PROFESSIONAL MAKE UP BRUSHES SET : PROFESSIONAL MAKE UP
PROFESSIONAL MAKE UP BRUSHES SET : MAKE UP OF 2011.
Professional Make Up Brushes Set
- Having or showing the skill appropriate to a professional person; competent or skillful
- an athlete who plays for pay
- (of a person) Engaged in a specified activity as one's main paid occupation rather than as a pastime
- Of, relating to, or connected with a profession
- a person engaged in one of the learned professions
- engaged in a profession or engaging in as a profession or means of livelihood; "the professional man or woman possesses distinctive qualifications"; "began her professional career after the Olympics"; "professional theater"; "professional football"; "a professional cook"; "professional actors
- Cosmetics such as lipstick or powder applied to the face, used to enhance or alter the appearance
- The composition or constitution of something
- The combination of qualities that form a person's temperament
- constitute: form or compose; "This money is my only income"; "The stone wall was the backdrop for the performance"; "These constitute my entire belonging"; "The children made up the chorus"; "This sum represents my entire income for a year"; "These few men comprise his entire army"
- constitution: the way in which someone or something is composed
- makeup: an event that is substituted for a previously cancelled event; "he missed the test and had to take a makeup"; "the two teams played a makeup one week later"
- An implement with a handle, consisting of bristles, hair, or wire set into a block, used for cleaning or scrubbing, applying a liquid or powder to a surface, arranging the hair, or other purposes
- An act of sweeping, applying, or arranging with such an implement or with one's hand
- A thin stick set with long wire bristles, used to make a soft hissing sound on drums or cymbals
- (brush) rub with a brush, or as if with a brush; "Johnson brushed the hairs from his jacket"
- (brush) an implement that has hairs or bristles firmly set into a handle
- (brush) a dense growth of bushes
- A collection of implements, containers, or other objects customarily used together for a specific purpose
- fit(p): (usually followed by `to' or `for') on the point of or strongly disposed; "in no fit state to continue"; "fit to drop"; "laughing fit to burst"; "she was fit to scream"; "primed for a fight"; "we are set to go at any time"
- A group of people with common interests or occupations or of similar social status
- a group of things of the same kind that belong together and are so used; "a set of books"; "a set of golf clubs"; "a set of teeth"
- put: put into a certain place or abstract location; "Put your things here"; "Set the tray down"; "Set the dogs on the scent of the missing children"; "Place emphasis on a certain point"
- A group or collection of things that belong together, resemble one another, or are usually found together
The Darkest Light
This extended "holiday" has given me a boot in the ass I really wasn't expecting to get right now. I've known for a long time that there was a high chance that my son could end up showing signs of mental illness. It runs on both sides of his family. The signs have been there since he first started talking and whenever he felt really bad about anything he told us he wanted to stab himself with a sword. I don't know what parent's blood wouldn't run cold at hearing their two year old say such a thing, but for a person who went through suicidal periods- hearing him say such things felt like being killed myself.
For many years people have advised me not to "project" my own issues onto him. Since I've never told him I ever wanted to kill myself I don't think I was projecting myself onto him much. For years people have said "He's so young, just wait and see." Or they've said "Oh, he's just a normal kid, they all say that kind of stuff." But when I ask directly if their kids have talked like him they have always had to admit that theirs hadn't.
With Max's food issues people have consistently insisted that he is just playing us for power and that we're letting him step all over us. We've known differently. People are always trying to make it our own fault or suggest that Max is just being a spoiled kid because poor kids wouldn't ever get to choose what they eat and no kid will choose to starve.
But as I have been trying to just watch and listen, wait and see, I have seen him develop more and more into a vibrant version of Philip and I. Most parents would be thrilled because isn't that what so many people want? Little "minnie me's"? Which I think is creepy, but who cares what I think, huh? I never looked for my kid to be exactly like me and I have always been hopeful that in many ways he would not be like me because being me has been a 39 year challenge I wouldn't dream of sticking anyone else with.
I honestly don't understand how I managed to talk myself into believing that I could have a baby who wouldn't get my mental illness. But, I have agreed not to sit around mourning what I can't change and feeling like a piece of shit for being selfish enough to have a child.
So all these years I've been trying not to jump any gun or race to consign my child to a clinical labeling. But there comes a time when a mother knows better than everyone else- besides a professional psychologist. There comes a time when a mother has seen her child suffer for long enough with something he has little control over and isn't aware of. There comes a time when it hurts too much to watch; unable to help enough, unable to ease through every minute.
The truth is pretty hideous: I can't do this without professional help anymore. No, that's not quite the truth that I need to put out there into the light... OK. OK.
Parenting has driven me to drink. Most seriously. My goal this year is to lose weight, to drink a lot less beer, and to be healthier both physically and psychologically. Which I am unable to do while my child is so challenging to raise.
There. It is said. The horrible ugly is said at last. Having him home so much longer than usual has highlighted some things I've been worried about but which are now so blaringly obvious that if I ignore them any longer and anything bad happens to my boy because of it I won't forgive myself later.
