little ink fairy

・ 。゚☆: *.☽ .* : ☆

little ink fairy ・ 。゚☆: *.☽ .* : ☆

Little Ink Fairy | Kris Bridges

I’ve always been an artist, in one form or another. The daughter of a designer and a musician, my creative journey began immediately in the suburbs of New York City. The type of girl to read on the playground, my world became increasingly occupied by illustrations in the margins of my notebooks. Looking up to scene and alternative girls in the early to mid 2000’s, I was amazed by the bold colors, dark imagery, and unwavering individuality. I decided that was my path, the opposition to the clean, perfect, tortured lives that were expected of girls like me.

I studied art at Lyme Academy, at the time a part of the University of New Haven, moving deeper into the costal suburbs. Initially an illustration major, I switched to painting during my sophomore year. Painting allowed me the freedom of expression I needed to survive. I graduated early in 2019 with my BFA in painting. My final work, “Timore Sanctum,” was an amalgamation of the chaos my life had been, and an omen to what it had yet to become.

From here, my work was fleeting as I carved my path. Drawings scribbled on receipts and waitress notebooks, prose in the backs of otherwise empty journals and spray painted where nobody could see. That was, until, I began to slowly reconstruct my artistic purpose around the mundane moments life forces upon us, unable to remain dormant. Allowing the “Ink Fairy” to return, ready to bring you back with me into the haunted woods I came from. Helping people share their stories, sharing with them mine, and putting a little more chaotic good in the world.

Welcome.

For the Nefarious

By Mai Der Vang

From a recessed hollow

Rumble, I unearth as a creature

Conceived to be relentless.

Depend on me to hunt you

Until you find yourself

Counting all the uncorked

Nightmares you digested.

I will let you know the burning

Endorsed by the effort of

Matches. And you will claw

Yourself inward, toward a

Conference of heat as the steam

Within you surrenders, caves

You into a cardboard scar.

Even what will wreck you

Are your mother’s chapped lips.

Even to drip your confession

Of empty rooms. I know about

Your recipe of rain, your apiary

Ways. Trust me to be painful.