Category Archives: illustration (both acrylic and oilt)

a mix of painting, drawing, typography, textures
& collage. this is where my imagination really runs rampant, particularly if it’s oil paint. oil paint makes my world go round. began doing it 12 years year when i was sixteen. i love the smell of oil paints and all of the mediums that come with it (well aware of the safe hazards).

run, forrest, run. & “a.”

i have a little venting to do about the gym.

i rode horses for sixteen years. going to the barn has always been my gym. fresh air and the smell of leather. not to mention a twelve hundred pound animal between your legs. if you are like me, this is your idea of heaven.

when i lived in new york city, i joined a gym and would do something that would make me sweat about five times a week. i hated it (well, exercise itself feels great, but it’s the process that i hate). i hate gyms. i hate running in circles. i hate treadmills and elliptical trainers even more – they are just glorified hamster wheels in my opinion. how unsatisfying is it to run for twenty minutes solid and arrive nowhere ? there are mirrors everywhere that only remind you of why you are there in the first place. but you also get a glimpse and (usually a strong) smell of all the other people there who are sweating it out. some may be regulars, some may be obsessive, and some may just feel really guilty about the cheeseburger they ate for lunch that day. and is it just me ? or do they seem to play The Food Network all the time at the gym ? the more i think about it, the more i think that i hate the gym just as much as i hate the laundromat.

i know plenty of people who love going to the gym. more power to them. i admire them one hundred percent, seriously. perhaps if i lifted weights and reveled in my own self reflection, i’d like the gym, too. i’ll never forget this tiny gym i joined in new york city on 14th street. i went there about five times a week to stretch, do crunches, and run one or two miles. my two strongest memories are as follows ::

1. the old ladies gathered in the ladies locker room about twice a week. they would sit together, naked, chatting about their lives, their days. they were all well over sixty years old. i never stared at them, but when you are amongst a flock of older ladies in a tiny locker room whilst you are changing, you’ll catch a glimpse of the naked bodies surrounding you. their bodies were old, worn, and sagged. but beautiful. so beautiful. what made them so beautiful was not the bodies themselves, but their complete comfort with themselves. sure, their breasts hung at strange and low angles, they had more fat on their bodies than the average girl would ever consider appropriate, but they just sat around talking to each other as if they were fully clothed, with nothing to hide, no secrets. so, i applaud them. and their self comfort. and lack of low self esteem. those ladies completely rule as far as i’m concerned.

2. a gentleman who must have been around fifty years old – give or take. he always came to the gym dressed in short shorts – black spandex. hugging and “exaggerating” every part of his male form from the waist down. he wore a tight white “wife beater” tank and on his head an american flag bandana. he’d flex his muscles into the mirrors and admire himself. he was never the sort to look at the girls in the gym (which is refreshing, because having those over-confident males stare at you while you are breaking a sweat on the treadmill is entirely disgusting). he would arrive, do his thing, and leave. and i always considered him awesome because of it.

oh, the gym. if you go to a gym and like it, keep going. more power to you. if you are like me, you will cancel your gym membership and begin jogging on the streets for free. the perk being that it is free, the non-perk being that i have a bad back which hates running on pavement and i have apparently even worse ankles that hate the unavoidable hills that this city forces you to climb or descend when going for a run. but i’ve become addicted to running. i haven’t run for forty eight hours because of a terrible blister on my right heel and a cold i just came down with this morning. i want to run so badly right now, but i know that doing so will only cause my ankles further harm. and as for my head cold ? it’s left me so exhausted, i shouldn’t be exerting any energy right now unless it is towards health and a good night of sleep.

running on the streets of san francisco has been so rewarding. i’ve seen more of the city in the past two weeks than i have in the year that i have lived here. and i happen to run at strange times. i will fall to sleep early and rise at 4:30am feeling restless. and run. run down the middle of streets that are usually crowded with cars and people during the “normal” hours of the day, but at 4:30am, they are empty and feel like nothing short of a meditation session. so i wear my pink sneakers. and i feel like Mr. Gump. i just can’t wait to run. maybe i’m running away from something i’m feeling. or maybe i’m running towards something. it really doesn’t matter because all i know is that it feels damn good either way. 

