#I figured out how to edit the brushes in procreate so I can actually do lineart with them :D

[miscellaneousrenaissant]

Well, yeah, it's just where your bar for success is

I kept the arm

[runawaymun]

Hi! I have a bit of a strange question haha, hope you don't mind! I love your art but I've always wondered what device/program you use? I assumed an ipad but I watched your lives and it looks like you use a computer program. I've never seen anyone use a computer program and their art look as good a yours! I'm assuming you use the mouse (or a drawing tablet maybe?) but as someone who has dabbled in digital art I'm just so impressed if you do use a computer!

Not a strange question at all! I don't own any kind of ipad-type tablet. I use a Huion Kamvas 13, which is basically the same exact thing as a Cintiq of the same size and quality but like, literally half the price. It's very comfortable and high quality. It took a minute to figure out how to plug it into my computer and it's a bit fussy with the cables so it's not as portable as I'd like it to be, but that's my only complaint. It draws beautifully. Eventually when I have space and money I'd love to purchase a bigger display.

I use Clip Studio Paint Pro as my drawing program. It's extremely powerful, supports animation if you want to do that, and the brush packs etc you can find on the community page are nearly limitless. I do wish it wasn't so annoying about working offline (they don't like you to do it, or to switch devices too much), so for that reason I'm thinking about switching to Procreate (also because so many people seem to use it), or finding a decent free option.

But yeah, the computer runs the program but the Huion tablet is what I actually draw on. It's a pen display so there's no fussing with looking at my monitor, but drawing on a screenless drawing tablet --- and I have no use for an ipad or any other tablet type product other than art, so the Huion was the best choice for me since I can just plug it into my already really powerful PC.

A fair warning that if your computer isn't as powerful as mine (it's a gaming PC that my brother built), you may experience pen lag. I had that issue when plugging the tablet into a more portable laptop when I'm out and about. It's not awful but it does take some getting used to.

This sounds like a Huion ad lmao but I really cannot recommend their products enough. IMO they're the best thing on the market for the price point if you have a working PC to hook it up to.

EDIT: one thing I forgot to mention is that you can hook the Huion pen display up to your phone, even. I haven't tried it but I've seen a lot of people do that so I assume the pen lag isn't bad there, but I can't testify to it myself.

[jonmcbrine-author]

The work that goes into producing a full-length fiction novel is enough for a full-time staff with at least a forty-hour work week. For many indie authors, including myself, it is typically a one-person operation. There are authors with teams, helpers, and roped-in family members, but even for multi-person scribe-squads, the workload can be daunting. The tasks run from the actual writing/typing, editing, marketing, and, among other things, designing the art. When it came to my debut young adult sci-go superhero novel, Unsecret Identity: Eric Icarus - Book One, I ultimately ended up tackling these assignments solo.

Simply because I wear many hats when it comes to creating this particular story does not necessarily entitle me to any special treatment or extra credit. As previously mentioned, there are numerous writers who bear the work weight on their shoulders with not much assistance. My journey so far has seen numerous learning curve-balls thrown my way as I figure out this whole author thing on the fly. I still have miles to go before I can go around boasting about my writing skill—the biggest lesson so far is that you never stop learning. Trends change, tastes differ, and technology advances. As I continue to develop my techniques, I roll with more punches than I hand out hits.

Speaking of technology, my experience as a graphic designer has proved to be greatly beneficial when creating cover art. Utilizing software programs like Adobe Illustrator, Photoshop, and InDesign, I am able to format the manuscripts as well as include interior art. As of this writing, Unsecret Identity is nearing its completion in transitioning from being only available as an ebook to a printed paperback edition. I was prepared to cross the finish line when I decided to insert more illustrations as part of the book. It’s an exciting concept that could help set the novel apart and further express my vision of the characters and settings, but… it also means more delay.

This is where tech comes back into play. I’ve been drawing my entire life, but as pencillers know, the sketching process can be time-consuming. Digital drawing has changed the game for me: using the Apple Pencil on an iPad while running the Procreate drawing program has drastically improved my illustration process. Don’t get me wrong, I believe I will always prefer the traditional method, but using a stylus on a smooth screen not only allows me to zoom in for meticulous detail (along with an overwhelming amount of brush choices), but the slick glass surface is much more preferable for me. I’m not sure why exactly, but I've always had a sensitivity to the feel of paper. So, naturally my greatest interests are writing and drawing—two paper-based hobbies. Thanks to the digital age, the only limit is my imagination (and battery life).

