#placing it under sketch because I didn’t out much effort into actual rendering

[purple-raspberries]

[click for better quality]

Funny thing about this one! I was thinking of the Leightner books from The Magnus Archives (manifestations of fear that take the form of books and pamphlets and affect those that read them, often with terrible consequences) and thought “in what ways would the events of Welcome Home manifest in the world of TMA?” And then proceeded to reference the story book video we got in the newest update.

I went with the evil!Home take for this one. The text was originally going to be “The Eye” but thought that that was a bit too direct for a Leightner book, but nonetheless this book here is intended to be Eye related (fear of being watched or known, scopophobia, or the horror that knowledge brings) . This is also funny because puppets typically evokes the Stranger (fear of the uncanny valley, of the Other, a lack of knowledge [in a sense], but also dolls, mannequins! etc) which is usually seen as the opposite of the Eye. Fears overlap, however, and to categorize them under such simple labels is a foolish way of thinking. You can’t have one without the others. Alas, brutal pipe murder.

Not sure exactly what I think reading the book would do, but I’d be glad to hear what y’all think Haha! 👻

Separated pages vvvvv

[beepbeep-losers]

IT Secret Santa

this is a one shot for @greywatertrashmouth for the @itsecretsanta !!! I hope you enjoy it! happy holidays, and I hope the holiday season and the new year treats you well ❤❤❤ 

First Date

ship: Reddie

length: 1,578 words

“Richie, you’ve gone to the movies alone with Eddie before. I don’t understand why you’re freaking out,” Stan said, trying to focus on his comic book. The villains bothering Batman were far more pressing than Richie’s panic over his first official date with Eddie.

“That was when I thought I was straight, Stan!” Richie snapped, throwing clothes out of his dresser drawer in an attempt to find jeans that looked good with his shirt.

Stan snorted. “You were the only one to ever think you were straight,” he muttered.

They were in Richie’s room, where he had dragged Stan after school. It was a Friday afternoon, and Richie was supposed to pick Eddie up in an hour. He had been frantic all day, and Stan had come to be a slightly unwilling but supportive friend.

Richie threw a tshirt at him, and Stan wrinkled his nose and tossed it aside when it landed on him. “Gross, Richie, I don’t know where that’s been,” he complained.

“That’s what you get for not being helpful, Stanley!” Richie whined. “How am I supposed to act around him? This is so…different.”

Stan rolled his eyes and shut his comic book. “Can you quit being a dumbass, Richie? It isn’t any different. The only thing you should do differently is talk about his mom less, compliment him, and maybe hold his hand at the movie.”

Richie looked at him for a few moments, before a grin burst out on his face. “Lookie there, Stan the Man, you can be useful!”

Stan glared.

-

Eddie had changed at least seven times in the past half hour. He kept running out of his bathroom and into his bedroom, showing Bill, and then running back before Bill could even finish whatever compliment was leaving his tongue. Bill sighed each time, and went back to sketching to wait until he heard Eddie enter the room again. He was checking his watch and letting Eddie know what time it was every five minutes, just like he’d asked.

“It’s f-f-fifteen til s-six, Eddie,” Bill called, and Eddie darted out of the bathroom.

“Okay, I think this is the one for real this time!”

He was wearing khaki pants that clung tight around the ankles and a cranberry-colored sweater. It must have been a size or two too big, because it hung low and the sleeves threatened to cover his hands even though they’d been rolled up at the ends. His hair was styled perfectly, as always, and his eyelashes looked longer and blacker than usual.

“You l-look great,” Bill praised, grinning at how Eddie was bouncing in place excitedly.

“Am I supposed to pay for him?” Eddie asked suddenly, eyes widening. “Or is he paying for me? Are we paying separately? Fucking shit, I should text him and ask –“

“Eddie,” Bill said, “calm down. It’s only Richie. You guys will figure it out on the way. It isn’t a big deal. Just take some money just in case.”

Eddie nodded, but still looked fretful. He made sure that he had two twenties in his wallet and slipped on some of his favorite chocolate brown leather shoes. He’d just put them on when he heard the familiar, ragged beep of Richie’s truck. His heart jumped in his chest and he gave Bill a panicked look.

Bill closed his sketchbook and stood, reaching out to put a hand on each of Eddie’s shoulders. He looked his long-time friend in the face. “Breathe. It’s f-f-fine. You’re going on a d-date with the t-tr-trashmouth, Eddie. If it goes badly, how m-much of a loss is it?” he grinned.

Eddie laughed, playfully shoving Bill away. “Yeah, I guess.”

They left Eddie’s room together, Bill’s sketchbook and pencils tucked safely into the backpack on his shoulders. When they left the house – after a hasty goodbye to Mrs. Kaspbrak – Bill went to his car with a wave “goodbye” to Eddie and Richie, and Eddie walked as calmly as he could manage to Richie’s truck.

-

Richie’s truck smelled like a mix of cigarettes and the evergreen car freshener that hung on his rear view mirror. The smell of smoke wasn’t strong enough to bother Eddie’s lungs, but he always playfully complained about it and Richie always rolled down the windows whenever Eddie was in his truck. Eddie would never admit it, but he actually loved the smell of Richie’s truck. It smelled like…Richie. But he would never tell him that.

There was a weird silence that settled over them after their initial hellos, and it lasted all the way until Richie parked his car at the Aladdin. Eddie felt like he was completely incapable of producing words. Richie couldn’t stop his fingers from tapping nervously on the steering wheel. He’d nearly had a heart attack the second he’s seen Eddie wearing what Richie knew was his favorite sweater for him. Eddie only wore that sweater to things he was really excited about. What if Richie didn’t live up to the sweater’s hype?

When Richie parked the truck, they sat in silence. They were early, for once in their lives. Their movie didn’t start for fifteen minutes. Richie ran a hand through his hair anxiously. What if this had all been a bad idea? What if he and Eddie weren’t meant to be? Were they fucking up a perfectly good friendship because of some stupid hormones?

But….well, Richie liked Eddie. He didn’t just want to get in his pants or something. But the silence around the two of them was enough to make him begin to doubt all the convincing he’d done to get himself to try and get a date with Eddie in the first place.

When it was apparent Eddie wasn’t going to say anything, and Richie felt like he was going to burst if he didn’t talk, he finally broke the silence.

“Well, Eddie Spaghetti, I didn’t expect to render you speechless so soon into our date –“

“Is that a new shirt?” Eddie said suddenly. When Richie looked over at him, the smaller boy was looking at him with large doe eyes.

It totally was a new shirt. Richie had forced Stan and Ben to go shopping with him a week ago to find something that wasn’t a Hawaiian shirt or a band tee to wear on this date. They had found a nice, dark plum sweater that he was wearing with light, ripped jeans and black converse. Out of habit and knee-jerk reaction, Richie denied the effort he’d put in.

“Uh – what – no! This old thing?”

Eddie knew he was lying – he’d seen every piece of clothing Richie owned and he’d never seen that one before. It was also a far leap from his usual outfit. It seemed – Eddie was almost sure, in fact – that Richie had gone to buy a shirt just for their date. For him. He grinned smugly.

“You’re a sap, Richie.”

Richie gaped at him, and opened his mouth to deny it, but then smirked. “Only for you, Eds.”

Eddie beamed, and threw open the door to Richie’s truck. “Come on, before we’re late. I want sour punch straws.”