as for “a.” there is a small deli downstairs from my apartment run by a very sweet family. the mother and father are always there and i almost always see their son, who i’ll call “A,” because he’s there doing his homework after school (i usually only get there after work). in the last week, he’s started selling his paintings. he’s about nine years old and does theses fantastic drawings which he prices anywhere from 5 cents to 50 cents. i am now the proud owner of four of them ::

 

i love life. it has a funny way of working itself out.

these drawings make my heart smile and sing so loudly that i’d be surprised if you couldn’t hear it by now.

jessi

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happy anniversary, pig. (a post i hope you read).

it’s been about three weeks since i last posted on here. part of me would like to apologize for my absence, but a larger part of me knows that that would be silly. silly because in the last few weeks i’ve made some significant changes in my life. not as in, i started eating salad instead of cheeseburgers at lunch, but more like saving myself changes. it’s taken up all of my time, which is good. writing on my blog was the least of my worries. it was, quite simply, not a priority. but i do admit that i’ve missed it.

i’m going to begin this post (which i expect to be ridiculously long, be forewarned) with a dialogue from one of my favorite movies, Girl, Interrupted. it’s a beautiful film. it may be a bit trite at times and over dramatized, but it’s a film that has always spoken to me because the main character, Susanna, played by Winona Ryder, is someone i have always felt close to.

Susanna :: “I didn’t try to kill myself. I was just trying to make the shit stop.”

Therapist :: “You swallowed a bottle of advil with a bottle of vodka..”

Susanna :: “I had a headache.”

one year ago yesterday, i arrived in San Francisco. when i moved here, i was broken and lost. i was a complete mess, though my actions and demeanor reflected anything but. my eyes may have told a different story, but no one ever called me on it.

i was drinking more alcohol than i could admit to anyone, much less to myself. i was taking a variety of drugs that would disappoint any parent. i was full of lies and self-loathing. i lied about my substance abuse and my depression and my anxiety. i listened to a lot of sad music and though i’d landed a great job just three weeks after moving here, in my spare time i locked myself in my room to write and paint. and i was really only successful in either when i’d plied myself with a cocktail of substances. just enough to “make the shit stop.” it was hard, near impossible, to be creative when my sober mind wandered to the darkest of dark places.

to some, this may come as a complete surprise (i’m an amazing liar and actress as it turns out). to others, this probably explains a lot.

i was happy to leave Seattle, that much was true. but my decision to move here was complex. for one, i committed a cardinal sin. i broke my own rule : never move or stay anywhere for anyone. it was not my only my reason for relocating, but it was the biggest – though i denied it at the time.

before i’d left seattle, i had experienced two grand mal seizures. i experienced not one, but two, terrible tragedies – having to attend two open casket funerals in the space of one week. they both occurred after my decision to move south, but i think in many ways they were the nail in the coffin (apologies for the pun) that confirmed and prompted my choice to get the hell out of Seattle. it was a place full of sadness and memories i wanted to leave behind and i really couldn’t have left fast enough.

since my arrival in this beautiful city, i’ve had a tumultuous year. drugs and alcohol certainly do not help one who’s making an attempt to “get their shit together.” neither does lying about it – to others or oneself.

my arrival here was both abrupt and sudden, to say the least. back in Seattle, i’d left behind friends, family, horse back riding (which still, to this day, remains an unkept promise to myself to rekindle down here in horse country), my job, my home. life as i once knew it was over. it was gone. i faced that well known blank slate that we all speak so fondly of. i may have been excited, but i was terrified more than anything else. and alone, very alone. and given that hindsight is 20/20, i knew full well that my continued abuse of substances would only gain momentum down here. i knew that because relocating is stressful for anyone. but there was more.

i knew and realized that any sign of an unraveling (particularly with the boy, which happened only three weeks after my move here, but do NOT blame him for any of this), would lead me to less control over myself. i knew it would spur me to further harm myself, which i did. ten fold. i have scars, both physical and emotional, that still bring me to tears. when i moved here, i was holding onto a thread. after my arrival, that thread much closer resembled that of a delicate thread a spider draws when making a web. i was holding onto nothing, essentially . i considered suicide more than once. i wanted to get away from not just the city, but also myself. the drugs and alcohol were merely symptoms of a far deeper distress and internal battle i’d been having with myself for years.

add denial to this and i promise you a full blown recipe for disaster.