Well, there is at least one other limit - my time. Similar to other self-publishing authors, my writing time is usually whenever I can carve out a short period throughout a typical day. As quick and convenient as tablet drawing can be, it’s still a matter of how exhausted I am after tending to “real life” commitments. This leads to the reason I do not simply outsource the jobs: cheap labor! I don’t consider myself a control freak, though saying that, it is a bit of a point of pride to be able to complete these mounting tasks myself. The entire book-making process is a gauntlet but it’s something I can use all talents for (opinions on the end result may have some questioning the extent of this talent, but, hey, like I said, it’s cheap labor!). 

As if performing all these duties with a lack of downtime wasn’t enough of a challenge, I intend on recording the audiobook version of Unsecret Identity myself. I am not sure if I’m a jack of all trades or a glutton for punishment, but regardless, I’m ready to DIY.

Stay in the loop for more details by following Jonfcition Blog on Substack and be sure to check out jonmcbrine.com for more info about this and all my books.

Unsecret Identity: Eric Icarus - Book One is available now from the Amazon Kindle store.

https://a.co/2XAtxvH

[crabbbage]

stuff on art programs in my personal opinion, extremely biased by my experience in them

sai: great for brushes, not for much else. if you’re solely an artist it’s great, but any editing and it fails completely. i use sai primarily and i think i’ve had it crash like once, and i’m not even using the official version

photoshop: OBVIOUSLY the standard for photo editing, painting is also very good, however very hard to pirate and the actual software itself can be slow and is prone to crashing and needing constant restarts. probably not great if you’re working on a small laptop or something. takes some time to learn how to fully use but a lot of it is intuitive if you’re used to art programs and there are millions of tutorials on how to do absolutely everything online!

firealpaca: a very good free medium between art and editing! i use this for almost all of my basic meme editing stuff and also most of my painty photoshop stuff, because sai falls apart with that and photoshop takes longer. i’ve never used it for heavy lineart, but if you’re scared of pirating things absolutely try this first. runs the fastest of any art program i use except like, ms paint

krita: free, good for pixel art. have not used it enough to comment on other art uses, but has the basics. HAS lagged out/crashed on me before despite me only using it for very low workload pixel editing??

clip studio paint: god of comics/manga & lineart work, also extreme hard to pirate like photoshop but SIGNIFICANTLY cheaper. never painted in it though

gimp: i fucking hate gimp bc people constantly say it’s as good as photoshop if you know how to USEEE it i’m not going to spend 6 months figuring out how to make it work like photoshop it sucks out of the box. however if you want to, it’s free

IPAD STUFF

medibang: i’ve only ever used the ipad version of medibang but i believe it’s also on desktop? but it’s free and it’s good for comics. i used it as a younger teen so i don’t think i ever fully used it, but it’s not super intuitive. if you want a free program for ipad though, absolutely start with medibang before anything else it will save you so much stress

procreate: probably THE standard for art apps, when i bought it it was like $12 i think? which, compared to most desktop software, is extremely good. only art program ive ever paid for bc i was not about to jailbreak an ipad, lmao. there are some issues with blending (that may have been fixed?) but if you want to do serious art on an ipad it’s essential imo. also there are lots of free brushes online (jingsketch brushes are a good place to start if you wanna look into that)

[vkelleyart]

Damn you’re so impressive to being a working parent on top of being an amazing artist!

You are so kind, @poprocksromance. Thanks so much for being a cheerleader, because I’ll be honest: I don’t feel impressive. 

I feel… really tired. lol 

I actually put off answering this ask because when it comes to being a working parent and artist, I have SO MANY THOUGHTS. This month’s been excessively hard because I wear too many hats in my life and my neutral state is putting out fires before I can skive off and draw, usually at the expense of sleep.

Take this past Tuesday for instance:

6 AM: Husband is already out the door to work, but both kids crawl into my bed to doze until it’s time for them to be up. There is now hot, humid air in my ear and a small, sharp knee in my back. I am not dozing. I am thinking about drawing.