“Anything for you, Spaghetti Man,” Richie cooed, scrambling to follow him out of the truck. They started walking toward the theater, and Eddie shoved Richie lightly.

“Don’t call me that. You know I hate that.”

Richie looked at him fondly as he got out money for their tickets. “And you know I don’t believe you.” He waved some bills in front of Eddie’s face. “I pay for tickets, you pay for snacks?”

Eddie nodded, heart fluttering for what felt like no reason at all. “Yeah, sounds great.”

Once their silence had broken, it was almost like they were going to the movies as friends like always. They got their usual snacks – sour punch straws and a lemonade for Eddie, popcorn and twizzlers and a coke for Richie – and sat in their favorite spot – the exact middle of the theater. They were laughing and talking and everything was almost the same as usual.

But there was something underlying that they both felt. Like they were on the brink of something completely unlike all of the times they’d been to the movies together before. It provided an exciting tension, the feeling that everything was new and strange. Neither of them could tell what it was, or why it was, until about halfway through the movie.

Richie’s fingers were tapping against the armrest between them. He’d been bouncing excitedly all throughout the movie, and Eddie was pretty sure it wasn’t because of the film, and instead for the same reason that his heart wouldn’t stop beating too quickly. Eddie had watched him tap his fingers for a few minutes, and suddenly he got the overwhelming urge to do something to break the tension. So he reached out and slipped his hand under Richie’s, intertwining their fingers.

The tension broke at once. It felt like a flood of warmth washing over the both of them. Richie stopped bouncing, Eddie’s heart skipped a beat in his chest (and if he wasn’t so happy he would have panicked). They looked at each other, Eddie blushing a deep red and Richie’s lips parted in surprise. At the same time, a grin burst out over their faces. They turned back to the movie, squeezing their hands together, and Eddie laid his head on Richie’s shoulder.

This was definitely not a mistake.

This was the exact opposite.

hope you enjoyed!!!! 

permanent tag list: @gingerbreddie @reddietofall @turtleneckrichie @eddierichietozier @secretblog1212 @lonewolfhard @satinkors @gryffinclaw-marauder @allison0609 @fabulousprinceali @sad-synth @itsloveit

[transientpetersen]

A little something about morality. Enough of my life has been spent working with mathematical structures and other theoretical constructs that the patterns of thought trained for those modes have bled through to other parts of my life. Morality is a core facet of life and its been shaped by the math just as much as the rest.

Generating complete mathematical proofs taught me more about skepticism than any other experience in my life. So often on the road to proving a theorem you will encounter the thought "it would be really convenient for this logical structure if fact X held". You can see how all the pieces fall in to place given the solidity of X and X probably has a certain internal plausibility and if X just held in truth then you could move on from this proof to something more relaxing (you may or may not have an unhealthy amount of animosity toward the proof built up at this point). It's tempting to write your first line "it's trivial to show X holds", sketch out the rest, and hope you've kicked up enough dust to pass - I've encountered my fair share of "proofs" using that structure. The sticking point is, it is mathematical maturity not to take the easy route of hope and instead to demonstrate the rigour required to generate a complete sound answer. And there's a reason for this. Your intuition in this area is untrained and often you discover (forging ahead) that you cannot prove X. After a lot of sweat and a pinch of luck you discover the counterexample or contradiction inherent in X that renders it false - the true proof proceeds along other lines.

This general lesson is useful. Convenience or wishing will not make a thing true and intuition should remain tempered with humility. This was actually one of the nails in the coffin for my religious inclinations. So many doubts and questions are answered if religion X is correct in its foundational claims but that has no bearing on whether X is true (only that its comforting). If you're honest with yourself then you cannot use that reasoning from most convenient world.

The next lesson comes from complexity theory. Sure complexity theory is an offshoot of the study of algorithms and so carries the faint stigma of applied mathematician to the theoretician but, stigma aside, it is a deep field full of interesting structure. Far more than I can render here so let's focus on one part. Complexity theory separates problems into an infinite leveled hierarchy depending on how hard the problem is to solve. In general, a problem is on level n+1 of the hierarchy if you can solve it when given access to a magic box that instantly solves any problem on level n. This simple picture is somewhat complicated by the fact that we don't know yet whether there are truly infinite levels or whether the structure collapses to some finite number of sets. This uncertainty is a source of some unease within the community.

Personally, I hold that the hierarchy is infinite because I believe that any universe where this is not true is simply not perverse enough to resemble our own. If my faction is correct then it is a point of mathematical correctness that there problems where its strictly easier to recognize a solution than it is to generate one (that one might also generalize, good writing and good editing are parallel skills but the first seems strictly harder than the second). By way of canonical example, its easier to verify given variable assignments to any random boolean equation than it is to generate those boolean assignments from scratch (verily, humans must earn their truth assignments by the sweat of their brow). This is the lesson I want you to learn from this section: when you see someone present an argument or a position and you compare it to your world view in a away that makes the argument seem both completely revolutionary and completely obvious, you have to step back and give them credit for locating that idea in the first place. This is a non-trivial amount of work. Conversely, when you recognize a particular solution to a general problem, give yourself a pat on the back because you've done something real.

An aside here, I realize that the spirit of the second part clashes somewhat with the lesson of the first part. All I'll say is that it all rounds down to humility and a conviction that issues we don't already recognize as easy almost certainly reduce to something intractable.

Let's talk about solvable. Wait, first a second aside - this is the true power of quantum algorithms. There are methods to use the uncertain nature of quantum bits to to quickly search the entire space of possible solutions and with high probability locate the exact solution to a given problem. It feels like magic and will revolutionize our world when engineering catches up to theory.

Let's talk about solvable. In particular, what do you do when the problem you wish to solve lies in one of the higher levels of the hierarchy, the levels we can't reach? Unless you're prepared to spend ungodly amounts of time on it or you get insanely lucky then you don't get to know an exact answer to the particulars of the problem. You *must* reframe it in a way that allows for an approximate answer, in effect transforming the question into a cousin living lower on the hierarchy. You're being forced to compromise, the universe is built to make you use heuristics. This is important - it's not about heuristics being quicker, it's about exact methods not being able to give you answers at all. Integer programming looks a lot like linear programming but it is in fact significantly more difficult in the general case. The structure of the universe means you must think in probabilities and in error bars and ponder trade-offs, in short the judgment no one asks of an oracle.

An event occurs in front of two of us. I know what I witnessed. And I'm almost certain that you didn't blink. And it's highly probable that you know I witnessed it. And its pretty likely that you think I think you witnessed it. And so on, with a little bit more uncertainty creeping in at each moment of recursion. This sad state of affairs is fine for the most part because usually the stakes are so low. But ask yourself how much more you'd care about common knowledge if your life depending on my having witnessed precisely the same event as you. We hear about that failure mode in the context of criminal trials all the time. Building shared knowledge requires enough work that it's used in the bureaucratic filter for asylum seekers and green card applicants. When you see one person able to get a group to agree on one particular interpretation of facts, remember that you just witnessed something hard. True common knowledge is infinite levels of recursion in the stack and it is impossible. For every situation, there's a point where the probability on the next level is too low for confidence, it's just a question of whether you calculate that far. And the probabilities deteriorate faster the more people you add.