i went about my job and my life. i continued to drink and abuse drugs. i fell deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole. for the past year, i have felt like Alice. eating one cookie after another, in an attempt to find myself out of this nightmare i’d found myself in. a nightmare that i had created. i could blame my childhood. my parents. my this or my that. but i can’t. and i no longer can blame myself. i am in the process of forgiving myself. i made mistakes. many of them. the last three years have been chaos for me and i did the best that i could, even though my “best” involved nothing but self harm.

so i sit here today, at the same computer. sober. sad. and admitting the fact that i need help. i have needed help for well over ten years, but my pride (and other things i will not mention) had me convinced that i was OKAY and that i could “do it on my own.” nothing could be farther from the truth. i need help and i’m finally getting it. so, if you don’t hear from me in a while – it’s because of that.

for once, i’m going to put myself first. and Year of the Pig Studio can wait. we’ll both be better off because of it.

jessi

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return to sender.

when you live in a city, particularly in an apartment with three roommates, you get used to people constantly coming and going, moving in and moving out. i’ve lived here for under a year and have already had two people move out and two new people move in. not to mention one more person who lives above us and four people who live below us.

what i am most curious about (and entirely dumfounded by) is why exactly people do not know how to properly change their address with the united states postal service. it’s not rocket science. i consider myself to be quite lazy when it comes to anything paperwork-ey, but notifying the u.s.p.s. of a change of address is incredibly simple and truth be told ? i’d like to get all of my mail forwarded to me because there are bills to pay and correspondences to respond to. and i, personally, would rather not deal with the hassle that comes with not receiving one’s mail.

that said, in any given week, we receive quite a bit of mail at our apartment. four people live here. we receive about three or four pieces of mail a day. we are lucky if one of those pieces of mail is actually addressed to someone who lives here. most of the time the mail that is addressed for previous tenants is trash worthy. bank stuff. weird mail offers. magazines not worth reading. and the like. but every once in a while we receive a gem. these are my favorites so far ::

short and sweet

this came from new york, new york. it’s a real photograph with a neon star sc(r)otch taped to it.

amazing illustration No. 1

amazing illustration No. 2

the third installment from “Cal.” only this time it’s ended with “timidly, Cal.” curious.

we used to have them on our fridge, but my roommates have since decided they are trash, so that means i get to keep them all to myself. the last thing i would like to share today is a piece of fortune cookie wisdom i received last night ::

win.

and with that, i invite you to go forth and conquer the day, keeping your eyes peeled for any water lilies along the way.

jessi

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marie antoinette and captain cool.

i recently wrote a post about the fish who live in a tank at the art store where i work.

i just learned the names of the fish that existed before i was first hired there (around nine months ago).

the fish have been named as follows ::

Liberace

Bob Ross

Iggy Pop

Sargent Pepper

Sheena (from a song by The Ramones)

Lady Gaga

Michael Jackson

Larry (for reasons i cannot disclose)

celebrity names, yes – with the exception of Larry. only Liberace and Michael Jackson remain. since my last post about this fish tank, we lost another member of our aquatic family. we lost Larry the snail. my co-worker went to clean the tank one day only to discover that Larry the snail was no longer there. his shell was, but his body was missing. given Liberace’s past behavior, we have hereby assumed that she ate Larry. she must have sucked him up whole, in one bite, like a piece of sushi. had she thrown him from the tank (like we assume she had done with Lady Gaga), Larry would have very likely met the same fate as Lady Gaga. that fate being the sole of my shoe, stepping and slipping and crushing the soul on the floor.

today i am writing about two more celebrity named people i have just recently met. actual people, not fish.

marie antoinette is a lady who cruises around north beach. she may or may not be homeless. she’s told me that she is, but due to the cleanliness of her clothing and the new looking shopping bags that i’ve seen her cart around, i’m unsure. i ran into her tonight on my way home. she recognized me and had even remembered my name – which i had not expected. she’s harmless. she’s kind. she talks a lot, maybe too much. but she’s very sweet and well intentioned. tonight, she was walking towards me. i still have a crutch under one arm and she was wearing a neck brace. she stopped to give me a high five. a “we’re both crippled!” high five. she remembered my name, once again claimed she was homeless, and shoved this poster into my arms. this poster is old. a silk screened poster of a show that Elvis Presley once played here in san francisco. i stared at it long and hard, lifting my jaw from the pavement. “where.. where.. where did you.. uh.. find this ?”