7 AM: Breakfast. Kids pull the covers off of me and whinge about being hungry. Spend next hour feeding kids, breaking up fights over legos, making lunches, and getting them ready for school. Inexplicably, no one has clean pants.

8 AM: Holler at everyone that we are late and I’m about to lose my mind because instead of putting on shoes, my kids are still arguing over who gets the red lego piece. More thoughts about art trickle in: “Man, I really hope I can carve out some time for drawing today because this sh*t is bananas.”

8:30 AM: Zoom across town to drop off children. Kiss heads. Wave goodbye. Try not to rear-end other, larger vehicles being driven by people who don’t understand how the drop-off line works.

9 AM: Back home. Time for Morning Pages. This is the daily act of emptying my head into a journal at the beginning of the day for 30 minutes just so I can plow into the chaos without having a panic attack. Each entry mostly consists of me pep-talking myself into doing my day job because food, shelter, college education savings, blah, blah, blah. Then it’s planning and email checking. I promise myself that, if I can just finish this next video edit task, I can reward myself with drawing artwork.

10 AM: My Video editing software update has made all the PNG files turn pink. I assume it’s for no earthly reason than to delay my progress and piss me off. I promise myself I will figure out the glitch in the next hour so I can earn myself time to draw.

1 PM: I have updated my operating system, reinstalled my drivers, troubleshooted with Adobe and Apple. The fucking files are still pink.

2 PM: I convert all PNGs to JPGs. Videoediting software now refuses to read .MOV files recorded after I updated my operating system. I mutter all the expletives and stare longingly at my tablet. This is gonna be a while.

3 PM: Rush out the door to pick up kids. Kid is complaining of a tummy ache. Come home with kid, put on the tea kettle, and read Kevin Keller together until tea is ready. Am screaming internally about video editing conundrum the entire time.

4 PM: Hubs is home. I run back to the computer. There is no way to uninstall most recent version of video editing software. Find and install Handbrake to convert every .MOV file I am using into .MP4 as a workaround until I can figure out what the everloving hell is wrong with my project. I tell myself I will draw after dinner if I can just figure this out.

5 PM: Praise Crowley for leftovers.

6 PM: Video editing issue is still going, but I’ve identified the workaround and am slowly piecing my project back together. My sketchbook is next to my desk. I do not touch it.

7 PM: Husband is coming down with something. Asks if I can single parent while he lies down for a bit. I agree (because he did it for me last week when I was down for the count). I ask the kids if they want to draw with me. They do not. They want to run around outside like one of them didn’t just complain about a stomachache three hours ago. I tell myself I will draw after they go to sleep.

8 PM: Bedtime. Clean kids. Pick up toys. Brush teeth. Read books. Sing songs. Hold hands until the littlest goes to sleep. Snoring (hopefully) at 9.

9 PM: Take shower. Try to reset. No more video editing tonight. I will draw instead! *nods defiantly*

9:30 PM: Husband wants to share about his stressful week. He’s got freshman this semester. Problematic ones. And too many; 28 in his class alone, and he’s the department head, so he needs to do all the fixing. I sit with him and listen.

10 PM: Youngest kid is coughing. Wakes oldest kid.

10:30 PM: Kids sleeping. Husband downstairs working. I’m in bed, iPad in my lap, Procreate open. Tonight’s work in progress: Simon and Baz holding hands.

I stare at it. Make a couple of adjustments to the line art. Then I put it away and turn off the light. I have nothing left––no energy, no vision––to give to it.

11 PM: The lights are out. My eyes are open. They don’t close until sometime after midnight.

Because I am thinking about drawing.

This is not a rare day in my life. This is tame compared to some days. To get through it, I tell myself this is all temporary. That one day I’ll be able to live off my artwork and I won’t be a slave to Adobe Premiere or the government or the myriad infectious illnesses my kids bring home. I also have to actively talk myself out of feeling jealous or furious at other, younger creators who don’t have to support a family, who talk about playing video games all day when they’ve got artist block, who complain about being bored, and who have the luxury of putting off whatever it is they don’t feel like doing so they can draw. My struggle is no one’s business or fault but mine and probably also Capitalism, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting that people are out there living the dream and taking it for granted.