We started with some fairly basic math truisms and moved through some hand-wavy logic constructions, let's end with something obscure. Communication is not free. If I want to learn about something that's happening far away or coordinate some communal action, I have to rely on messages that take multiple hops to reach their destination. We still have not mastered error correcting codes for common speech, much less methods for achieving better clarity in communication (case in point, how nonsensical most of this post reads), so your messages are going to get altered en-route. Beyond that, you're still the victim of the network. The effort/uncertainty of message sending defines a finite limit in the number of hops that we can use and still feel confident in the response. There are certain pathological graphs in which the vast majority of nodes believe thing one but when polling only their k-distant neighbors will come to believe that thing two is actually the majority belief. This is beyond government censorship or Overton windows, this is about never being able to know whether your mental image of society is accurate or if you've just been deceived by the structure of your communication.

It's the end and you're feeling cheated because I didn't say much about morals despite promises in my very first sentence. Morality as we understand it today is a bunch of ad hoc, best effort responses to a set of questions that were poorly defined in their original contexts and which haven't altered to match the multiple ways our social world has changed. If you've read the above then you realize solutions are hard and solutions to problems with many parts are harder. Social solutions addressing problems involving many people are worse and pro-social solutions are monumental. Answers are always going to rely on guesswork, methods need to be able to be executed under uncertainty, and if you think a general code of behavior is easy then you're wrong. You must cultivate judgment because the universe is not built to let you offload your thinking to some perfect algorithm.

[doodlewash]

I can call myself the Nancy Who Drew because (a) my name is Nancy, (b) I draw, and (c) I solved a mystery. Not exactly like my childhood heroine Nancy Drew, but in my own way, through drawing (and painting), and writing about it. The two-volume memoir called The Nancy Who Drew has taken up the last twenty years, but never mind. It’s been worth the effort to paint a picture in the reader’s mind, which opened my own mind to the story my pictures had been telling me all along.

The ones from my imagination anyway. When you have a brush in your hand, you never know what the subconscious will release. But I trusted it because painting, that silent, wordless activity, was my voice when I had no other.

I began with oils, and at first only switched to watercolor when I couldn’t afford a new roll of canvas. Later, I turned to watercolor when the umpteen canvases stacked against the walls began taking up all the floor space. But then something else happened, which I can only describe as a feeling of becoming lighter, and wanting a lighter, less dense medium.

My easel now serves as a clothes rack, and instead of a canvas six feet tall, I’m happy with a six-by-six-inch watercolor sketchbook. When I post an image online no one can tell the difference.

I have three watercolor stories to share with you. One took place at the Art Students League during my first stab at the medium. As I watched the instructor do a demonstration, making it look effortless, I thought he was a magician. I was in despair when he came round to look at my work that day. But he said to me, “Have you done a mile of watercolors yet?”

A mile? I had a flash of watercolor paper stretching into space, on and on for an unimaginable distance. “No,” I said.

He smiled. “Well, wait till you’ve done a mile.”

If that story was about the value of experience, this next one is about power. Power and control. Other than when I was a child and drawing and painting were simply pleasurable activities to engage in, making art has had a lot to do with having some kind of control over my life. In the sense of being in charge of my own interpretation, asserting my own expression. Then, reproducing what was outside of me became a way of taking it in, feeling its energy, connecting me to whatever I happened to be painting.

For those of us who quail at the fleeting nature of time, who miss loved ones before they’ve even left, who find the beauty and pain of existence more easily borne through color and form—because that’s one thing you might have control over—there’s nothing quite like picture-making.

My mile of watercolors picked up speed when I read Burt Silverman’s Breaking the Rules of Watercolor, and realized there was a way to manipulate the medium that put me more in charge, less fearful of making a mistake. With oil, if I didn’t like what I had done, I could come back the next day and paint over it. Or whitewash the whole canvas and start again. Now I learned that I didn’t even have to use watercolor paper! I could use Bristol plate, as long as it was heavy enough, and taped down securely to a board. It buckled, of course, and there were waiting times for it to dry and smooth itself out again, but I used that time for starting another.

I had to buy it by the sheet to get the thick, heavy weight, but I cut it into halves or quarters. The beauty of Silverman’s method was the ability to put color in and take it out again. Take it out with a sponge or a brush, and put it back in to create layers. Or to find that white space you purposely neglected to save because you were encouraged to be reckless and impulsive. I’ve included two examples of this method, the self-portrait and the one of Pegasus, which looks more like a gouache than a watercolor, but it’s not.

The book is out of print, but Amazon has it through third-party sellers. When I went to check its availability and read some of the comments, one man complained there wasn’t enough actual instruction or how-to’s, which came as a surprise to me because wasn’t that the whole point of breaking the rules? To find whatever way works for you and to heck with the rules.

I was off and away then, on paper meant for anything but water. Later, I found certain kinds of paper that could absorb water, yet allow you to lift the color out again. It was all about finding what would give me the result I wanted, whether or not I knew in advance what that would be. It was a dialogue between brush and paper, water and colors, and all I did was watch it unfold.

I began with tubes of Winsor & Newton and have tended to stay with them simply because I knew what I was getting. But if I neglected them too long, the lids sealed themselves shut, and lighting a match under them was the only way to pry them open.

All manner of brushes do the trick for me, because it’s never the brush; it’s the hand that holds it. This is the third story, noticing the importance of touch. At the League, I watched how my drawing instructor used her fountain pen like a divination tool.

How she let it hover a millimeter above the paper before making a mark. Her concentration was fierce, as if her hand was being guided by an unseen force. Or maybe she was just allowing the drawing to direct her next move. She was bent over as if in prayer, oblivious to us, her students, gathered round, watching the dance of her nib with the paper.

You couldn’t help but feel it was more than a drawing class; it was a lesson in Oneness. A lesson in reverence for the medium, letting it do its thing and getting yourself out of the way. I thought about her years later when I had a heavy-handed, beginner student of my own. We were doing a watercolor of tulips. When I saw her charging into the paper like the 1812 Overture, I tried to explain the importance of touch. Strokes can be heavy or light; it’s the sensitivity that counts, much like a violinist applying bow to strings.

My watercolors have become rather miniscule of late, and I doubt that mile will ever be reached. But there was a time when I did watercolors 30×40 or 34×40. The paper was cut from a roll, stretched like a canvas and stapled to wooden stretchers. Thirty years later, they’re still on those stretchers and in pristine condition even without glass and a frame.

Yet how I wrestled to get them on the stretchers. The paper had to be totally immersed in the bath to make it pliable, then taken out to be fastened with staples while it was dripping wet. I was drenched and the floor needed mopping, but the paper dried tight as a drum, and no worrisome buckling to contend with.

Three of the disjointed architectural scenes were painted on stretchers. They were a response to all the ‘normal’ architectural renderings I did throughout most of the 1980s. Before you marvel at my drafting abilities, I confess I took slides as well as prints, and projected the slides onto my paper so I could copy the lines. It was still a lot of work, but I don’t think I would have even attempted it if not for this drafting shortcut.

My rendering business came about through a friend in real estate. One thing led to another, and after a few years I was able to earn my living through commissioned work. (Rents in New York were cheaper in the 1980s—and so were art supplies.) But as others have found, turning your passion into a job has a downside if you end up painting only for other people. I kept my soul intact with work from my imagination, like the bird lady and the figure dancing with the moon. But it was through renderings that I developed the habit of detail.

I prefer working in daylight, but having deadlines caused me to find that special ‘blue-light’ bulb which gave the effect of daylight no matter what time it was. With the onset of scanners at the end of the 80s, commissions became scarce, and with digital photography they dried up completely. Yet my love for painting buildings lived on when I moved to Brooklyn. Thanks to the protection of the Landmarks Preservation Commission of NYC, I live in an area of beautiful historic homes from a bygone age that call out for my pen or pencil or brush.

