Btw digits I'd suggest you block out the legs in a single color, just to get a sense of the pose.

I have this silhouette of a mech drawn, but I don't know what to do with it. Is it a big mech? Is it a powersuit? What stuff should I add? Should I change the proportions completely? Let me hear you thoughts

Power suit methinks. You should do a grungy version, that would be cool.

Forum resized it to half lol.

What is this, I don't even

This is art. It has no defineneed definition, other than an expression of something by an artist. Art need not have a plot, structure or theme. Art is art.

You may request further explanation of an artist on the odd chance he is willing to give it. YHTFLKC is a nice fellow, so it is reasonable to think he might aid in FoiL's interpretation of the piece.

Yeah, sorry if that sounded like an attack. I was tired, and bored, and I felt like becoming philosophical, not aggressive. I'm really sorry.

I have no problem with modern art, while I do not enjoy it the artist is free to do whatever is mind tells him to.

Blah blah blah, post some art here, muse about what is and isn't artistic elsewhere if you must, I'm so tired of that debate. It's only really a debate for things that are on the line; "is that tastefully arranged set of footprints left by that dog art?" seems to embody the ridiculousness of 80% of all the conjecture I've heard on the matter.

I do, modern art is bull♥♥♥♥, most of it containing no technical ability what so ever (I've seen a video where some "modern artist" literally just decides to make a "piece of art" and just whips up a bunch of stuff into a pile and then sold it for a fortune, it was literally 10 minutes of work or so). It's like they just whip up some bull♥♥♥♥ and "put meaning behind it" just so that it can be called art, I bet most of them are scammers, while I accept that there are a few that genuinely believe that their random scribbles actually portray something to them.

[edit:] Though if somebody just does it for the hell of it and doesn't care about making money off it then I'm fine with it. Like I'm fine with YHTFLKC's piece, though I personally do not take much interest in it.

@geti nija'd me. I don't see why there can't be a discussion about modern art just because you don't want to, so long as it doesn't start a flame fest.

I see where you're coming from, Geti, since the thread is called Art Dump. Not a place to debate on art, just somewhere to "dump" your art.

I got bored, and I made a .gif of a flash of a reading of a review of another flash.
...


I dunno, maybe an avatar or sommat.

I don't know, compressing a whole flash movie into a tiny gif like that seems kind of pointless, I mean without the audio it's completely meaningless and you can't read a lot of the words

Non, I love the griffin. Pretty darn epic, if I do say so myself! And here is a poem I wrote:

Dragoon

I walk slowly through the shaded brush, the light breeze whipping my dark hair in the dim trees. My armor weighs heavily on my narrow shoulders. Had it not been a mere week since I left my village of Dredenshire to fight in the bloody war of Sturtridge?

My legs succumb to numbness, and I plop my steel-laden body beneath a heavy oak. It's bark is rough on my cheek. A fond memory of times long past flicker through my dozing mind. I forget the memory, for with it comes the horrible shudders of a deathly night. The night of my father passed. Why couldn't I help? Why did fear's icy claw seize my heart, petrifying it, paralyzing it? A shiver caresses first my neck, then down the trough of my back, only to spread like a viral assassin into my limbs, followed by my fingers and toes.

I am still lying beneath the great oak, and my head throbs slightly from the darkness that traversed my young mind the previous night. I stand up clumsily, gathering my bearings on the wooded hills. It is time to hunt. I untether my bow from my back, and adjust my quiver to it's usual nook on my back. Being a scout of the 67th dragoon division means survival and resourcefulness. I will gather my own food and shelter.

My position in a tall ash is secretive, shrouded in mystery and foliage. The hours pass like a summer rainstorm. Eventually, I hear a twig break, and my eyes widen in a wave of terror and excitement. I scrutinize the bed of leaves, and rest my vision on the large quadruped walking casually through the brush. Quietly, comfortably, I raise me bow and take careful aim. The hunter must be his prey, and the prey is in no rush, therefore I am not in a rush. I breathe steadily, focusing in on the individual hairs on my target's shoulder. I have hunted countless deer, but each one is a separate experience to be gingerly explored. I draw my hand back, pulling the bow string with it. A tender brush of my leather glove across the light hairs on my cheek gives me the signal. One more deep breath. Suddenly a small, concentrated blast of wind rushes along my face, discouraging my focus. Time slows down, and I see the wooden shaft of my arrow glide through the air. It plunges unforgiving into the deer's shoulder, a couple inches off of my mark, while still residing in the killing zone. The deer drops with a thud, and the rush of the forest calms to a surreal stillness.

The greasy aroma of cooking venison warms my nostrils, while the small fire wards off the cool of the night. I lift the iron mug to my mouth, ignoring the searing pain in my fingers. The broth runs down my throat, washing away the wear of the day. I put out the fire and lay down my light bedding.

I continue towards the enemy camp, and the days roll on in organized sequence. When will this war end?