Threads of Thought

inspiration, Communication, connection
Did a little cat skull watercolour last night. It’s for sale, email me at mandytsung@gmail.com if you’re interested :)

Did a little cat skull watercolour last night. It’s for sale, email me at mandytsung@gmail.com if you’re interested :)

dreamsofamadgirl:

brokenbutbright:

Feminism is like the red pill in the Matrix.

Suddenly you’re watching everyone walk around in this delusion and reality is terrifying.

There’s a reason this exists:

(courtesy Sinfest)

We really are living in The Matrix!

"I Love You", one of my older paintings. This is available in my print sale that is happening over at http://mandytsung.bigcartel.com (click the link in my profile). Many, many thanks to those of you who’ve purchased prints already! I’m really grateful for all of your support!

"I Love You", one of my older paintings. This is available in my print sale that is happening over at http://mandytsung.bigcartel.com (click the link in my profile). Many, many thanks to those of you who’ve purchased prints already! I’m really grateful for all of your support!

Drawing in progress. My hand is  feeling so much better now! Mustn’t push too hard, though, or I’ll be back to square one again 😔. @pupperazzi is the model here.

Drawing in progress. My hand is feeling so much better now! Mustn’t push too hard, though, or I’ll be back to square one again 😔. @pupperazzi is the model here.

humansofnewyork:

"I’m giving a presentation tomorrow on the experience of African American males growing up in America.""What’s the thesis?""Hundreds of interviews have been conducted, and we’ve found that not only do most African American males fail to acknowledge institutional racism, they mainly tend to blame themselves for their failures. They say things like they didn’t work hard enough, or made too many mistakes. They don’t understand that they weren’t afforded the same opportunities."

I’m not an African American man, but I think this applies to women as well. I often wonder what it would be like to have had the same opportunities as hetero white men. What would it be like to have been raised to believe in myself instead of to doubt everything that comes out of my mouth? Or to have people reward me for my work instead of criticizing how I could have done things differently? Or to not have most compliments given to me have the attached qualification of me being female. Up until recently, I didn’t know that there was any other way to be. 

There seems to be a new visibility for women painters. We are finally being recognized as serious artists after centuries of not even being afforded a mention in most history books. But we are being grouped into this label of “women artists” or “women who paint women”, which is great but I’m over it. It’s true that we need this visibility as a stepping stone for moving past it, but the simple fact of its novelty and necessity demonstrates how deeply mysoginistic our culture still is. How many people  go, “Oh wow, I didn’t know that painting was done by a woman?! Interesting!”? I still do this myself - which is the point made in the quoted text above. It’s like I’m building a ladder for myself and I get a new rung every time I encounter a successful female artist. White men get a complete ladder handed to them at birth. I see a gallery accepting submissions for a show about women painting women and think, “Here’s my chance!” When do men ever have to say to themselves, “Ooh finally, a show for men who paint women!” It’s safe to say this is the defacto state of (figurative) art. 

So let’s have these shows especially for women, and laud the women who toil away to make a career for themselves despite the odds stacked against them. But let’s continue evolving until we don’t need to have these kinds of shows anymore. I don’t want to be forever known as a great woman artist. I want to be known as a great artist.

humansofnewyork:

"I’m giving a presentation tomorrow on the experience of African American males growing up in America."
"What’s the thesis?"
"Hundreds of interviews have been conducted, and we’ve found that not only do most African American males fail to acknowledge institutional racism, they mainly tend to blame themselves for their failures. They say things like they didn’t work hard enough, or made too many mistakes. They don’t understand that they weren’t afforded the same opportunities."

I’m not an African American man, but I think this applies to women as well. I often wonder what it would be like to have had the same opportunities as hetero white men. What would it be like to have been raised to believe in myself instead of to doubt everything that comes out of my mouth? Or to have people reward me for my work instead of criticizing how I could have done things differently? Or to not have most compliments given to me have the attached qualification of me being female. Up until recently, I didn’t know that there was any other way to be.