I take pictures when I’m outside, then do the work indoors. At least in New York City, because the first time I tried sketching on the sidewalk was a spectacular disaster. A story best saved for the memoir as I’m running out of space here. Meanwhile, this January it’s even been too cold for taking pictures, so I’m doing watercolors of food. In the next few months, I’ll have to curtail those as well in order to get Volume Two of The Nancy Who Drew out there. This is the one that tells the whys and wherefores of becoming an artist and how I kept going.

It often comes down to just keeping on, doing the next picture. And the next. That 95% perspiration thing that involves guts more than talent. Or maybe having guts is a talent too. I once found solace in a book called On Not Being Able to Paint, because lying fallow has a purpose too. Robert Henri’s The Art Spirit inspires me.

“What a writer or painter undertakes in each work of art is an experiment whose hoped for outcome is an expanded knowing. Each gesture, each failed or less-than failed attempt to create an experience by language or color and paper, is imagination reaching outward to sieve the world.” ~ Robert Henri

But then social media inspires me too, because having a place to share our work, knowing people will see it, is a great impetus. Thanks Charlie O’Shields, and thanks Doodlewash!

Nancy Wait Website Facebook Fine Art America Instagram Doodlewash

#WorldWatercolorGroup - GUEST ARTIST: "The Nancy Who Drew" by Nancy Wait - #doodlewash I can call myself the Nancy Who Drew because (a) my name is Nancy, (b) I draw, and (c) I solved a mystery.

[val-lanto]

Lanto Talks: #2 Frustrations, Minimalism and Backlogs (And another PSD)

A mixed bag of thoughts to shift through this time around. Won a challenge, didn’t place in the other for two pieces that I consider on the other sides of the spectrum of each other. We’ll cover that and my thoughts technically between two pieces themed around the same thing. And my eternal frustration when dealing with minimalism.  

I’m not really good at being a humble winner nor a humble loser, so when I say I’m both bitter and surprised at the contest results, I do mean it. The two pieces in question are two Cioccolata pieces: MON WED FRI that documents just after his death and The Pinnacle Of Curiosity that focuses on Cioccolata’s background and story. Both based on panels, both expanding out, both relatively the same. Both filled with little details: Cioccolata’s earring appears in both; The flip phone to Secco appears in both; and both pieces have a hidden message in you’ll only see if you really zoom in or watch the speed art. Little details are my favourite thing to put in, all the little hidden things and Easter eggs. So, you’ll forgive me when the results of the competition had flipped the opposite way I had expected. The earlier piece, I believe is the best I’ve one in my newer art, and probably one of my favourites of all time. Enflamed by malice about something, I struck my heart and passion into painting every little detail. The level of touching up and painting to do within the piece was rather extreme. Blending the trash textures, making sure to take small bits of paper fold over each other. There was delicate attention to the detail like the licks of flames and under blurring for the layers of rubbish. The details and time it takes to layer flat textures with depth is something I never want do ever again. In turn, the other piece the number of corners I cut in the piece I won with was immense. A rushed piece sketched out just before the deadline to a friend over discord. The arm in the background is incorrect, the shadowing is wrong on the coat and the perspective on the able is laughable. The reflection on table is actually wrong too, the arm on both the tablet and the background mirror were done at different parts therefore inconsistent. upon retrospect, even the depth is lazy.  It doesn’t have the finishing touches, those extra brushes that separate the former piece out. Then that moves me to a different angle, the difference between concept and technical ability.

There is always the “defence of concept”. It’s something I am always in two minds about. Every contest has a theme and thematic the judges are looking for. To do something as precise as that, even with the speed art makes it harder to notice or see.  Further on, while I miss disagree with the winner of both contests, More so the former, there is always the different n concept. For a theme like “The More You See” there’s going to be a much more heavier weight on the concept. When I first stated signature making about 6 to 7 odd years ago now at Platinum Graphics, I used to be much more vehemently involved on this discussion and all in for concept over tech. Going against the nature of fifty same looking c4d and render sigs in favour of creative ones. The admin himself who I won in a battle to prove my voice about creativity over technical ability would always disagree with me.  Coming full circle now, I seem too much to be on the other hand, vying for my technical ability and a balance rather than two pieces of stock blended with an essay. If we go way back there was a time where I thought many of my pieces that were boring, same and unmoving from the crowd, they are all technically competent at the least. Several dozen girls in long dresses doing things with nature, blah blah. Everywhere all I saw the same angels, vampires and fairies, I made explicit pieces in a fairy competition of a piece “killing” theories.  There is a balance though between concept and technical ability. I made a series of manips taking a stab at the constant same 3 or 4 things I saw maniped. The “Jimmie series” of these four pieces, where taking the “boring” concepts like mermaids and that fisherman statue, but done under the story of a long hair wearing tentacle monster. They are technically, visually good with and interesting concept to marry with a story. I think this is where I peaked between balancing concept vs the technical side.  I think where that balance lines comes back to where you personally sit on the sliding scale of personal taste.

That brings us to my two recent minimalism pieces for the Stewed Tomatoes contests I tried to test this a little but making two pieces I think were on the other side of the scale. One more technically profound, clean and playing with depth to create a jarring minimal piece but has no meaning and was strictly made with anything that could lead to a concept. It’s nonsense. The second piece, not so technically profound and filled with broken clip, incorrect perspective. Yet it’s endeared with a concept at every point. The blue and red. The black and white. The cross and the purposeful little description added onto it. All this is filled together to make a piece with a story deep with hidden meaning, symbolism but not as technically profound.  I purposely crafted it alongside how I felt more what looked the best and placed a story alongside it. Of course, it means very little when it’s so personal, but having this outlook created two different pieces, with different flavours. One very cold, even down to the no humans or anything that’s “live in it” vs the very organic piece with the hands.  It’s interesting making both with a set theme and a goal how I felt making them. I often found myself very stuck making the the rock one and you call tell in its speed art the indesciveness that lingers all around it. While conversely the more emotions ne gave a different type of frustrating about it not being fully what I had wanted. Originally I wanted a straight cross with hands crumbling into blackness with light at the top. Very late piece. But my heart was swayed by a different stock and such is the mess I went with. Perhaps it would have been more fitting and simpler, but not my style. Maybe I am just wholly incompatible with the concept of less is more. Perhaps I will see after the detail which one got more attention and get back to you. Personally, I prefer neither of them and wish the contest theme was something else. But if you never test your curiosity, how can you evolve, hm?

Taking a break from the challenges and endless backlog of things, for jjbararepairweek was also a mistake. I’m really far behind and my work has gained no other attention, nor care for it. This brings me to my feeling about continuing to make Jojo or fanart manips in general. It’s a struggle balance because none of the people who fanart is made for actually like and vice versa the photmanipers don’t seem to “Get” them unless I write down long explanations of what are they relate too. I suppose that is a balance most people face, but it’s annoying. Returning to just random photosmanips would be a good idea, but I fall utterly uninspired without the framework of a challenge or a goal. Nor the image and base to work off with trying to make things real like with my Jojo manips. When the odd thing comes up like Mad-Max-Kun from Jojolion appear then sure I might indulge into it but staying follow on it I a mistake. It’s tough to do both sides and the frustrations from rarepairweek unable to do the draw or edit the things I want.to is painful. Alongside the tutorials and PSDs seem to have fallen flat. Not to say my confidence has been knocked or I’m moaning that much, it just seems like misplaced effort if nobody cares or wants to indulge with it. I would rather the Tutorials on DA but because of dumb roundabout rules, I can’t. So the audience that would appreciate them simply can’t get to them, and vice versa. This is all very frustrating, no?  But to sit on monthly challenges to carry my workflow seems useless. Anyway, to celebrate Mad Max Kun, here’s the PSD of the piece I made of him.

