173. Tell me a tiny story.
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173. Tell me a tiny story.
the first storytelling thread of the new year.
Dear reader,
What better way to begin a new year? Let us play the game of tiny people.
The SneakyArt Post shares secretly drawn art of the world, and notes from my journey of self-education to be an artist, writer, and podcaster.
If you know someone that has tiny stories to tell, share this post with them!
Drawing on Public Transit
Last month, I was an artist-in-residence on the Translink, Vancouver’s public transit system. My final session was on the SeaBus on New Year’s eve.
Read about more residency experiences here.
The Game of Tiny People
For those who are new to the game, this is how you play:
Pick a tiny person below.
Give them a tiny place in your big world.
Write their tiny story in the comments.
Read, like, and add to the stories of others.
This week’s theme is - “Things to do, places to go.”
Pick a person already labelled. Or someone without a label. Give them a label.
For example,
Man holding coffee, top middle.
He wondered how long before the coffee went cold. They always said it was extra hot. But was it really? Next time he would ask for extra-extra hot. No matter how much they rolled their eyes, he would.
If you wish, you can also write a little poem. For example, a haiku:
🎶 + 💤
The edge of the seat
Resonating with the song
A sweet lullaby.
I look forward to reading your stories in the comments. This week’s best entry will win a signed print!
Come see me draw
Tomorrow I will draw live on the StreetView World Tour, a Zoom series organized by Eleanor Doughty and Jenny Adam.
I will use a photo reference to draw a busy Vancouver scene while sharing tips to explain my process.
To join the event, grab your free seat below!
Dear reader, I am glad to have a space in your inbox this year. Next week, I will share resolutions, systems, and rituals for 2023. Thank you for your time and attention.
173. Tell me a tiny story.
Audrey was right...On a bad day there is always lipstick
Backpack man, far right up 3.
All I could see of Andrew was the top of his garish backpack over the seat in front of me. I scowled at it but he didn’t turn around or so much as sniffle. We’d shared the same bus route for 4 years now, and he hadn’t spoken a single word to me for two and a half. I hated him, his stupid backpack, and the way he didn’t seem bothered by me or my attitude. I was an island of malevolence and he was blissfully sunbathing offshore, on the deck of a sunny schooner. And I hated it.