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Classical Painting Atelier by Juliette Aristides

The Elements of Landscape Oil Painting by Suzanne Brooker

Portrait Painting Atelier by Suzanne Brooker

Classical Drawing Atelier by Juliette Aristides

Books by Teaching Artists at Gage Academy of Art

14 books — 3 voters

Wreck This Journal Everywhere by Keri Smith

7 Minutes to Freedom by Natalya Androsova

Vote For Your 100 Favorite Guided Journals & Guided Sketchbooks of All Time

171 books — 17 voters

The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady by Edith Holden

How to Be an Explorer of the World by Keri Smith

Keeping a Nature Journal by Clare Walker Leslie

Creative journalling

197 books — 21 voters

Written and Drawn by Henrietta by Liniers

I Like Art … What Jobs Are There? by Susie Hodge

The Ultimate Art Museum by Ferren Gipson

March is National Youth Art Month! (USA)

261 books — 5 voters

The Art of Startup Fundraising by Alejandro Cremades

Never Go With Your Gut by Gleb Tsipursky

Cars, Coffee, and a Badass Ninja Toilet by K.C. Hilton

Storytelling for Entrepreneurship

20 books — 33 voters

Stanford d.school Reading List

16 books — 1 voter

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“ If you experiment, you have to fail. By definition, experimenting means going to territory where you've never been, where failure is very possible. How can you know you're going to succeed? Having the courage to face the unknown is so important. ...more ”
― Marina Abramović, Walk Through Walls: A Memoir

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“ Another day, sheltering beneath trees in a rain-shower, I uncovered a doorway long obliterated by undergrowth. After pulling shrubbery aside, I stepped inside a long deserted summerhouse, fronted by cracked marble columns and ironwork, the rear extending deep into the hillside. Though still filthy, even after I cleared away the tenacious vines, the windowpanes gave sufficient greenish light for me to sketch indoors. In a cobwebbed corner stood a gardener's burner that must once have coaxed orang Another day, sheltering beneath trees in a rain-shower, I uncovered a doorway long obliterated by undergrowth. After pulling shrubbery aside, I stepped inside a long deserted summerhouse, fronted by cracked marble columns and ironwork, the rear extending deep into the hillside. Though still filthy, even after I cleared away the tenacious vines, the windowpanes gave sufficient greenish light for me to sketch indoors. In a cobwebbed corner stood a gardener's burner that must once have coaxed oranges or other delicate shrubs to life. With that alight, I found a chair and sat with my shawl muffled around me as I sketched. The marble statues that lined the walls were fine copies of the Greek masters, with muscular limbs and serene faces, though sadly disfigured with a blueish-green patina. As an exercise, I copied a figure of a handsome boy, admiring the sculptor's rendering of tensed muscle, the body frozen just an instant before extending in action. My mind drifted to Michael, the uncertainty hanging over us, my urges to please him, my need to move beyond this stupid impasse. As I sketched the statue's blind eyes I half-heartedly followed his line of sight. I stood and looked more closely at the statue. "What are you looking at?" I said out loud. A green stain blotted the boy's cheek, ugly but also strangely beautiful, for the color was a peacock's viridian. For the first time I noticed the description, "HARPOCRATES- SILENCE", engraved on the pediment, and had a vague recollection of a Roman boy-god who personified that virtue. He held one index finger raised coyly to his lips, while his other hand pointed towards a low arch in the wall. I paced over to the spot at which he pointed. The niche was filled with gardener's trellis that I removed with rising excitement. Behind stood an oak doorway set low in the wall. As I lifted the latch, it opened onto a blast of chilly darkness. Lighting the stub of a candle at the stove, I propped the door open and ventured inside. At once I knew this was no gardeners' store, but another tunnel burrowing into the hillside. Setting forth with the excitement of new discovery, my footsteps rang out and my breath fogged before me in clouds. The place had a mossy, mineral smell, and save for the dripping of water, was silent. Though at first the tunnel ran straight, it soon descended an incline, and my feet splashed into muddy puddles. Who, I wondered, had last passed through that door? ...more ”
― Martine Bailey, A Taste for Nightshade

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