There’s some interesting contests coming up, I’ve sketched for an idea for the Dandelion Wishes contest that I am super hyped about….even if I doubt my skills to go through with it. The Doppleganger contest I’ve managed to push in a Cioccolata reference with. Although it will be one of those simple manips which requires to me to actually pay attention. I don’t have a lot of faith in myself but with both my Dolomite and Mad Max piece I pushed through it and got to the other end. So maybe I might surprise myself. Again, I just hope it doesn’t fall apart qt the concept.  I suppose it’s worth it just to get more into and t least exist within the “Community”. No the irony is not lost on me the fact that I may complain about not much feedback when I spent almost a month forgetting to add my things to the proper groups outside of the Jojo one. Burned the bridge so hard with the only person who would care about Cioccolata I set pluto on fire.  Advertising is always a pain and all my years of photomaniping I don’t know what my audience is.

I suppose, we can only march forward.

[duhragonball]

[FIC] Luffa: The Legendary Super Saiyan (56/?)

Disclaimer: This story features characters and concepts based on Dragon Ball, which is a trademark of Bird Studio/Shueisha and Toei Animation.   This is an unauthorized work, and no profit is being made on this work by me. This story is copyright of me. Download if you like, but please don’t archive it without my permission. Don’t be shy.

Continuity Note: About 1000 years before the events of Dragon Ball Z.

Previous Chapters conveniently available here

[9 June 236 Before Age.  Hobstot III.]

(Dr. Feelgood, Part ⑤)

"It’s better this way.  You gave a merry chase, arachnoid, but it will be I, Koda Shibike, who pens the final chapter of your career, bounty hunter."

"I... beg your pardon?"

Dr. Topsas had awoken to find all eight of his limbs chained to the floor of a room he had never seem before.  The last thing he recalled was a bookstore on Hobstot III, where he and his friend Zatte had been ambushed by a very eccentric gunman.  He had been shot, but the ammunition in question was a dart shaped like the nib of a fountain pen, and the tip was coated in some sort tranquilizer.  It was a primitive, inefficient weapon with a limited range, but the shooter’s agility and precise movements had managed to compensate.

Topsas had grown somewhat accustomed to danger.  He had been on Extraliga when the Wist invasion began, and then he had been captured and detained in a prison camp run by fairies.  These and other adventures were precipitated by his association with the Super Saiyan Luffa.   Naturally, he assumed his captor was connected to her in some way.

But apparently not.  This man, Shikibe, seemed to have Dr. Topsas confused with someone else.  Under different circumstances, Topsas might have found it amusing to be mistaken for a dangerous bounty hunter.  Earlier, Zatte had explained to him that her species had evolved blue skin and bright red hair to serve as a warning to potential predators, but this was in fact a biological bluff.    Dorluns like Zatte weren’t actually poisonous, but their coloration was meant to mimic some other life forms who were.    Now, Topsas had found himself dealing with the flip side of that natural defense.    Shikibe had misidentified the doctor as a threat, and instead of avoiding him, he had chosen to attack.

"It is my great pleasure to defy those in power," Shikibe rambled on.  "Society frowns upon my penchant for hunting and killing your kind.  They demand that I cease, and I, Koda Shikibe, refuse.  My editors demand that I draw original work instead of recolors of existing characters,  but I, Koda Shikibe, refuse."

"From where I stand, Mr. Shikibe, the one in power is you," Topsas replied gently.  "Would you believe me if I told you that I am a physician, and not a bounty hunter?"

"A pointless, desperate ruse."

Topsas regarded the man carefully.  He was humanoid, rather pale in complexion, though it was difficult to be certain of his natural coloration because of all the green cosmetics he was wearing.  His hair looked like a pile of leaves clipped from a fake plant from a waiting room in one of Topsas' old offices.  Around his forehead, Shikibe wore what might be generously called a 'headband', although it appeared to have been crafted from construction paper.  His pants were loose and baggy, while his shirt was comically undersized, barely covering his upper abdomen.

It was far too little to make an accurate diagnosis, but Topsas was beginning to suspect that the man was suffering from some kind of mental illness.  Perhaps some of his unusual behavior could be explained away as alien cultural pratices, but not all of it.  

At best, Shikibe had constructed an elaborate paranoid fantasy in which he was a fugitive murder.

At worst, Shikibe really was a fugitive murderer.

As things stood, Topsas wasn’t sure there was much of a difference.

"Very well," Topsas said evenly.  "Let us suppose that I am this bounty hunter, although I deny it.  How did you capture me so easily?"

"Your cover was admittedly brilliant," Shikibe said.  "But you failed to consider the power of my Thoughtform."

"Thoughtform?"

Koda laughed.  "On my homeworld of Abaj, everyone has the ability to generate physical manifestations of their mental energy.  Each has its own unique powers."

He paused, and then without warning he cried out:  "Dr. Feelgood!"

Suddenly, a ghostly figure emerged from his body and stood beside him.  Topsas recognized this as the sniper who had attacked him and Zatte in the bookstore.  It vaguely resembled its master, although it looked more like a robot wearing a wide-brimmed hat and cradling an old-fashioned rifle.

"You rang?" it asked cordially.

"This was the creature that shot us," Topsas said.

"The gun and ammunition are all part of my thoughtform," Shikibe said proudly.  It raised its hand, revealing a set of claws on its fingertips which resembled the nibs of fountain pens.  Shikibe plucked one of them off and admired its appearance.

"I am an artist above all else," he boasted.  "The appearance of Dr. Feelgood is an outward manifestation of the creative storm that constantly rages within me.    Just as ink from my pen infuses my aesthetic onto the blank page, anyone struck by these darts will fall under my influence."

"That fellow you shot in the bookstore," Topsas said.  "He went berserk.  I thought the dart was drugged, but it seems to have had no such effect on myself."

"The darts were drugged, not with chemicals, but rather a psychic energy which I can control," Shikibe explained.  "There are limits depending on the biology of the target, but it’s a simple matter to induce extreme drowsiness in almost any life form."

He glared at Topsas, then pointed at him, and all at once Topsas felt a profound weariness come upon him.  He couldn’t remember having ever been so sleepy.

"There, you see?" Shikibe asked.  "The effects of the dart will fade over time, but until they do, I can make you as sleepy as a college student cramming for final exams."

And just when Topsas thought he would finally nod off, the effect was lifted, and he was suddenly as awake and alert as he had been a moment ago.  He then realized that this was how he had woken up in this place.  It was an unsettling experience to say the least.

"So you rendered me unconscious and brought me here," Topsas said.  "To what end?  And what have you done with Zatte?"

"Whom?" Shikibe asked idly.

"The lady," replied Dr. Feelgood.

"Ah, the blue woman with the red hair," Shikibe said.  His voice was practically dripping with resentment towards those colors, as if they had personally wronged him somehow.  

"If you say so, chief," Dr. Feelgood said.  "Everyone just looks kind of grey to me."