Anyway, this is a very long way to say, thank you for your compliments. I am trying––every single day of my life––to make something beautiful. Sometimes, that’s fanart or my comic. Most times, though, it’s the life I’m trying to give my family.

[spamzineglasgow]

(REVIEW) Pain Journal Issue 3

In this review, Maria Sledmere draws out the material poetics of intimacy, glimmer, memory and salt in issue 3 of Pain Journal, from Partus Press, asking what kinds of dream-writing and ecopoetics we might find among the tangle, the camaraderie, the trace.

> Pain is an immaculate journal of new poetry and short, creative essays, edited by Vala Thorodds and Luke Allan, published by Partus Press and designed by Studio Lamont. Folding out the cover of issue 3, you’ll find an epigraph from Robert Creeley’s ‘The Flower’: ‘Pain is a flower like that one, / like this one, / like that one, / like this one’. Pain is a making, a sap, a sort of seedling and fruiting of where we are in the years. It likens itself to more than we’d tend to acknowledge. A blood, a fur of skin, a flower. It’s such a luxury to hold issue 3 in its peachy, matte dust jacket, admiring the beautiful type and the list of contributors. There’s an air of the covetable to Pain: maybe it’s the print quality, maybe it’s the poetry, maybe it’s the curation. I think it’s also something to do with the cover, dominated by the sans serif title PAIN: when I read this walking in the street, I make some kind of statement. It feels charged with the ambiguity of some high fashion statement, and yet what lucky readers are we that something of the contents may tell the pain — we don’t just wear it.

> Where to start! These are lush poems of communication, intimacy, sensation. Ásta Fanney Sigurðardóttir’s ‘Gleam & delicacies’ is a surreal and elliptical lyric of superstitious glimmer. Poetry as ‘a trap for the superstitions’. I find myself googling what a ‘glowfruit’ is and find some reddit discussions around the appearance of ‘glowfruit trees’ in Sims games. There’s this line, ‘I still have wild glowfruit trees. Do you?’, which feels like a summons, a challenge. Enter into this logic with me, where the one-time event of the glowfruit’s arrival has seeded the game’s eternal time. Someone comments, ‘They seem kind of random to me’. I had forgotten the magic of games and their luxurious richness and dream logic of glitches and hacks and splintered paths of narrative. Perhaps my childhood adoration of Sega and Nintendo was my way into poetry. The opening veils of an overlain world. Sigurðardóttir’s poetics have that quality of drifting between rooms and scenes, or falling between bodies and scales by one gesture of a linebreak, the slide of a button control, ‘I give birth to suns / for the morning hoax / slippery planets’. It reminds me of David O’Reilly’s video game, Everything, where you can move between a roving shrub, a celestial body and an oil rig in the space of ten minutes. What is meant by a ‘nighthaired waiter’? There is a dream-hand that extends to our proprioceptive venturing, that offers casual refusal (‘I didn’t come here to toothbrush the wolf’) by way of assembling the real and its purpose. The real which feels more like a ‘silhouette’.

> Significant, perhaps, that this poem of mirror-tricks and shimmers stands opposite Ruby Silk’s ‘Re:’, a poem that takes the banal conceit of email and pulling on tights in the swimming pool changing room to figure something of desire and its thirst. ‘we communicate drily’, the poem begins, ending with a slide on the nature of being quenched, on the question. Both poems forego punctuation, and more or less carry themselves on the turns of language: objects form a multiple syntax of moving between. Their cleanness on the page is perhaps what makes them gleam, they seem to hold their own. The gleam is present elsewhere in the issue, with Eloise Hendy’s ‘scrubland’ beginning, in the manner of Marianne Moore moving into Plath territory, ‘i too have a gleaming future. / a future like a fish scale, the eye / of a small bird’. Trauma or remembered pain is a matter of scale(s) and perception, of the body and its existential whittling, whitening. The speaker asks about whiteness, light, memory and dream: ‘all that spilt milk. all that gleaming’. You could say the gleam is metonymy for shame, the beaming cheeks, the sense of glowing or almost burning there in the situation. No capitals, a whittling. The idea of ‘nonsense’ itself, whittling down to the first gleam, its tender origin: ‘as a girl i was very soft’. The way the lines and stanzas slip, enjambed between, the idea of a passing through. The speaker offers her hurts: her fish eye, her pale appetite, her starved future, her dreams of fish bones and choking. ‘be gentle with me’, she implores. I think of this line from the film Lady Bird (2018), after Lady Bird loses her virginity under a pretence of shared experience and the boy Kyle is like ‘Do you have any awareness about how many civilians we’ve killed since invasion in Iraq started?’ and she replies, ‘SHUT UP. SHUT UP. Different things can be sad. It’s not all war’. ‘as an adult i am softer still’, Hendy writes, as though softening herself into the palest ghost and somehow becoming defiant, ‘my hand / is an arrowhead. a future / like a fish eye’.

