BΔRBΔRΔ

@marteani.bsky.social

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teΔ connoisseur, monsters, owls, artist, she/her Marteani.art

Single panel from The Enigma of Amigara Fault by Junji Ito, where a nearly nude man has scaled a vertical stone to crawl into a vaguely person-shaped hole. He screams "Th-this is my hole! It was made for me!" over his shoulder to a crowd of onlookers.
Bike odometer reading 2011 miles, June 3, 2026.
Barley existent sketches of screaming bat ladies in black and yellow pen.
Hardcover library copy of the book named in the post, sitting on an oxblood purse next to an almost finished Sonic Tonic, which is espresso with tonic and strawberry.
A fully baked quiche, the top a beautiful golden brown with a scattering of thyme leaves. Beneath it hides slow cooked shallots, garlic, finely diced chorizo, and several varieties of mushroom. Perhaps there's also a lot of sheep's milk feta.
A younger Sam Neill as Merlin, wearing a dark cape with many iridescent black feathers on the shoulders, his hair tousled. He stands in a snowy forest.
Scene from Braveheart where Isabelle tells the dying king "death comes to us all," except this time it's edited to say "uptown comes to us all."
Library hardcover copy of Wolf Worm by T Kingfisher
Screenshot text: I’m telling you this because tomorrow, Monday, 65 more employees of the Star Tribune will walk out the door, jobless. Some will lose their job through buyouts, thanks to the union contract, but most will be laid off. In the newsroom, it’s editors, mainly, as well as all of the news assistants and the librarian, some page designers, some copy editors. The “invisible jobs” that are so crucial to getting the work done, and keeping the quality high. (How will they function without a librarian?)
A tabby with white feet and belly, fully shrimped inside a fluffy pod bed, her back little pink toe beans on display. She is the soul of sleepiness.
Still image featuring the cast of The Odyssey, a 1992 Canadian children's show. Left to right: a grungey 12 year old boy with a black vest, a 12 year old boy wearing denim everything holding a red hurricane lamp, a 12 year old girl in extremely 90s patchwork layers and red lace sleeves. They are surrounded by smoke and looking off into the distance.
Scene from Braveheart where Isabelle tells the dying king "death comes to us all," except this time it's edited to say "uptown comes to us all."
My pasty white hand holding a purple pilot fountain pen on a page of ridiculously small wiring, partially in cursive, blurred just enough so that you'd be insane to read it. Don't read it. My spelling is terrible
A copy of Blades in the Dark and its companion, Deep Cuts.
Juri from Utena, standing alone in an private fencing outfit, chest open. In her left hand she holds her dueling sword, the the right she clutches a locket, the chain pulling on her neck. A rose crushed in her first. Her hand is bleeding. Behind her, an empty bench and a view of the water, reflecting a huge full moon.
A black GOtime bike computer with the odometer reading 2011 miles.
3 stacks of casino playing cards, spray painted white, with block prints of crows in black and inscrutable garbage symbols in red and gold.
Two color riso print of a woman with a crow head, her hands bloody claws. A poem next to her reads: God of the road, Carrion Queen, who sits at the crossroads Who eats the detritus before it punctures my wheels Who burns the scrub before it tangles my chains Protect me from those who would cause harm From the gasoline devils who park in your blessed lanes From the rage of lost souls who wallow in air conditioning From the callousness of the city who refuses your infrastructure In your name we ride At dawn and dusk In rain and sun Over uncracked asphalt Over gravel and weeds Over mud and brick I beseech you Protect my spokes And may I get home In one fucking peace
White playing cards laid out on drying racks, row after row, printed with black crows.
A crappy wooden worship with a piece of white dibond. On the dibond is a lino plate with three crows, two are masked off with plastic. There is a black inking roller to the side.
A gray lino tile with four crows drawn on it in pencil. Three flying, one standing and cawing.
A rubber block on top of a sketchbook page, with pen drawings of styalized seeds, plants, trash, and probably a molotov cocktail. There is a 9 of hearts playing card next to it.
Screen shot of the Tech Won't Save Us site, episodes divided by alternating gray/black blocks, white heavily pixelated text reminiscent of DOS listening episode titles, dates, and guests.
A grid of playing cards spray painted white , and two fine grit, dark gray sanding films.
A riso print of the quoted image, in pink and yellow, which has combined to make the shrimp and ballet dancer bright orange.
A ballet dancer and a ballet shrimp dancing together in front of a circular window, surrounded by shrimp and bugs.
Two decks of playing cards taped in a grid to cardboard, propped up on wooden pallets and I'm the middle of being spray painted white.
A dozen little lino prints in red and gold, printed on the back of casino playing cards. It depicts an Allen wrench in golden flame, with a red sunburst halo and the words "RADII MEA CUSTODIAT," which if you squint is Latin for "protect my spokes."
A grey tabby cat with a white nose and belly, curled like a shrimp, belly up with her little paws up.
"Resting" Aleksander P Krylov. Oil painting on canvas. A person reclining in bed beneath white sheets, reading a blue covered book, while a great tabby is curled up somewhere around the leg area.
A black/white drawing of a woman staring down the viewer, one lip curled up as she licks at a snarling fang, adjusting a wolf pelt on her head.
A metal fence on a sunny street corner, where so many bikes have been locked up that several are mounted on top of the fence.