"Fortunately, I can correct that oversight when I capture her likeness in sketches," Shikibe said.

"Sketches?" Topsas asked incredulously.  "You mean to tell me that you brought us here to draw pictures of us?"

"Don’t be absurd," Shikibe scoffed.  "I brought her here to use as a reference for my sketches.  I brought you here so that I can kill you and use your bodily fluids to blend green pigments for my work.  But I find that my models are more cooperative when I take hostages."

Topsas was doing his best to remain calm, but he felt his pedipalps begin to quiver with unease.  If Shikibe noticed, he didn’t show it.  The Abajian simply turned and walked away.

"First, I must perform my daily finger stretches," he announced to no one in particular.  "Then I must alphabetize my collection of Fabian Fitzroy paper sleeves.  Discipline above all."

As he opened the door to leave, he flipped a switch on the wall, activating a second set of lights in the room.  Topsas thought nothing of this at first, but then he heard a low mumble, and noticed Zatte sitting in a chair twenty feet away.

*******

(Dr. Feelgood, Part ⑥)

"He sounds like an idiot," Zatte groaned after Topsas informed her of their situation.  "I almost wish he was one of Luffa’s enemies.  At least then there’d be a clear motive for all of this."

"Whatever his motive, we appear to be at his mercy," Topsas said.  "Apparently the only reason I’m alive is so that you’ll sit still for his portraits."

"Sit still?" Zatte grumbled.  "I can barely move in this chair.  He’s got me trussed up with... wait, this stuff feels like fishing line."

Topsas lowered his head as he looked at the bonds holding Zatte’s ankles to the legs of the chair.    "Yes, now that you mention it, I believe it is fishing line.  But you should be able to break free of that easily."

Zatte struggled, but found she could do nothing.  "It’s no good," she said, gasping with exhaustion from the effort.  "He... must have... done something to me with... his powers."

"That is distressing to say the least," Topsas said.

"Pretty sure he only tied me to this chair to keep me from falling off of it," Zatte said after catching her breath.  "At least he let me keep my clothes on."

"Is the chair bolted down?" Topsas asked.  Perhaps if you could move closer we might--"

"Maybe he just wants to draw my face," Zatte mused.  "It’s kind of flattering, really.  If he would have just asked me, I might have paid him for a copy.  Maybe given that to Luffa.  Beats looking around all day for a gift."

"Ms. Zatte..."

"I don’t know, she probably wouldn’t get it," Zatte said.  "'I see you all the time, Zattie, what do I need a drawing for?'  She has a really stunted sense of imagination, you know?"

"Ms. Zatte, are you feeling all right?"

"Heh.  I guess I could get somebody to draw me in the buff.  'Here, honey, something to keep you warm on those lonely nights on the training ground.  Hee hee hee!  She’d be mortified!"

"Zatte, can you hear me?"

"No, no no.  I have to think of something else.  It’s kind of weird giving someone a picture of yourself as a gift, right? Right?  Yeah.  Wow.  Oh, right.  I can hear you, doctor.  What’s wrong?"

"I think our 'host' has done more to you than merely sapping your strength," Topsas said.

"Right, sorry," she said.  "You’re right.  I feel a little light-headed.  Maybe it’s from trying to break free a minute ago.  Remember that?  That was weird.  Heh.  Don't worry, doctor.  I’ve been in worse spots than this.  We’ll get out of this."

"I fail to see how."

"We Dorluns are survivors, Doctor.  The first step is to take stock of your resources.  I've got you, and you've got me.  This--heh!--power Shikibe has over me is canceling out my ki, making me so weak I can barely move.   But I bet I can still make myself invisible."

She concentrated, in spite of the inebriating effects of Shikibe's power.  Each Dorlun had a unique ability which manifested at a certain age.  Zatte doubted that Shikibe could block this without knowing more about her species.  She mentally added that to her inventory of potential resources.  When she was reasonably sure she had warped the light all the way around herself, she asked the doctor: "Can you see me?"

"Not at all.  Nor can I see what possible good that does us," Topsas said in a despondent voice.  

"It's just a test," Zatte explained.  "If my power still works, that means I should be able to manipulate other forms of energy as well.  Like the heat from these light fixtures.   If I could focus it all onto a piece of this fishing line I'm wrapped up in, then I might be able to melt it."

"And then what?" Topsas asked.  "Weak as you are, you'd still be unable to act.  You'd merely slide out of that chair, as you said before."

"One problem at a time, doctor," Zatte said.

*******

(Dr. Feelgood, Part ⑦)

"All I'm saying is that maybe this doesn't make a lot of sense."

Koda Shikibe considered these words carefully as he flexed his fingers one by one, then shook his head.  "Impossible.  My scheme makes perfect sense."

His thoughtform, Dr. Feelgood, stood beside him as they spoke.  "You keep killing all those arachnoids and taking their money," he said patiently.  "Now they send this bounty hunter after us to get revenge, right?  Only he says he's not a bounty hunter, which makes a lot of sense, seeing as he barely put up a fight when we caught him."

"He's a bounty hunter," Shikibe insisted.  "His people hired him to take revenge.  They see what I've done as mere crimes.  Bah!"  

He walked across the room to his desk, where he picked up a severed forelimb that had once belonged to an arachnoid.  As he continued speaking, he caressed it lovingly.  "I killed those creatures for the sake of ART, and nothing more!  To be sure, I did help myself to their financial accounts, and the art I produced from their deaths was popular enough to afford me a few creature comforts, such as this limited edition collection of Magical Girl figurines."  He took a hobby knife from his desk and waved it at a shelf containing his prized collection, then he pointed it at Feelgood.

"Look, I'm sorry--" the thoughtform said, beggaring off.

"The truth is that I do none of this for mere money, or any sort of sadistic pleasure.  My one goal is to further the progression of my art, so that it may be consumed and appreciated across the entire universe.  And there is only one way to do that, and that is to use the hemolymph of arthropodic life forms, and why is that?"

"Uh... I don't know," the robot said.  

"For the COLOR, you uncultured boor," Shikibe said.  He turned to his desk and stabbed the knife into a small spider that happened to be crawling upon its surface, then he turned back to the robot to show him the creature now impaled on the blade.  "Hemolymph brings out the perfect shade of green for lips, hair, clothing, anything at all!  Lesser artists may rely on cheap reds and blues, buying pedestrian art supplies made from common mineral pigments, or worse, hobbling along with digital media.  But I refuse!  No, I, Koda Shikibe will not be held back by abstractions like 'morality' or 'color theory' or 'common sense'.  If a thousand thousand sentient beings must die for the sake of my art, then so be it!"  

With that, Shikibe sat down at his desk and began to brood.  He put his heels on the edge of his seat and placed his elbows on his knees, steepling his fingers in a contemplative pose that looked very profound, or very awkward, depending on one's point of view.   It might have looked more dignified if he weren't staring at the severed forelimb on his desk.  

"I'm just saying that while we deal with these two, we might be leaving ourselves open to an attack by a real bounty hunter," Feelgood said.   "Either way, it's probably not safe to stay here.  We should be packing up and looking for a new hideout, not sketching alien space babes."

"It's vital that I complete my sketches," Shikibe replied.  "You're an extension of my own consciousness.  You should understand this implicitly."

Feelgood shrugged.  

"I require inspiration for my latest comic, Charmy Green Lad," Shikibe explained impatiently.  "The character designs must be flawless--!"

