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Just a little Portrait of my sweet boi Sam, done in Stream with Inuki yesterday.
Category Artwork (Digital) / Portraits
Species Opossum
Size 752 x 1000px
File Size 166.3 kB
The pyramid is hierarchy, each of the bricks comprising it a man, concept, or ancestor upon which the others stand upon in unity, seeking ascension towards the heavens. The eye is vigilance, protecting the future through the wisdom of those that have come before, bringing prosperity unto its charge. The circle surrounds the pyramid. Is it the world? Or perhaps a binding, a restraint against the tyranny of those seeking domination over those outside itself.
Placed upon the throat, whose chakra is that of truth, endows the possum's voice with authority, and the words of a philosopher king, whilst binding him against the abuse of such power.
His face points east, to whence the sun rises, and, whilst downcast, begets a quiet hope for tomorrow. Blind in one eye, he sees what others do not, for in humility there is a clarity few truly know in these dark times. Grey is his fur, for the body is but a tool, neither good nor evil, as one must do what it must to survive. Black is his hair, contemplative as the night sky. Painted gold, it calls for the moon, that which reflects the glory of the sun but without the ire of its oppressive heat, or threat of blinding those that gaze upon it. Grey eyes look upon the world and see a complexity that cannot be bisected between good and evil. There is no judgement, only humanity. The pale white of his face, is it the color of mourning, frailty? Or serenity in the face of hardship?
Placed upon the throat, whose chakra is that of truth, endows the possum's voice with authority, and the words of a philosopher king, whilst binding him against the abuse of such power.
His face points east, to whence the sun rises, and, whilst downcast, begets a quiet hope for tomorrow. Blind in one eye, he sees what others do not, for in humility there is a clarity few truly know in these dark times. Grey is his fur, for the body is but a tool, neither good nor evil, as one must do what it must to survive. Black is his hair, contemplative as the night sky. Painted gold, it calls for the moon, that which reflects the glory of the sun but without the ire of its oppressive heat, or threat of blinding those that gaze upon it. Grey eyes look upon the world and see a complexity that cannot be bisected between good and evil. There is no judgement, only humanity. The pale white of his face, is it the color of mourning, frailty? Or serenity in the face of hardship?
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