A drawing of a pale woman posed like Mother Mary. She has a black crow's head, is smoking a joint, her eyes patched over with X shaped tape. She wears black torn jeans over fishnets, a red belt with a moon buckle, a black cropped tank, and a yellow/grey quilted leather jacket. In one bloodied hand she hold a disposable coffee cup, before her hovers an Allen wrench wreathed in flame. Behind her head, like a halo, is a bicycle wheel. She has black wings covered in eyes, dandelions at her feet. At the bottom, text: RADII MEA CUSTODIAT, which is something like Latin.
A Farside cartoon. 3 elderly cavemen sit on a log and watch a younger caveman walk past carrying a boulder on his back. Caption: "Would you look at that? ...By thunder, you couldn't do that in our day-yessiree, the rocks were just a lot heavier back then."
A coffee shop table upon which sits a library copy of the book described in the skeet, along with a hot cup of coffee and an umbrella with birds on it, which tells you what kind of day this is.
A four panel comic page drawn on a folded up brown paper grocery bag. They are very loose pen drawings with minimal dialogue and only need to make sense to me.
The crumbling zone of the 2 blocks of the 28th St protected bike lane. It is rife with potholes, sunken manhole covers, two different kinds of paving.
A gray tabby with a white belly, fully flipped over with her belly up, little paws curled up.
A hardcover copy of Euphoric Recall by Peter Jeperson, on a tiny round table next to half finish cup of coffee.
Three skin on chicken thighs fresh from the oven on a bed of unseen potatoes, chickpeas, garlic, and lemon slices.
A gray tabby cat with white belly and toes, curled on her back with her little paws tucked up, inviting someone, anyone, please pet her belly. She is the most precious.
Text from article: “We've hit the moment where the ability to cover the losses has exceeded the ability of Hennepin County property tax owners to pay for it,” he said. “We're asking the state not for money. We're asking for permission to repurpose a ballpark sales tax.” The existing sales tax currently serves to pay off the bonds for Target Field’s construction debt, which Lunde said is expected to be settled by 2027. He added that Hennepin County needs legislative approval to repurpose these funds as a health care tax to cover costs.
My fish-belly right white arm on a table, the right side and wrist with a length of kinesiology tape applied to stabilize my ancient hag bones.
Sketchy digital drawing a woman's face, eyes nearly closed as she bites her lower lip.
Hardcover library copy of Hello Sunshine, a comic book by keezy Young, on a small wooden coffee shop table and a cold press coffee cocktail.
VERY loose pen sketch of a woman shaped creature, visible from waist up, more arms than strictly necessary.
Text excerpt from article: Capitalism, like all abusive relationships, creates a sense of learned helplessness in its victims. We are complicit in what it makes of us: we want so badly for what it tells us to be true. Of course we do. Its logic, if real, would describe a world simple enough for us to comfortably believe in. The good will succeed, and the bad will suffer—justly. It’s a beautiful fairy tale, no more complex, and no less seductive, than any of the stories that animate Disney World. And as with Disney World itself, it is easy for us to accept the story that capitalism, when it is working for us, pressures us to buy: the story where it is an effortlessly self-regulating system, and where all of this simply happens, and happens the way it should, because we asked for it, because we paid for it, and because we earned the right to be here in the castle.
Close up of the back of a plum colored biking jacket speckled with the dirt and detritus of the road.
A black vertical computer mouse.
A 12 key macro pad with a spin wheel and a dial, by Work Louder.
The same panel in the quote post, now fully cleaned and lit up, but attached to a sad little 12in power cable.
A 20 x 30 cm LED tracing panel, covered in grime on a much sliced up work table.
A small grey mackerel tabby with a white chest and legs, flopped over on a yellow blanket with blue stripes. She is curved like a shrimp, chin exposed for skritches.
Baron de Ghost, a pale 80s anime man with glorious dark teal hair, wearing something approximating 18th century European noble fashion. He is majestically but somehow sinisterly riding a horse.
A figure laying on a yoga mat, doing the pose as described in the post. Sourced from Shutterstock.
Text from article: I don't know why I thought we were an exception. Maybe because sometimes we were. Artforum, for many years, was about as leftist as an elite publication could get. We really did play a role in holding weapons manufacturers and the engineers of the opioid crisis to account. We really did give jobs and bylines to some singular and brilliant people. We really were a brainy refuge of weird glamour married to principle, and sometimes I wonder if mine is the last generation to grow up thinking of the art world as a place for ungovernable outsiders and talented eccentrics, which doesn't hear the word 'art' and think immediately of commerce.
Close up photo of an in process lino cut, which is an elaborate pattern of medieval leaves.
Screenshot of interview answer text: Yeah, well, I try and avoid it as much as possible. I don't use my "celebrity" to make a living. I don't do ads for suits in Spain like George Clooney, or cigarettes in Japan like Harrison Ford. And on one level, people go, "Well, more fault to you, mate, because there's free money to be handed out." But to me it's kind of sacrilegious—it's a complete contradiction of the fucking social contract you have with your audience. I mean, Robert De Niro's advertising American Express.
Very rough pencil sketches of a woman who is also a gross (complimentary) bat.
An oven safe dish filled with braised leeks