apparently she got it from a friend, who got it from another friend, and so on. i know silk screens. i may not be an expert in antiques, but this poster looks like the real deal, like an original. i asked her over and over again if she was sure she wanted to give it to me. she said that she had no use for it and insisted that i take it. i couldn’t turn it down. she asked for “a couple bucks,” which i gave her, and she moved along. when i got home, i investigated this poster and its origins. and i actually think this thing is from 1969, the date on the poster. awesome ? YES.

and now for Captain Cool. no, it’s not the name of a celebrity, but i think he’s kind of a celebrity here in north beach. i think he may have suffered from throat cancer. or something close. he’s got one of those voice boxes that requires him to press some flesh covered button on his throat to speak. he wears tiny round wire framed black lens sunglasses, a tall top hat, a velvet coat, and tall leather boots that reach the top of his knees. yes, he is just as amazing as he sounds.

several weeks ago i was in Vesuvio on my lunch break. Vesuvio is an incredibly old bar, but the reason i go there on nearly every lunch break is because you are welcome to bring your own lunch (a cheap bagel, in my case) and you don’t need to purchase alcohol. if you’re me, you buy a cheap mug of peppermint tea and spend your hour lunch break drawing or writing. i now know the staff there well enough that i rarely even pay for my tea. i throw a couple bucks down as a tip for my tea and sit in a cozy and comfortably lit booth to write or draw for around fifty minutes. it’s a wonderful way to spend a lunch break.

on one such lunch break, i was seated near Captain Cool. i’d never met him before, but had seen him there on the regular, always sipping on a pint of guiness. (i asked him his name. he said it was Patrick, but that everyone called him Captain Cool. he said there was a story to explain that, but he’d save it for another time.) i was embroidering the image of a budweiser can when he approached me. he leaned towards my table and asked me (with his voice box throat) if i was a seamstress, to which i replied, “no. no. i use embroidery like i use paint. as you can see.. this is not well cross stitched or straight.” to which he replied that he was looking for someone to sew some patches onto some jackets he has. again, i informed him that i am a sloppy seamstress. straight lines are beyond me, with or without a sewing machine.

he stared at my cross-stitching and declared, “but what you have here is perfect. i like those imperfections. that’s exactly what i would want.” so i agreed. i gave him my email address. he said he wouldn’t be needing my services for quite some time, but would be in touch when the time came. that same day, i met a friend at Vesuvio after work. Captain Cool happened to be there, i nodded at him and he nodded back at me. the next thing i know ? the waitress came to me with two shot glasses filled with whiskey. she said, “Captain Cool wanted to buy you this round.”

thanks, Captain Cool. thanks, Marie Antoinette.

you certainly know how to make a girl feel loved.

jessi

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-scopes. & imaginary friends.

i get this rather embarrassing email everyday that has to do with cats.

many moons ago, i signed up for some free astrological reading per day thing. it’s one of those things you sign up for when you’ve been browsing your astrological chart(s) for over an hour and reading about what moons might be aligned with some planet that apparently will totally rock your world if you’re not careful. if you’re like me, you’ll sign up for this in a moment of complete weakness.

the only times i have ever sought wisdom from the stars has been when i have found myself without any answers elsewhere. maybe you are depressed. confused. lost. angry. unsatisfied. whatever it is, after calling on friends and family to help you find some resolve in your life or current state of what-have-you and they don’t provide you with the answers you wanted to or expected to hear, you google your zodiac sign.

or at least this is what i have been known to do.

if my friends and family (and my own logic) cannot explain why i am finding myself in the what-have-you place that i seem to have found myself in, i’ll consult my imaginary friend(s) in the sky. call it pathetic. call it a coping mechanism. call it what you want, but i bet more of us are doing it than we are willing to admit. 

speaking of imaginary friends, did you ever have one ? or some ? i did. i had quite a few actually. i am certain that the movie Drop Dead Fred spurred me to create my own imaginary friends. and it’s not as if i was lacking real friends in my life, but i remember feeling pretty damn cool that i had them. and i don’t want to say this for fear of knocking the actual flesh and blood friends that i had when i was kid (because i’m still close to many of them), but i think making up imaginary friends is an exercise that maybe, in some way, prepares you for the life ahead and the people you choose to be around.