> It’s no surprise that Pain is tinged with other existential tremors, those of the body and the world, of ecology and domesticity, of sex and dust. Helen Charman’s ‘In the pocket of Big Pig’ wears high theory cool on its sleeve as it sweeps into the muck and dirt of where we are. The movement of ‘manmade’ materials into the ‘natural’ is an aesthetic act: ‘Plastic / can holders entwine themselves around the / sea kelp — to tame and smooth frizz’. In that em-dash I feel the lines reaching out, the kelp and the twine and the human arms, the bristles. Does poetry do more than brush back the mess of the world, or tease it back into static? What are the ethics of pain’s poetic entanglement?

    ecopoets try again and again to convince us of the whiteness of the snow drift. I like            muddy ducklings               dirty reedbeds

                                                          (Charman, ‘In the pocket of Big Pig’)

If ‘muddy ducklings’ has that childlike assonance of storybook rhyme, ‘dirty reedbeds’ feels adult, insistent, dark. The place where you tangle and possibly drown. Turning away from the pristine ‘snow drift’ that pulls us into the picturesque, an ecopoetics that continues the aesthetic throwback of nature poetry before it, this is an anthropocene poetics of living in a fraught, affectively entangled now: ‘I think we’re nostalgic for more than VHS when we / fuck in front of the Blue Planet poster misty-eyed as if / we’ll ever get to show the oceans to our own kids’. Sex is ambivalently yoked to procreation in the ‘misty-eyed’ act of fucking to get back to something primal, deep and planetary. The world as it once supposedly was and exists now mostly as mediation: scenes on tv, posters for Blue Planet. And the word ‘fuck’ for sex that feels iterative rather than tender, two bodies trying to make something of what they have, an intensified point in time and space, a mediation or trace of each other.

> A similar kind of iterative sweetness and friction occurs in Jack Underwood’s ‘Behind the Face of Great White Shark’, where some new entry to the ecosystem upsets the home, ‘Since we brought you home from the hospital / I have begged these hours to a stub’. Enter the metaphoric playground of sharks and dogs, worms, rats, beans and bananas. Something of this new love, the baby perhaps, the shark or the tender thirsty thing at dawn, is a hurt: ‘I admit I have been sick / since we met, pursuing this love-wound / like a moon beyond the windscreen’. A love you’d drive to all through the night, to arrive back where you started, chaste in your own ‘dawn kitchen’ with a moony look in your eye. I think of Dorothea Lasky’s ‘wild lyric I’, the one she discusses in her new book Animal: this playful and manipulative ‘metaphysical I’ that ‘can harness all fragmented senses of self and use them whenever it needs to’. Underwood’s I thrashes like a shark on the sick shores of a new love, a birthing tide, dark and light. An I that threatens violence, desire from all angles and limbs ‘fucking ambidextrously’; an I that ‘can keep you safe inland’, that pulls you into its glow, for this is just ‘the lesser work of living’.

