As the title suggests, this news article’s goal is to spread the dA love into everyone’s heart! You will find here a little bit of everything, from awesome interviews with talented artists, art features, group promotion to random deviants' features. I hope you will find this informative and entertaining!
Tell us what defines you as a person.
I am a creator. I love translating my thoughts into physical objects using a few raw materials. How did you find out about deviantART and why did you join the community?
I'm not sure how I first encountered deviantART... probably just while surfing the web. I joined recently because I am transitioning from a paid position to once again being an independent artist, so for the first time in twelve years I need to think about self promotion. When and how did you discover your passion for art?
I am visually oriented, and have always enjoyed creating things and trying to make them look good. I became serious about sculpting in the early nineties, just after school. I was living very cheaply and only working as much as I needed to. I had a lot of free time, and I spent most of it introducing myself to sculpture... it was a good time! What inspires you the most and when do you think your creativity is at its maximum?
I am often inspired by a few words from a song or book, or a fleeting image from life or a movie, and of course from the work of other artists, be it the artists of Oaxaca and Bali, masters such as Bruegel and Bosch, or the wildly diverse talent found on deviantART.
I think my creativity is at its maximum when I am creating. It is very hard to choose a path when you are standing still. Walk, and the path you choose along the way will become your creation. What do you think you'd be doing if you hadn't chosen this path?
Honestly, I have no idea, but I fear I wouldn't be happy. What do you think it's your most meaningful deviation and what makes it special? Does it have a story behind it?
Always my latest creation is the most meaningful! If I like it, it is good evidence I've been spending my time the way I would like. If I don't like it, hopefully I've learned from it. Do you have any insecurities regarding your art?
Of course. It is easy to find enviable talent, especially now with the web. But it is not constructive to dwell on the superiority of others. Work towards the seemingly unattainable by taking reasonable steps. Did art ever helped you to deal with your life problems?
It helps keep me satisfied with my life, so I suppose it helps keep depression at bay. What is the one thing you always wanted to do but never got a chance to?
There are a lot of mildly dangerous things that I would do if I had more courage and less responsibility. I did stick my tongue in a sea anemone, though
. A few words for our fellow artists?
Thank you for the inspiration your artwork provides! Thank you for the support and encouragement your words provide! And for those who are having trouble... it is all about time well spent... make choices that allow you to spend more time doing your art and progress will follow.
an inventory of beingI go by Sheridan
And a variety of other things.
Sixteen going on twenty-three,
Or at least that’s what my mother says.
I’m shorter than most,
But that’s alright.
I like being close to the earth,
Makes me feel grounded.
The mop on my head is blonde,
And brown and purple
I like change, when I can control it.
People call me beautiful, say
I have the eyes of green moss,
And the spirit of sunshine,
But I don’t believe them.
(Chronic self-consciousness is to blame.)
I feel like I’m the worst,
So I project a false confidence,
And act like I’m the best.
I am stuck somewhere between
Who I was, who I am,
And who I
am meant want to be.
I love the pitter-patter of raindrops,
Especially on the leaves of trees.
I always take my tea with honey,
But never milk.
Spring and fall are my favorite seasons,
They remind me of myself.
Incapable of deciding between cold,
Indecisive is my middle name.
I like sketchbooks
And moleskin noteboo
surface tensionyou are something, something, something
wandering the mind as if it’s a hotel made of finches:
the architecture of mazes built to watch the world
crack, crackle and burn
(welcome home, darling,
you’re the first guest that this labyrinth
has seen in quite a while. you’ll need
one stellar ball of yarn, kitten,
to get yourself out of this mess)
I'd march you down these weathered steps
into the sea, if I thought you could swim,
and I'd watch as the ocean took you away
from the walls of rusting appliances
papered with half burned pages
I'd pull you from this madman's palace
into the closest thing to the solace of space
if only you could swim
(but then again, that's precisely
what makes it so tempting
to do it anyways)
let me sing you to sleep,
lull you into a slumber beneath the waves,
for you came here to start a war,
but your horses are dead,
your ship’s burning and
your sputtering salt water-
that’s no war path, my lovely,
it seems that Chiron is d
The final hours of unfinished novelssometimes
it's scary to think about the way
time once wrote my name on its cover
and closed the unfinished novel
at the tip of a train wreck suicide
i wonder why i thought to sit down
and wait for it to return
to write words with a clarity to banish
the shadows following the past's clumsy stumbles
because it was destined to go wrong -
walking across a red string
like a circus freak
that would only collapse when someone tore it
its scary to think how we're
surrounded by people who can't bare to live
and settle for merely surviving
like the specks of dust that are brushed away
with dismissive glances and criticism
so i've followed the ink that rolled off pens onto paper
like words rolls off my tongue into thin air
i'm stood atop isolated clifftops
at the edge of a suicide -
carving butterflies into novels
that brand flecks of blood on my skin
because sometimes its scary
and sometimes its crazy
to find myself in pieces
that were swept aside like those flecks of dust
-i wanted love
and i didn't find it in the way your hand brushed up and down my spine
or in the forceful manner of your kiss
desecrating the sanctity of my innocence
and leaving bruises on my skin
no, i am not your canvas
you cannot paint me in your lust
or your weighty afflictions
brewing a storm in your mind
i deserved to be loved
An Unfair TradeLoving you was like stepping
into another world, young and
filled with the fragile hope
of new life, blooming with the
intensity of light, that is only
born from never knowing darkness.