it’s an opportunity for you to use your imagination to create your perfect friends. being an artist, my imagination has always run wild and the thought of making up some imaginary people to hang out with was incredibly appealing. i could tell them anything (without fear of them spilling the milk) and if i got sick of them i could stop hanging out with them whenever i wanted to and if i found myself feeling lonely i could hang out with them right away. i’ve always been a dreamer. and apparently, after reading what i just wrote, i’ve always been crazy, too.

i remember sitting at my desk in elementary school (and no, i never invited my imaginary friends to school) and looking out the window. the school i went to was partially underground. literally. the windows started around the third way up the walls at ground level. so, looking out the window meant you were staring at grass and the gym building just fifteen feet past the grass. i actually really liked that sort of environment, perhaps i was a mole in a former life.

that said, i remember, on more than one occasion, my mom approaching me with my report cards. i was never an A++ student, but i retained a steady A-B average all through school (the only class i have ever failed in my life was religion and i’m still proud of that). she was not concerned with my grades, but with the little comment that a teacher would jot down at the bottom of said report card. this comment was not so much about my inability to focus, but about the fact that i was always staring out the window during class. and i remember staring out those windows. still, to this day, i felt as if whatever was going on outside was probably a lot more important than what was happening inside the classroom (i’m still proud of this, too).

looking out those windows was so therapeutic. it was an escape from my classmates, the teacher, the algebra, the grammar, etc. and i still stare out windows. i am still under the impression that whatever is happening outside is probably a lot more important than whatever is happening inside my room, my apartment, my place of work, and probably even my own head.

getting back to this embarrassing email about cats. i get my own astrology horoscope every day in my email. it’s stupid and inaccurate, just as i would expect it to be (and yes, i read it every morning and usually laugh to myself). a few months ago, when i was having one of my moments of weakness, i opted for some free “in depth” astrology reading online. the only cat(ch) was that i had to sign up for another nonsensical free daily horoscope. i had probably close to twenty options. romance horoscopes, career horoscopes, and the like. but there was only one horoscope that caught my eye.

it was the daily CatScope.

i own a cat. her name is Alaska. she’s a rescue cat and everyone who has ever had the pleasure of meeting her can vouch for the fact that she is the most talkative cat you could ever meet. she meows incessantly. i can have full conversations with her. i particularly enjoy playing the “meow game”, whoever meows last wins. she wins nine times out of ten. a lot of people claim their cats “meow a lot.” trust me, your cats have nothing on Alaska.

so owning a cat prompted me to sign up for the daily CatScope. even if i didn’t own a cat, i would have probably still signed up for it. the daily CatScopes are hilarious, i highly recommend them.

the best part ? these horoscopes are far more accurate than my own.

[palm readings. micron & marker in moleskin.]

jessi

 

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kee-rutch-ez & tax-eez

i was mistaken when i thought that walking through chinatown with crutches would force people to notice me for once. and by notice, i mean somewhat acknowledge my existence. i’m not trying to be racist, but when i walk through chinatown, i feel as if i am wearing an invisible cloak. many a friend here in san francisco have complained to me about the lack of sidewalk respect they receive in chinatown. to which i always reply, “well, it’s because you have on your invisible coat !”

that is seriously what it feels like. it’s the worst on days when it is raining because most of the people walking around stockton street are a good six inches shorter than you are. this means that the sharpest points of their umbrellas are at eye level. it’s not unlike a slalom course. if you put on a pair of skis, you can feel confident that you will place in the top three at the olympics.

so, naturally, with a crutch under each arm, i believed i would receive some level of respect. however, i have found that my crutches only elicit more stares, causing people to stop in their tracks, sometimes with mouths agape. it’s reached a point where i don’t swerve around people, but merely pass through them. and yes, this means that i, more often than not, make unwanted contact with them. this only makes them scowl at me or even yell at me, but since i don’t understand chinese i have yet to feel offended. 

this may make me sound like a complete asshole, but really ? i’m just another human walking down a street who happens to have crutches which, in my mind, means i should probably have the right of way.

that said, i have even less respect for taxi drivers in san francisco than i did before i had crutches. after living in new york for four years, finding a taxi was never difficult. if a taxi’s “for hire” light was illuminated they would always stop for you. they would every so often decline my request for a ride if i was requesting a lift to JFK, but other than that, they’d always pick me up.

here in san francisco, you are hard pressed to find an open cab. they are few and far between. so you have two choices when trying to find a cab here :: you can expect to wait patiently at a corner with your arm raised until your hand grows cold because the blood has been drained from it. or you can call one. either way, good luck.