> It is tricky to identify highlights from a journal where, as with amberflora (whose sensibilities resonate here), the selections are impeccable: focused, resonant, but also lovely alone. Nina Mingya Powles’ ‘The Harbour’ has something of Clarice Lispector’s radiance, pressed into a teeming poetics of its own. Its section titles add an epistolary quality, italicised as they are, ‘Dear whales,’, ‘Dear dreamer,’. Post-Arika, with all talk of Moby Dick and the mathematics of the whale, it seems these cetaceans are having a real moment. Powles’ address to the whale is elegiac, ‘I can pinpoint all the places you have died, / where I’ve buried you’. She’s putting pressure on the work of metaphor, the whale as so much more than whale, the whale as what cannot be contained, the whale that cannot contain itself. Her whale is more of a comrade, a friend:

When I looked out of the train and saw your deep blue body and you saw mine you stayed close to me, swimming alongside. We were both travelling home.

What if ecopoetics, or anthropocene poetics, were something more like this surprising camaraderie? Does it matter whether the encounter was imagined or actually happened? Running through Pain is this suffering silk with its shadows and texture of echo and gleam, ‘the dream is wet skin against her hands / the fact is echolocation’ (Powles). I’ve been thinking about what the tensile ethics of this fugitive touch are: the touch of the image, the whale and the speaker on the train, the relative distance of speed and time between them, the hospitality she extends to the animal she is also. ‘I’ll show you my mother’s potted orchids’, in a world where to cross one human threshold is to know that later the sea will be deep enough for you once more. Pain asks how much of each other we need to hold. There’s this passage from Hélène Cixous’ novel Hyperdream (2006) that speaks to this:

I hear it, I hear a murmur your skin speaks, a blood thinks, I hear your thought running under the skin I hear your life thinking under the neat eternal spotless silk. I read with my life. I am torn. At the same time I am healed and glued back together again. During this time the world suffers and dies [...]

What is the murmur of our speaking skins, our thinking blood? The body that dreams? One pain can open the next, there’s a gesture of infinity, the way that Anne Boyer identifies in her ‘meditation on modern illness’, The Undying (2019): ‘My new calamity meant it was possible to feel every cell at once and, in these, every mitochondrion, and that it was possible, too, to have a millionfold shitshow of sensations in locations newly realised’. To have your body illumined, intensified, surged to the end of each nerve and cell with this searing consciousness. When I had shingles, I felt real dreams; they seemed to extend to a million tips, concentrated in clusters on the skin of my belly. Real dreams/real hurt. Is a body in pain the body that dreams the most, from her almost-paralysis in sensory excess? I think poems like Powles are asking these questions, declaring, spacing, opening up, leaving us on the brink of a blank that is its own quiet sublime, ‘everything is so !’. And if ‘the fact is letting go’, what of the fact have we been holding all along? Is this like Creeley, gesturing towards this or that flower, as a way of describing, to insist on it. Something we ask as children: does a flower or a plant feel pain? Pain, pain. There it is in the world, it just is, like a flower, or something more tiny and abrasive, salt after salt. A period.

> Rowland Bagnall’s essay ‘The Metal We Call Salt’ closes the journal with a meditation on the poetry of Philip Levine and Elizabeth Bishop, writers who ‘[address] the delicate failure of poetry to say the things which can’t be said’. This is Creeley, surely, with the flowers which stand for the shapeless pain. I’m reminded of a line from Rachael Allen’s ‘Kingdomland’: ‘the glass and salt my crooked pathway; impassable glass and salt’. The glittering remainders which excoriate the entry and exit of threshold, painful debris of the sea. This is the ‘tantalising’ poetics that Bagnall writes of, words that ‘say that they are lost for words’, words that gift and withhold by their material gesture: words that carry traces of what they may be. Salt-tanged and gleaming as glass. ‘What got revealed when the layers of leaves / Were blown backwards?’ Ralf Webb asks, in his ‘Three Sonnets’. What is it to walk over the crunching ‘pathway’ of such poems for pain, ana-cathartic as they move into, above, through, around and from the wound and its ferric sting? The essay also looks at the paintings of John Salt and photographs of Mark Ruwedel, considering how as a preservative and purifier, salt as both an archival and corrosive mineral: art as what consumes and reveals, what glints with the not yet spoken. Salt in the wound for pain will sting, but it will clear. These poems are such interfusions, sweetness and dreams, the ‘torn’: healed and suffering of a life and a world, coming over. And, for just a while, Pain will hold you together, soft in its peachy embrace.

Pain issue 3 is out now and available to purchase here.

~

Text: Maria Sledmere

Published: 5/1/20