It must have been a shock for
you to slip into my world, my
home, and find innocence stripped
down to the bare, rough wood
naivete abandoned by the curb and
the dark hues of cynicism
immaculately brushed onto every wall.
Terrible ThingsI met her in annoyance, in my youth, and in fright.
I'd never asked for love to find me, although I hoped it might…
"Hey, Hank." I felt something warm and terribly small touch my back. "Can I tell you something terrible?"
"First off, my name's not Hank." I said somberly, not turning. "And no, you can't. Or can you?"
I could practically see her frowning; the thought made me want to smile. "Sheesh. You sound like Mr. Walkins. May I?" she asked, her voice flat. "And besides, what is your name anyway?"
"It's Harry," I said slowly, "And you're going to lose a finger if you keep poking me.”
is dedicated to inspiring more involvement throughout the literature community, whether by beginning your own version of a Literature Roadtrip, suggesting DLDs and DDs, or simply commenting on and featuring pieces of literature. It is no secret that the literature community is sometimes overlooked or neglected, but hopefully this group will encourage deviants to become more involved.
HowlI beat the street out of my lungs. Burned
Those pages of salvation until the ink boiled red.
When they finally caught me I cursed every soul still on
Their knees and damned the midnight lamps that
bled through two-faced windows. When they told me
“Son, you have nothing to howl about.”, My voice
Became a whisper. In the prison they put us in
There are no bars, guards, or machine gun towers.
People come and go like moths to hellfire.
Like mass extinction and funeral pyres.
Not once did I think about escaping. Until,
The girl in the cell next to mine started screaming. Until
She clawed so deep her arms started breathing. Until
She swallowed that bullet and called it leaving. Until
I finally learned what it really meant to stop bleeding.
I started seeing through the blank pages and white walls.
Underneath it all, different prophets sing the same song.
The greatest minds of my generation weren’t driven to madness.
They were born to it. Their first breaths
Bricks and MortarI’m fully aware that I’m alive.
And in this life, I find it hard to believe
that I could allow so many nights to
pass unnoticed and unaccompanied.
And in this world where seven billion
souls crawl over one another,
being alone is something of a miracle.
Vie NoirYou were the promise of regret,
destiny wrapped in an egg shell,
something that temperance would not allow.
And you looked at me with cloudy eyes,
sipping your excuses while choking on tomorrow.
(We were the privileged few that God chose to endure the hopeless)
And you cursed my name while confessing every lie.
My borders grew as you clawed for the limits of absolution.
(We were the privileged few whose skin was hard to pierce)
And you loaded that gun with false bravado and ill intent.
The world was watching as you aimed it at the future.
(We were the privileged few who never forget to empty the chamber)
And you stared into the nothing, hoping to find me there
To My Biology TextbookOn page 159 of my biology textbook, it reads,
“...cancer is the uncontrolled growth of cells”
as though that could explain everything,
and I thought it did for a time.
But my textbook never warned me
that his skin would pale
to a point where I could see
the blue freight trains
carrying eighteen pills
throughout his frail body.
My textbook never warned me
that his watery irises would freeze over,
that he would hurl insults like knives,
and that he would clench his jaw
as tightly as his fist clenched his wine glass
because the only person to blame is himself,
and he can’t swallow that as easily
as he can the olives in his martinis.
And my textbook never warned me
that it would be this difficult to breathe
because of my acute awareness
that his breaths are limited,
and that there would be nothing I could do
but soldier on searching for that silver lining
clinging to these foreboding thunderheads.
For Two BoysI have imagined
how your hands would feel
playing my piano key spine
and my cello-curved hips,
and how your lips would feel
between the plateau of my shoulder
and the slope of my neck—
I hate myself for it.
I can mouth all of his stories,
read all of his expressions,
and tell you all of his favorites,
as if he is the language
I have spent years studying.
I don’t even know
your father’s name
or your favorite season,
and some girl could have
the lines in your hands,
freckles on your face,
and baritone of your voice
memorized and playing
on repeat in her mind.
Even though our class swears
that we’re madly in love,
I have not once wondered
what flavor his lips carry
or how his body would feel
pressed firmly against mine.
I don’t even deserve you
in my wildest fantasies
if she knows you like I know
and Plath’s poetry.
Sometimes I’m afraid
that when he catches my eye
from across the crowded class,
it’s because he wan
UnfathomableI have been told that my eyes
are like someone bottled you up
and poured your color into my irises.
Sure, it’s a lovely compliment,
but I am not you.
You are a child playing dress-up
with your sister’s coats and frocks
because you want to be something bigger;
and she’s sweltering with jealousy
that you can wear those grays and blues
better than she ever could.
You are an angst-ridden teen
who dyed and spiked her hair
to hear her mother scream,
and no matter how many times
she tells you that your boyfriend
is a washed up good-for-nothing,
you keep coming back to kiss the shoreline
because you think that his love feels right.
You are a middle-aged mother
glancing over her shoulder
to check for those nosy neighbors
while putting up your new windowpanes
of sapphire stained glass to cloak
those blistering waves that occupy
your pristine, picket fence house.
You are the woman that sailors
have sworn to for centuries
and the woman that will keep
scientists surprised for year
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