armed with a pair of crutches, i thought that my chances of catching a cab would be higher. lies.

in san francisco, if you attempt to hail a cab that has its “for hire” light on (therefore available), it will swerve, switch lanes, and get as far from you as possible. if you are on crutches, your chances of finding a cab are exactly the same. today, i attempted to hail six cabs, all with their i’m available lights illuminated. and all six times i was rejected. five of them blatantly passed me by regardless of the fact that i was waving one of my crutches in the air, hoping that they would stop for me out of pity if for no other reason. the one cab that flashed its lights at me as if to say, “i’m stopping for you” .. instead of picking up me and my crutches, picked up two business men who just barely beat me to the door of the cab.

did i confront the suits and the driver ? of course i did. but they didn’t care. the suits climbed into the back of the cab and the driver switched off his light and drove away. leaving me with my mouth open and jaw only inches from the pavement.

and as for calling a cab ? it’s a complete crap shoot. sometimes they show, but most of the time they don’t. you need to leave at least a twenty minute window for them to arrive, but always assume they won’t show.

the best part about crutches ? i’ll let you know when i discover it. so far they have afforded me a week off from work. a week that i didn’t want to take, but needed to take. the silver lining ? i did start a new series of paintings. i’ve also developed an addiction for Holbein’s Acryla-Gouache. so despite the unfriendly people who “share” the sidewalk with me and the cab drivers who ignore me, i’ve got some kick ass paintings in the works and that totally overrides the complaints mentioned above. but it’s fun to complain, it certainly does help to pass the time.

jessi

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links (unrelated to sausages)

it’s HIGH time i add some links here. i know far too many talented friends and my not mentioning them is downright criminal ::

(in no particular order)

Devin McGrath // one of my best friends. one of the most talented people you could ever meet. he’s australian. his humor is dry, sharp, and dark. and he’s made me pee my pants on several occasions (true story).

Ignacio Hinojosa // one of my best friends. he’s from Madrid and likes to say things about “your face.” as in, i miss your face. his oil paintings put rembrandt to shame and his illustrations ? words cannot do them justice.

Christina Sheppard // my former new york roommate and also one of my best friends. her favorite colors are lime green and purple. she made up the dance move, “the pizza cutter.” describing her and her work as awesome is a major understatement. [website unavailable].

Amanda Harris // one of my dearest new york friends. she’s from long island, is a crazy talented print maker and illustrator, and has been known to make me laugh so hard that both cake and soup come out of my nose. [website unavailable].

Jackie Fleckenstein // one of my best friends. her talents in drawing and printmaking make me sick. in a good way. she’s dark, sarcastic, and far before charlie sheen coined the term, she = winning.

Ed Chow // one of my closest friends from new york. he’s into robots, kittens, and blood. you can usually find him sporting a pink stripe in his black hair while he’s making graphic illustrations on his computer that make us all turn green with envy.

George Harbeson // engaged to the Christina mentioned above. his conceptual skills are unparalleled. as are his drawing skills. he’s from texas. he likes to wear cowboy boots and he’s one of the most vulgar people i’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.

Gabe Tick // a close friend from new york. he’s charming, sweet, and uber talented. he has mastered computer programs that make me dizzy just thinking about and his work speaks for itself. he also happens to be one of the goofiest people i’ve ever met.

Maggie Brophy // i think i have only ever seen her wear black. her laugh is contagious. and her drawings are ridiculous. ridiculously stunning. she could probably draw an entirely lifelike portrait with her eyes closed.

Adam Mignanelli // a great friend of mine. he’s hilarious. he’s sweet. and he’s sarcastic as hell. and he can design the pants off of pretty much anyone i know. and lest i forget, he’s a damn fine cook.

Matt Mignanelli // adam’s brother. crazy talented painter who uses one hair brushes, people. i’m not sure where he finds the time or patience to do what he does, but he kicks major ass at it. and, like his brother, is a mean cook.

Jonathan Jay Lee // i call him jon jon. he’s from hong kong. he’s a comic master and one of the kindest people i’ve ever met. and he, like so many of my friends, loves the dark, bloody, and gory side of animation.

that’s the short list. i have so many more, but that’s a start and if you ask me, a damn fine start at that.

jessi

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