Category: Creative Life
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I Will Send You A Postcard
It might be a vintage one I pick up at a garage sale. It might be one I draw or paint myself. Maybe it’s some photo artwork. Whatever it is, you probably haven’t gotten something like this in a while. Shoot me an email with your mailing address david at dtpennington dot com.
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Hell Hath No Fury/ Dead Men Don’t Rape
Frustration helps me make stuff, even if I have no idea where to take it.
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Creativity In An Age of Crisis
Theory: tragedy inspires the greatest art. E.g. Picasso’s Guernica Hurricane Helene has brought all kinds of trouble to the region – not just Asheville, but the counties and states surrounding it. Since the hurricane hit a week ago and the devastation continues to unfold, I’ve found it nearly impossible to create anything. It got me…
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Pure KAOS
If I wrote something for every series I watched, this would be entirely different website featuring far more reality-based programs than I care to admit (no, not documentaries. yes…THOSE realities). KAOS was a lot of fun. I knew all those old Greek myths I studied back in school would come in use at some point!…
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The Firm Pays For It
One day I’ll get my print story running again.
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Riffs on Paper
It’s like when you buy clothes: if you find something you like that fits well, buy it in every color. But here, if I find a paper that really sings I’ll stock up however I can.
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July inside of July
It’s been muggy as hell this year. It feels unreal. Still, folks are out trying to make the best of it. “My life, I realize suddenly, is July. Childhood is June, and old age is August, but here it is, July, and my life, this year, is July inside of July.” Rick Bass
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Riffs on Grammar
Thoughts on grammar. Why a preposition can end things. And other collected notes.
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In The Studio with Violet – May 27, 2024
More exploration with the brush pen.
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Ink Is A Forgiving Medium
I’m still on a quest to figure out why drawing ended up being the answer, but I’m still at it and improving, I think. Whatever the case, my workspace is a perpetual mess of papers and inks and stubs of pencils. More brushes keep surfacing. Maybe, through it all, I just wanted to sit across…