The truth is that both my husband and my son need psychological help and yet I'm the only one in the family who is medicated. But never medicated enough and the longer they go without therapy or medication the harder I drink, the less I sleep, the fatter I get. I'm not saying I don't make choices here. But I'm saying that all these choices I am making are allowing me to put off complete mental exhaustion. They are giving me some kind of mental calm that otherwise would be decimated by everyone else's panic attacks in this house.
I can't force Philip to get help, and anyway, neither of us have medical insurance and won't be able to afford counseling or extra meds until we do. Or until we're making a lot more money than we seem capable of.
Max has medical insurance, however, and so it is time to get him professional help. I have been writing this post for two days now and have wrestled with the question of putting it here on my blog. I know so many people who would think putting something so personal about their kid out there for others to read is a violation of their privacy. There is some merit in that. But this is my story too. And if there is only one thing I can teach him in this life I hope to God it will be to never be ashamed of mental illness.
I have decided that telling it here is better. If he's angry at me for doing it when he's older then we can fight it out. Parents who keep this kind of stuff private are rarely spared anger anyway because what I've observed about parenting is
JUVENILIA: Things That Grow On Trees Flyer © 1988 mc sub-zero permafrost
you can see the date drawn onto the pocket (Oct. 8 1988)
doctored cheap felt-tip pen drawn directly onto scrap bristol board, as it faded frighteningly fast the same year you can see where i went in with proper ink and nib to try and preserve some of it [many of the lines are visibly irretrievably corrupted (for instance in jacket arm on L hand side)] the text was added on in marx-a-lot and red drop shadowed cheap felt tip. i was about 15 when i drew this and remember noticing with horror how fast the felt tip was fading and going over some parts the same year, after which this was then copied onto an acetate (with the text cutout) and burned onto a silkscreen which was printed off the same day (black on butcher paper and orange red onto nice textured rag) for a city-wide highschool art contest
text to be edited, apologies:
you can see where i later tried to save some of fading crappy felt-tip ink by going over it in lightfast ink
used to use a doctored felt tip pen for all my drawings before switching to brush and ink (would slice the felt nib with an x-acto knife on a diagonal plane to get that calligraphic edge). um an i never "pencilled" before hand. everything was just free-handed composed as i went along.later for commercial and professional work when certain phrases etc.had to be used or needed to play closer attention to proportions, might sketch stuff out, but mostly tried to keep the skill of "never making a mistake" that is making every mark work and responding to what had happened previously more as a dialogue or collaboration.again for commercial work that required working in a particular style or communicating something within specific confines would sometimes research and use references but despised the lack of skill inherent in say drawing form a photo as opposed to using my memory imagination or a live 3D epheneral model.
this flyer was done for an expirimental improv based school music group called "Things That Grow On Trees" we were to have our first show with the newly reformed Rosicrucians or Satunalia i get it mixed up and cant find the lettering layout....
this would be one of my first forays into professional art hustling
i sold copies of the flyer at a profit during lunch hour becuase people had started to offer money (i think kinko#s at that time was like 5 or 7 cents a copy and people were offering a quarter, i was completely taken aback, then of, course, enthusiastic : )...
i beleived deeply in printmaking and commics as affordable art in multiple form. i wanted to make things thatwould not be only avalable in galleries for large amounts of money, collected most probably by people that sought to mystify and pedestal-ize art and artists, congratulating themsleves that they were the only ones that understood.i did not like, in-joke, self-referential obscurist art and did not think one had to pander, to make something idiosynctratic and self-representative, but still somehow able to be at least felt on a genuine emotional level, bypassing intellectual understanding.i honestly an ineally wante mothers kis an grdammas and busdddddddddddddddddrovedrs to have access to this art both physically and dmentally but never censored the work becuase much of it came from my own hypersexual post-punk self. which set up an interesting conflict. i was constantly in trouble for dressing and drdawingd and writing "contrversial" thoughts and images, and while i it made me nervous to controvene authority figures (strict female Catholic Hispanic backround and expectations to be a good and modest little girl) i also had a nervous but stubborn inability to accept authority for authority sake especially when subtle or overt hypocrisy or dishonesty was present (dress codes, test questions, art textbooks or teachers# assertions that this or that artist was the "greatedst" or most important artist") when clearly i was surrounded by talent thta my never become famous or known), and hating the attention and censure and displeasure it engendered, i still found myself respectfully but unhesitantly challeging rules and curriculum. it was also clear to other people and to me years later that the same behavior and talent in a boy was always rewarded (or usually rather lack of talent) where there were clear expectations of whatwas seemly for a female artist and art studetn and i found myself constanly punished, discouraged, and at one point expelled form art highschool (with no hearing or explanation, illegal even by their own bylaws).all for doing what i thought was required of artists, to express themselves, tell their storiesand dreams and fantasies, and supposedly to champion honesty and not indulge hypocrisy. these same things in men are clebrated and rewarded (especially the supposedly explicit nature and scatalogy and darkness apparent in much ofmy early work) but they drew nothing but criticism and censorship and punishment in my school
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