Work in Progress - Submerged

And now for another trade I love; art! :D This piece is totally and completely inspired by the work of Cory Godbey of http://lightnightrains.blogspot.com/ (amazingamazingamazing). I wanted to try to emulate his style of color, which consists of LOTS of different layers, sort of thusly;

pencil sketch
watercolor texture sketch
computer color
make it awesome

Mine is (so very obviously) no where close to his, but I'm going to pretend that's because it's also no where close to done. So here it is so far.

 Mehhhh. It needs so much more work. I want the colors to be a lot more intense, but I'm having trouble figuring out how to layer the textures without totally muting everything else. Oh Photoshop, why dost thou hate me?

The Back Porch (#11)

Wow. So the whole point of these exercises is (I think) to consecutively describe something, and also prove that I can stick with it. 'Cus sticking with it is pretty essential for writing a book . . . which I'm kind of trying to do. XD Oh well. Better late then never!
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I am trapped in a cold square. In front of me is a thin, clear, hard material that allows me to see what is outside. Half of the clear material has some sort of criss-crossing screen in front of it, while the other side is completely clear. This too is square-shaped (rectangular, rather), all straight lines. Just on the other side there is a large square stone projecting outwards. It has a rough texture, with both light and dark patches. It is a rather neutral, nondescript color, ranging in value from light beige to a deep purplish-green.

The Back Porch (#10)

   The sun was out, and there was much to be thankful for. The bushes were thankful for those golden rays which inspired them to grow and create food for themselves, their leaves still green and young. The firey banners of the trees waved above the heads of the bushes, thankful for the cool breeze which sent them dancing. The sky was a brilliant, rich blue, thankful that it was unblanketed and clear.
  The porch relaxed in the shade, thankful for such a beautiful day. No rain to pound and torment it. No frost or snow to coat its rusty railings. The weather was really quite perfect, and the porch fully intended to enjoy every minute of it by napping the day away in blissful contentment.
   On the porch there was a little rosemary bush sitting in a little black plastic pot which nested in a bright yellow ceramic bowl. The rosemary bush was incredibly grateful. It had lately housed two sad little succulents in its dirt, as they had no other place to grow. The succulents were not big drinkers, and the rosemary bush had been feeling the drought for quite some time. Just now, however, the Water Giver had decided to remove the smallest (and most likely to survive) of the succulents into its own little spot of dirt, and had thoroughly watered the rosemary bush and set it outside. Its roots were in ecstasy. It's thin, sharp-bladed leaves' senses were dull from thirst, but soon would perk up and realize that the sun was out and would do some drinking in of their own.
   The only unthankful one in the whole place was the other succulent. It slouched grumpily against the side of the rosemary's black pot, thoroughly unhappy at the sun, the breeze, the water that had just been poured over its roots, and at life in general. It tended to be silent in its peevishness, however, and so the rosemary bush payed it no mind. Bushes always tend to be optimistic, and this one was no exception. It was going to enjoy this day completely, without distraction.

The Back Porch (#9)

   The porch hung off the side of the building like a giant Stone Troll, the iron railing crowning its flat head. It held perfectly still. Stone Trolls are capable of incredible feats of stillness, and are often mistaken for badly-sculpted statues if stumbled upon by the unwary. The porch could pretend, and could certainly hold just as still and be just as quiet.
   Not far away crouched an electrical box for the Transit System. It was on to the porch's game, and was watching it intently. It was like a staring contest, if both contestants were eyeless, square, and made of some nonporous material. The electrical box had been painted a greenish aqua color, back when that particular shade was popular among utility boxes. Now the box looked dated and rusty, but he was well on top of his game. Not one flicker or fidget from the porch would escape his notice.
   Unknown to both, the porch railing had ideas of its own. Too long had it perched on the cement square of the porch. Too long had it gone unrecognized, scoffed at for its utilitarian design and chipped, rusting paint. It would act soon, very soon - the only thing it waited for was a hapless Two Leg to come by and lean on it, once again without a "Please" or "By your leave", or even a "Thank you very much, you well-constructed and particularly handsome railing". Oh yes. Its time to fly would soon come. But for now it would wait, biding its time.

