wihout explicitly directing it on anybody in an explanation or frustrated garble. I think, as I go along and experience expressely notable moments in emotional categories, I'll see if I can write them. For starters, I've written about the most predominant emotion of mine that I experience regularily. It's arguably the most common, and therefore relatively easy to describe. Depression [spoiler]It comes quietly, silent as thin air. When or how, it doesn't matter. It hides in the dark, waiting to pick up anything and use it as a weapon. Sometimes it suddenly seems as if it were always there, as if it never left in the first place, and that it had always been there, never having been defeated. Other times, I become aware of what's happening to me, as it slowly bleeds into me, at first, here or there, like ink blots splashed across a paper until finally, all that's left is black. When it shows itself in full, slithering out from dark corners as if it were a snake or a shadow, words fail me. Words to say what it is. Words to say why, and how. I want to talk. So much do I want to talk, to speak, to be heard, understood, comforted. But it coils and constricts, and I only grow withdrawn. I want to talk but I have nothing to say. I have no will left to fight it and so I endure it in silent agony. I feel it on my face. The frown that only goes further down, and the sadness in my eyes that's shown. I can't hide it. Those that love me see it. And they ask why. The answer is always the same. "I don't know." Try as they might, with their best efforts, their best tricks, and their years of experience, what they show me doesn't drive it away even if I accept their help, even if, I so desperately want to fight. As it grows, everything becomes weaponised. Everything turns against me and suddenly I find myself attacking myself from all sides. And down I slink, into a dark, quiet hole. Silence finds me and willpower fades. Drive dissappears and in its wake I see nothing. It's a feeling so pure that words well never properly do it justice. Weight rests not on me, but in me. I would say that my heart burns so much as it condenses and everything in me constricts, harder and harder, until all that's left, is singular, pure, sadness. Not for myself. Not for the world. Not for anything. It is pure and unrefined, undirected and unfocused. But it lives inside of me like some other creature, a cancer, like a strange personality. It is a part of me but it feels like a stranger, one who knows all of my dirtly little secrets, all of my weaknesses. On the days that I realize it's there, inside of me, playing tricks on my eyes and garbling my words into disjointed, embarassing shadows of themselves, I grow tired. I look at the black void, and I struggle. I falter in its wake as I fight it, trying desperately to justify to myself why it's wrong. Why I'm wrong, in seeing it like that. How I have every reason not to feel and to see the way that I currently do. All just more ammunition to be used against myself as I stare at a mirror that shows a reflection that I cannot stand. Time becomes irrelevant to me, and before I know it, an entire day has passed me by, one in a long line of them, where once again, I've done nothing. And I grow weary. I chase after the only solace I can find. Sleep. It is a sleep I go to willingly. And it is that sleep, which I silently hope, claims me in the night so that I may never have to wake again, so that I may be left in silent peace and quiet. But in the morning, I rise once more. To begrudginly greet that stranger inside of me who knows me all too well. I do not shake hands with it, nor do I give it a smile.[/spoiler]
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I read your title wrong..... Oops
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Edited by Koldraxon: 8/15/2015 1:07:44 PM[url=http://koldraxon.deviantart.com/art/Koldraxon-has-claimed-this-land-V1-539834226]My Deviantart[/url], for those who wish to see my constructs. Note: [i]PowerPoint[/i] does not always fulfill[i] all[/i] 3-dimensional demands, thus Gmod. [spoiler]For those who are of high skill in Gmod ragdollism(?), the Promethean Knights really could do with accompanying the Covvie Rem's. HCe.halomaps.org/index.cfm?fid=6717 Good luck.[/spoiler]