There seems to be a new visibility for women painters. We are finally being recognized as serious artists after centuries of not even being afforded a mention in most history books. But we are being grouped into this label of “women artists” or “women who paint women”, which is great but I’m over it. It’s true that we need this visibility as a stepping stone for moving past it, but the simple fact of its novelty and necessity demonstrates how deeply mysoginistic our culture still is. How many people go, “Oh wow, I didn’t know that painting was done by a woman?! Interesting!”? I still do this myself - which is the point made in the quoted text above. It’s like I’m building a ladder for myself and I get a new rung every time I encounter a successful female artist. White men get a complete ladder handed to them at birth. I see a gallery accepting submissions for a show about women painting women and think, “Here’s my chance!” When do men ever have to say to themselves, “Ooh finally, a show for men who paint women!” It’s safe to say this is the defacto state of (figurative) art.

So let’s have these shows especially for women, and laud the women who toil away to make a career for themselves despite the odds stacked against them. But let’s continue evolving until we don’t need to have these kinds of shows anymore. I don’t want to be forever known as a great woman artist. I want to be known as a great artist.

Spring print sale will be starting in an hour! Lots of things that will never be available again. This is Maw, another painting from years ago. Only 1 left. Go to mandytsung.bigcartel.com or click the link in my profile.

Spring print sale will be starting in an hour! Lots of things that will never be available again. This is Maw, another painting from years ago. Only 1 left. Go to mandytsung.bigcartel.com or click the link in my profile.

Spring Print Sale happens this Wed, 12pm PST. Mandytsung.bigcartel.com. This is one of the first paintings I did when I was on my way to working full-time as an artist. To be honest, at the time I wasn’t even sure this was a good painting, but it’s been one of my most popular prints over the years. Artists are really the worst judges of their own work!

Spring Print Sale happens this Wed, 12pm PST. Mandytsung.bigcartel.com. This is one of the first paintings I did when I was on my way to working full-time as an artist. To be honest, at the time I wasn’t even sure this was a good painting, but it’s been one of my most popular prints over the years. Artists are really the worst judges of their own work!

Did a quick 2.5 painting of @galours in acrylic. It’s been so long since I was fully immersed in painting that I’d forgotten how disorienting it is once I stop, like I’ve been startled awake from a dream.

Did a quick 2.5 painting of @galours in acrylic. It’s been so long since I was fully immersed in painting that I’d forgotten how disorienting it is once I stop, like I’ve been startled awake from a dream.

Thank You!

So I just realized that I don’t get notifications for new messages here and found a bunch of them! I read them all and would love to respond to each of you, but I just don’t have the fortitude right now (typing is hard on my hand, which is recovering from tendinitis). So here’s a big THANK YOU to everyone who has sent me a message. I’m very grateful for all of your kind and encouraging words! I’ll try to check more often so I can respond personally to each.

Finished drawing of @nomi_chi!

Finished drawing of @nomi_chi!

Here’s a photo of my Furmaiden piece along with the special comb charm that comes with it. The piece is a three-dimensional, free-standing figure, precision laser-cut and is approximately 10” tall by 8” wide when fully assembled. Includes a separate illustrated postcard giving details of the mysterious figure’s origins. The Furmaiden is produced in a numbered, limited edition of 20. You can purchase it through @vonzos at landofzos.com.

Here’s a photo of my Furmaiden piece along with the special comb charm that comes with it. The piece is a three-dimensional, free-standing figure, precision laser-cut and is approximately 10” tall by 8” wide when fully assembled. Includes a separate illustrated postcard giving details of the mysterious figure’s origins. The Furmaiden is produced in a numbered, limited edition of 20. You can purchase it through @vonzos at landofzos.com.

Starting a drawing of @nomi_chi!

Starting a drawing of @nomi_chi!

extimate:

New photo series : ‘après l’amour’ on my website : http://www.ortie.name/apres-l-amour

These photographs are so amazing. I’ve always wanted to do a project like this and I’m glad to see it’s finally being done. The world needs to see more images like this!