"I thought you just traced over other people's characters and changed the colors around, though," Feelgood said.  

"Once I have captured the woman's likeness, we can kill her and the bounty hunter, harvest the bounty hunter's hemolymph, and then we may prepare to relocate," Shikibe insisted.  "I refuse to consider any other sequence of events."

"Okay, okay," the thoughtform said.  "Let's just hurry up and get on with this."

"I refuse," Shikibe said stubbornly.  He raised his hands and began flexing his fingers once again.   "First I must finish my stretches."

*******

(Dr. Feelgood, Part ⑧)

An hour had passed.  Zatte felt she was making progress, but at a very slow pace.  The problem was that the lighting in the room was very efficient, and produced very little ambient heat for her to work with.  Her next best choice was to use the heat from her own body, but this presented an entirely different challenge. By focusing too much heat into a specific part of her body at once, she risked burning herself.  Conversely, channeling that much heat at once meant drawing it away from the rest of her body.  She could draw additional heat from the air around her, but it was a tricky balancing act under the best of circumstances.  As it was, the intoxicating effects of Dr. Feelgood made it nearly impossible.  

Fortunately, she had a few things working in her favor.  First, there was a doctor just a few yards away, so if she ended up with frostbitten toes and second degree burns on her fingers, at least she wouldn't have to go far for treatment.  

Second, there was that thrill she always experienced whenever she was in danger.  Her own culture frowned on enjoying these kinds of life-threatening situations, but she had a certain perverse appreciation for the way they honed her skills and focused her wits.  Right now, she needed all the focus she could get.  

Third, she had faith that Providence hadn't allowed her to live this long only to die here in the lair of some hipster serial killer.  Months ago, Zatte had been blessed with an epiphany, and realized that her fiancée was an important part of the Divine Plan--a xan'nil-Dor.  The Dorluns survived so that whenever they encountered these people and places of destiny, that they would be able to help them in some small way.  Luffa herself was skeptical of this, but that wasn't without precedent.  Privately, Zatte sometimes wondered if she might be wrong, but the epiphany had been too profound to reject.  At any rate, it was an excellent motivator.

Fourth, she had convinced Dr. Topsas to keep her talking while she worked.  Initially, this was just a ruse to keep the doctor's mind off his own fear.  But Zatte had to admit that she probably would have gotten distracted several times by now if she had been in this situation alone.  

They didn't know each other very well, at least aside from their mutual acquaintance through Luffa.  Fortunately, the Saiyan made a good topic of conversation.  For the last twenty minutes, they had been discussing the theological implications of a Super Saiyan xan'nil-Dor.  Topsas was respectful about it, but Zatte could tell he was unconvinced.  The important thing was that he kept her mind off the droplets of moisture condensing on her face as her body slowly dehumidified the room.  

"So what was the problem with the dolls?"  Topsas asked.  

"Huh?"

"In the bookstore, before we were captured, I suggested you give Ms. Luffa one of those dolls as a gift, for her collection," Topsas explained.  "You seemed to think this was a blind alley."

"Oh, right.  I forgot all about that," Zatte said, somewhat unsettled by the weary sound of her own voice.  "Ha.  I'm a liiiitle flighty right now, doctor."

"Yes, which was why you asked me to keep talking to you.  I have done my best, but I find myself running out of things to talk about."

"Okay, okay.  Okay," Zatte said.  "First of all, they're not 'dolls'.  They're action figures.  Luffa's very touchy about that.  Second of all.  Yeah.  Uh... third of all, she already has the whole set.   Pretty much."

"I see."

"I mean, there weren't that many toys in the line anyway.  They made that stupid movie about her, what?  Last year?  She's had plenty of time to track 'em all down.  I mean, there's 'collector variants', whatever that means.  Basically I can get her the same Rax Cosmo toy she already has, only with a maroon vest instead of blue."  She winced as she felt too much heat gather in her left wrist.  It was relatively easy to disperse it throughout her arm, but it always took far too long.  "Besides, the toys are all a joke to her anyway."

"A joke?"

"I mean, you played with toys, right?  The whole entire main point is to play out fantasy scenarios.  It prepares kids for the real world, y'know?"

"Now that you mention it, I had a doctor bag when I was small," Topsas said.  "The equipment was all made of plastic, and I was a bit frustrated that none of it really worked, but the items fascinated me all the same."

"That's what I'm talking about.   That's it.  Exactly," Zatte slurred.  "When I was little, my uncle carved some dolls out of wood for me.  Dolls, doctor.  I'm not ashamed to call them that."

"Of course, Ms. Zatte."

"Not like some people."

"I take your point."

"Some people named Luffa."

"What did you do with these dolls, Ms. Zatte?" Topsas pressed.  

"I used to paint clothes on them," Zatte said.  "Then I'd have them be soldiers.  I used to make forts out of old buckets and pots, and then station them all around it.  I'd pretend there was a xan'nil-Dor in the fort, and our company was in charge of protecting it at all costs."

"Interesting," Topsas observed.  

"Anywayyyyy, Luffa never had toys growing up.  Her mother would fight her and tell her stories, but that was about it.  Kind of sad, really.  So these toys they made about her, she just thinks they're funny because they're based on that movie, which is just a made-up version of her life that never really happened.  There's nothing inspirational about 'em.  Not to her."

"Ah, I think I understand the problem now," Topsas said.  "You've been looking for a gift that Luffa will find inspirational, like the soldiers and castles of your youth."

"Well, yeah... That'd be great.  Swelllll.   But where in the hell am I supposed to find--?"

"He's coming back," Topsas said suddenly.  

Zatte glanced at the door.  She wasn't ready.  If Shikibe figured out what she was doing, he might decide to kill them both without delay.  

For a split second, she wondered if Topsas might have been imagining things, but then she heard a click from the vicinity of the door's handle, and a droplet of condensed moisture ran down the side of her face.  

NEXT: Thus Spake Koda Shikibe

*******

[9 June 236 Before Age.  Luffasworld.]

"Are you okay?" Keda asked.  

Luffa sniffled a few times and held her hand over her nose.  "Yeah... yeah, I'm fine, kid," she said.  "Just had a sneezing fit all of a sudden."

"Must be some kind of allergen in the air around here," Keda said.   "Anyway, if you're done, I can get back to my song."

Luffa stood up and looked around the prairie for any sign of suspicious flowers, but decided there wasn't much point in worrying about it.  She could always pick up her training on some other part of the planet.  This region was pleasant enough, but she hardly needed a scenic view for pushups.  

"What'd you call it again?" Luffa asked.

"The Egg Song," Keda said proudly.  "Starts off like this... ahem..."

Luffa went to find a towel to wipe her face while Keda prepared to start.  

"Deviled, deviled, devillllled... Pickled, pickled, pickllllled... Scrambled, scrambled, scrambllllled... Coddled, Coddled, Coddllllled..."

"Wait, hold on," Luffa interrupted.  "Isn't this the same tune as 'The Liver and Onions Song'?"

"Yeah," Keda said.  "I'm trying out different words.  I figure eggs will have more mainstream appeal."

Luffa considered this for a moment, then nodded in approval.  "Damn, kid, you're some kind of marketing genius.  I don't know how you figure this stuff out, but I'm impressed."

"Thanks," Keda said.

Luffa sat down on the ground and gestured for her to continue.  

[<=To Be Continued....]