The Back Porch (#8)

Once again, this is an exercise from www.ndwilson.com, on his blog. It's been an interesting challenge so far!
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The sky is subtelly changing colors this morning, it's mind undecided, at first pouring grey sledge over everything, and then drowning the world in blue. For now, the sky is grey, and everything I see is tinged with grey as well. The back porch, splattered and pockmarked, already a grey hardened mash of stone, changes as well. When the sky is blue, or when the sun is out, the porch is grey. When the sky is grey, the porch takes a strange tannish hue. It is a rainbow of muted colors. The are dark reds, rusted oranges, drab yellows, deep purples, and underneath it all, the ubiquitous pale and indiscriminate color of concrete, currently a sort of beige color.
  The iron railings are also tainted with this riot of psychedelica; rusted red, tinges of green, blue reflected from the heavens, grey where the black paint has been bleached and worn away.
  Beyond the back porch, there is a sea of green. Deep, rich, waxy greens. Pale, sickly, yellowing greens. Purple and red-tinged greens. Leaves that have abandoned green all together and turned a bright, sunny yellow or a happy orange-red. The ground is littered with their many-colored corpses.
  And the sky. An impenetrable, flat, unmottled, downy grey. If it were to let the sun out from behind its smothering blankets, how the colors would be set on fire!

The Back Porch (#7)

It is a cool day, with pale light and a strong breeze. The topmost branches of the trees are set to dancing, and leaves drift to the ground as they are shaken from their perches.
  The sun is drifting behind clouds, but a stronger yellow light is beginning to touch the bushes, strengthening the leaves, warming the air. It does them good, and they are happier for it.
  Underneath the bushes, hidden by waxy green leaves and bare, woody vines, there is a fence. It lurks in the shadows, it's metal links almost invisible against the pattern of fallen leaves on the ground behind it. Deeper in behind the fence, there appears to be free space, perhaps enough one might walk, only a little hunched over. 
    Further still, beyond the other side of the bushes, something pale can be seen. The leaves and branches are so many and so close together that whatever it is cannot be quite discerned. It is a very light, whitish, tannish color, compared with the deep green through which it peers - perhaps of new concrete. Or perhaps it is a stretch of dirt, and the gleaming line that I can spy is the railroad tracks whose lone trafficker is the cause of many a tiny quake in our small apartment. The rumblings can be heard and felt no matter where you move to. Now the track is silent, and if that is what I can see through the leaves, it beckons. What would it be like to climb over that chain-link fence, duck under the bushes and between the tree trunks, and emerge on a slight incline, train tracks stretching to forever in either direction?
  And if I were to choose left or right, and began to walk, where would I end up?

The Back Porch (#6)

   A gray curtain has been drawn over the world.  The sky is flat and cold, a pale stone ceiling. Even the bright colors of the trees are dimmed.
  The concrete slab juts out from the back of our apartment, a cold and lifeless extension of the warm room within, separated by thin sheets of sliding glass. The porch looks almost tawny in the clouded morning, spotted and marred with time. The railing strides around the perimeter, stolid and black in spite of the green and red seeping up from the concrete onto the iron. The porch is fenced in, but empty, guarding nothing, keeping no one in or out. Even the tiny tree that had adorned it in the summer has moved indoors to a warmer climate.
   Beyond the porch, the bushes are still. There is a slight stirring in the upper branches of the trees, a momentary fidget as they wait for the clouds to unleash or bestow whatever they have stored behind their impenetrable wall. The red of the creeping vines is muted, the riotous oranges and yellows in the trees seeming almost brown, their glow stolen from them . The sun is locked behind thick bars, beating uselessly against the backs of the clouds, warming them but not the earth.
   There is no stirring of bird today, no flashing tail of a squirrel darting from branch to branch. All is still. All is stifled, quieted, blanketed with chill air and gray light. All is asleep.