(via dwam)

Anonymous asked: do you love yourself?

rubyetc:

image

I think self love is like a cat. All you do is stop thinking about yourself for a little while, give the cat some space, it will come straight to you without any effort at all.

When I was seventeen and preparing to leave for university, my mother’s only brother saw fit to give me some advice.
“Just don’t be an idiot, kid,” he told me, “and don’t ever forget that boys and girls can never just be friends.”
I laughed and answered, “I’m not too worried. And I don’t really think all guys are like that.”

When I was eighteen and the third annual advent of the common cold was rolling through residence like a pestilent fog, a friend texted me asking if there was anything he could do to help.
I told him that if he could bring me up some vitamin water that would be great, if it wasn’t too much trouble.
That semester I learned that human skin cells replace themselves every three to five weeks. I hoped that in a month, maybe I’d stop feeling the echoes of his touch; maybe my new skin would feel cleaner.
It didn’t. But I stood by what I said. Not all guys are like that.

When I was nineteen and my roommate decided the only way to celebrate the end of midterms was to get wasted at a club, I humoured her.
Four drinks, countless leers and five hands up my skirt later, I informed her I was ready to leave.
“I get why you’re upset,” she told me on the walk home, “but you have to tolerate that sort of thing if you want to have any fun. And really, not all guys are like that.”

(Age nineteen also saw me propositioned for casual sex by no fewer than three different male friends, and while I still believe that guys and girls can indeed be just friends, I was beginning to see my uncle’s point.)

When I was twenty and a stranger that started chatting to me in my usual cafe asked if he could walk with me (since we were going the same way and all), I accepted.
Before we’d even made it three blocks he was pulling me into an alleyway and trying to put his hands up my shirt. “You were staring,” he laughed when I asked what the fuck he was doing (I wasn’t), “I’m just taking pity.”
But not all guys are like that.

I am twenty one and a few days ago a friend and I were walking down the street. A car drove by with the windows down, and a young man stuck his head out and whistled as they passed. I ignored it, carrying on with the conversation.
My friend did not. “Did you know those people?” He asked.
“Not at all,” I answered.
Later when we sat down to eat he got this thoughtful look on his face. When I asked what was wrong he said, “You know not all guys do that kind of thing, right? We’re not all like that.”
As if he were imparting some great profound truth I’d never realized before. My entire life has been turned around, because now I’ve been enlightened: not all guys are like that.

No. Not all guys are. But enough are. Enough that I am uncomfortable when a man sits next to me on the bus. Enough that I will cross to the other side of the street if I see a pack of guys coming my way. Enough that even fleeting eye contact with a male stranger makes my insides crawl with unease. Enough that I cannot feel safe alone in a room with some of my male friends, even ones I’ve known for years. Enough that when I go out past dark for chips or milk or toilet paper, I carry a knife, I wear a coat that obscures my figure, I mimic a man’s gait. Enough that three years later I keep the story of that day to myself, when the only thing that saved me from being raped was a right hook to the jaw and a threat to scream in a crowded dorm, because I know what the response will be.

I live my life with the everburning anxiety that someone is going to put their hands on me regardless of my feelings on the matter, and I’m not going to be able to stop them. I live with the knowledge that statistically one in three women have experienced a sexual assault, but even a number like that can’t be trusted when we are harassed into silence. I live with the learned instinct, the ingrained compulsion to keep my mouth shut to jeers and catcalls, to swallow my anger at lewd suggestions and crude gestures, to put up my walls against insults and threats. I live in an environment that necessitates armouring myself against it just to get through a day peacefully, and I now view that as normal. I have adapted to extreme circumstances and am told to treat it as baseline. I carry this fear close to my heart, rooted into my bones, and I do so to keep myself unharmed.

So you can tell me that not all guys are like that, and you’d even be right, but that isn’t the issue anymore. My problem is not that I’m unaware of the fact that some guys are perfectly civil, decent, kind—my problem is simply this:

In a world where this cynical overcaution is the only thing that ensures my safety, I’m no longer willing to take the risk.

— r.d. (via vonmoire)

(Source: elferinge, via infectioushumanwaste)