[kaseybadgley-blog]

James Victore biography & analysis

Kasey Badgley History & Theory of Graphic Design Project 3  4 April 2017

James Victore is a well-renown designer in the industry for his stark, controversial, and expressively minimal designs. He was born in upstate New York in 1962, and eventually moved to New York City in his young adult life. James’ education in the arts and design field was very non-conventional compared to other designers we were encouraged to learn about in that he dropped out of two institutions of learning and took it upon himself to establish himself as an independent artist and designer. He also learned under Paul Bacon in that time period, who pushed him into the graphic design field despite his unique and traditionally fine arts approach to designing.

In 1990 Victore started his own graphic design agency, James Victore Inc., in Brooklyn, New York. They produced several important designs in the early years of James’ work for several clients around the city. One of the most notable of his early works, and in my opinion, the most exemplary of his personality and body of work, is his poster for Columbus Day. He depicted Columbus in a less-than-favorable light and it generated a lot of buzz around the city. It got so much negative attention that the police ended up taking them down. James said that it thrilled him to cultivate that reaction of the viewer and that he’s a rebellious artist and designer at his core.

James has had several works in notorious museum exhibitions. He has work in the permanent collection of the Lourve, as well as pieces in the Library of Congress in D.C. and the design museum in Zurich. Coupled with having museums display his work internationally, there are big clients that have sought his creative consultation such as TIME magazine, The New York Times, Bobbi Brown Cosmetics, and SVA: New York. James Victore has become a professor at the School of Visual Arts: New York, and dedicates a lot of his time to public speaking and creative instruction. He has also won several awards for his work including an Emmy Award for television animation and The World’s Best Environmental Poster given by Helsinki Julistebiennale.

One of his most notable projects is his monograph of the survey of designs from his first 25 years of work called Victore, or Who Died and Made You Boss?. It was designed by famous designer, Paul Sahre, and included a foreword from Michael Beirut. It was published by Abrams in 2010 and was shortly followed by the satirical parody book, In and Out with Dick and Jane: A Loving Parody. These books feature a body of work with design simplicity, but an emphatic importance in concept and personality. James Victore has himself claimed that personality and personal feelings and impression were more important to design than how the viewer would feel about it.

James is a public speaker and runs several platforms that are dedicated to answering questions and sparking the creative process in young designers and artists. He has a newsletter and youtube channel that feature content on how to refine your creative process, but also how to first and foremost trust your concepts and feelings about things. James offers a lot of insight on how to create successful design, and most of it includes abandoning the typical process for graphic design. He encourages young creatives, and forces his own students, to step away from the computer and draw and sketch their ideas out with their hands. He thinks our reliance on technology has made design about organizing and less emotional. He believes that design is about hands and creation rather than the brain and thinking.

His philosophy and process is rooted in the idea that you can create striking, memorable design work, and much less about actually creating it. He firmly believes that design is deeply personal, and to create work that is memorable and emotional, that you have to create ideas and designs that evoke a reaction out of yourself. One of his tips for creative people is to, “never learn the taste of shit.” This reinforces his idea of making self-satisfying work and to not just follow what other people want or whatever the status quo is because that is often what is taught in applied design. In his own creative process, Victore uses a sharpie and piece of paper and often sketches his ideas on spare sheets of paper or napkins, whatever is in the proximity. He thinks it’s charming and inspiring to use materials that weren’t intended for sketching and ideas. He also mentioned that he never brainstorms or sketches in his studio. His studio is a place for work and not for creativity, and he encourages people to keep those places separate and to let your mind wander.

The first Victore piece that I’m going to look at is his poster for the film Double Justice (1993). I personally think this piece is very powerful, and while when you see the concept, you realize it probably was not difficult to reach that solution, Victore’s simplicity makes it look clever and very powerful. The poster is about lynching and how black people have paid the price for the racism in non black people in America. His style doesn’t exactly mirror mine in any way, but I like how expressive but purposeful his body of work is, and I think this piece specifically is a very good example of this. His use of Sharpie is definitely successful in this piece and delivers a very strong message, it shows stark contrast, bold lines, and handmade qualities that reinforces the subject matter and makes the viewer feel something.

The next piece I’ll be critiquing is a lettering project of his, done in Sharpie pen that reads “The things that made you weird as a kid make you great today.” I think he has a really unique, interesting quality to his handmade type. I don’t see very much conceptual development in this piece, which is a little disappointing, but I can see how very simplistic pieces like this really aligns themselves with his own design philosophy. It was probably more of an introspective piece for him, and he didn’t see a reason to add any more to the piece than what was absolutely necessary. The most important thing I personally take away from this piece is how successful and personal handmade elements can be when delivering a message.

In this next piece, Victore uses practical objects to send a funny and ironic message. He writes “In case of emergency, sleep” on a pillow in black and red. Again, I don’t think this is very conceptually developed, but it doesn’t need to be. It’s fun and playful, and intended to showcase his handmade lettering. I think that’s successful, but I felt like pieces like this pillow that were presented on functional objects seemed a little bit commercial, whether that was his intention or not. This creates a disconnect with viewers who would know or learn about him because that is the antithesis of what he actually believes in. Conceptual indescrepencies aside, I think the pillow is simple, successful, and difficult to form very strong opinions about.

In the piece Racism, Victore is portraying the act of racism as violent and destructive, not only through the way in which he rendered the silk screen, but he also chose to represent the “c” in racism as a mouth with sharp teeth. This piece was in response to the blind hatred and racism between Hasidic Jews and Black Americans in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, 1993. I personally really like this piece, and I think it’s a piece with a clever, clear, and strong concept. I also think pieces like this are important because it’s good to see people use design for humanitarian purposes rather than commercial. I think his style and type of mark making lends itself to rebellious or inherently political works.

The final piece I’m going to look at is a photo that Victore posted on his personal twitter and is very relevant to our present day situation. The piece shows a silhouette of Donald Trump’s head and has the words racist, bigot, and sexist written on it followed by the word president with a strike through it. I think the without knowing his process for the specific piece, it seems a little bit cliched and overdone. With all of the political tension and unrest, we’ve seen very creative solutions to protest signage, and I don’t think this is one of them. I think it’s well done and has his personalized quality to it, and as I mentioned before, I think weaponizing graphic design and illustration to send a political or humanitarian message is important. I just find it to be very lackluster, especially for a designer that seems to have a lot of personality and notoriety.

I really admire certain qualities of James Victore’s work, and his Youtube channel is actually filled with very interesting and helpful content. It’s inspiring to see designers utilize their talent and skillsets to protest or convey a message of that significance. James Victore’s work stands out from the other designers on the list for that reason. It’s edgy, handmade, and definitely makes the viewer feel things using very little effort. His work has a lot of personality and made me want to not only see more of it, but also to explore him as a human being as well.

Works Cited

http://www.famousgraphicdesigners.org/james-victore. Accessed 04 April 2017

James Victore: Don’t be a Design Zombie. Glei, Jocelyn K. 99U. http://99u.com/articles/6944/james-victore-dont-be-a-design-zombie. Accessed 04 April 2017.

The Best of James Victore, Design’s Rebel With a Cause. Kuang, Cliff. Co.Design. https://www.fastcodesign.com/1662292/the-best-of-james-victore-graphic-designs-rebel-with-a-cause. Accessed 04 April 2017.

James Victore, Burning Questions. King, Alex. Huck. http://www.huckmagazine.com/art-and-culture/art-2/why-i-do-what-i-do/james-victore/. Accessed 04 April 2017.