What are you working on at the sec? The definition of art is pretty broad here. Feel free to share whatever. Woodwork, decorating, painting. Surprise us!
On Ai: Alas AI exists. It’s harder and harder to bank away from it, feel free to include things that use Ai but with my personal request that it has been generated with clear intention or with unique approach. No mass AI prompt slop.
I don’t know if you’ve seen it but there’s an old Projects thread you might like. :))
Since my main form of creative output has always been photography, film and video, you’re mainly going to see more photos from me here 
I bring to you an excerpt from one of two upcoming novels, the first in like 5 years. The book is titled “The Little Gifts”:
“Controversially Acclaimed Author Jeanette McCurdy Dead At 34”
A simple headline, straight and to the point. An entire life boiled down to a single sentence, the only thing that, really, history remembers most of us for…our deaths. But if Jeanette’s suicide was an attempt to curb the conversation surrounding her, then it succeeded, because no longer did anyone speak of that supposed controversy, but instead now all their focus was on her choice to end her life. She became a martyr, of sorts. An example of a literary titan of her generation, gone too soon, and a vision of what poor mental health can do to people in the arts.
But nobody knew – not the papers, not her publisher, not her agent – that she hadn’t been alone in those last moments. She and Marley had been in bed, Marley fast asleep, but Jeanette, as always, wide awake. Seemed as though she couldn’t sleep much anymore, at least not without the aide of multiple heavy sleep medications and alcohol. Jeanette turned and looked at Marley, the one bastion of peace she had left in the world, and realized it wasn’t enough to curtail the growing, gnawing, gnashing void that was eating her from the inside.
So Jeanette climbed out of bed, pulled on a beautiful, fashionable raincoat – long and dark blue with gold buttons and white cuffs – and drove her car down to a nearby lake. There, she parked, got out, gathered up all the stones she could find and shoved them in her pockets, before wading slowly into the lake, letting the weight of the world and the weight of her coat, take her under the water until she had drowned. Marley was simultaneously shocked and not shocked. She had expected Jeanette to do something like this, but at the same time it seemed so unreal that she was actually gone. And when she learned of the cause of death, all she could think about was Jeanette’s appreciation, sometimes bordering on utter fascination, with Virginia Woolf, who had killed herself in almost the exact same manner. That, and the conversation from that night at the party ran through her head on a seemingly indefinite loop.
“The worst thing an artist can do is stick around well past their expiration date.”
And, of course, the quote. The Virginia Woolf quote that Jeanette had loved so deeply.
“Someone has to die in order that the rest of us should value life more.”
And it suddenly made sense to Marley in a way it never really had before. Oh, sure, she’d gotten the basic gist of the concept, but now it hit deeper, closer to home. She suddenly saw the world for what it was, a place of beauty and not just angst. All that pain she’d endured while in college, all that guilt and shame that Jeanette had helped her break through, was no longer the basis for her worldview. Instead, she was seeing colors. Hearing sounds. Realizing that love, even in the face of great loss, was worth the effort and the pain that came with it. The bravest thing one can do is admit they love someone else, especially if it’s the kind of love that was often ridiculed or minimized by society such as theirs. That’s why Marley made the decision to no longer live in fear of loving someone, and instead embrace the idea of attaching herself closely like some kind of emotional suckerfish to those she loved, and it was why she saw the same pain in Irene when Rebecca left that she’d seen in Jeanette, and it worried her.
She had lost one already.
She couldn’t bear to lose another.
