The Madness Continues

I am scrambling to finish things before I leave next week, but here are some photos of a warm-up I was working on this weekend.

These were the first "paintings" I have done in a while - confining most of my artistic pursuits to drawing in the past few months.  Color has never been my strong suit.  Drawing - love it.  Value - bring it on.  Color - ah . . . wha . . . is this . . . I don't  . . .

Yeah.  Color doesn't make sense to me.  I pick up the brush and look to my pallet and I'm . . . just lost.

When I was in school, my professors would make fun of me for limiting my pallet so much.  But it was the only way I could control the colors and the structure of the finished piece.  Fortunately, I managed to incorporated some reds and yellows in a few projects and they stopped harassing me.

Now, I don't want you to think that they didn't try to help me with my color problems - they did.  They tried very hard.  And conceptually, I thought I understood the process they were trying to get me into.  But whenever I took up the brush and applied the colors I saw them using . . . well, it's probably better not to talk about it . . .

Windsor Newton watercolors on an Arches cold-press block.

Some More Sketches

The Chronicles of Prydain

I have attempted to take back control of my project list for the time being.  I have limited myself to one thing (or maybe two) to work on for my portfolio.  I have a little less than a month until my first deadline (I am going to a workshop on visual storytelling in August that I am SUPER excited for) of finishing . . . something. So. 


I've decided to do some illustrations for the "Chronicles of Prydain".  The thought process behind this is that it is less intimidating than "The Hobbit" and "Chronicles of Narnia" right now (don't ask me why, I have been highly adverse to burrowing down into the rabbit-warren of my thought processes and motivations these past few weeks . . . it's really . . . scary . . . down there). My goal is to eventually have one or two color illustrations as well as a hand-full of black and white pieces and spots. Anyway, we'll see.  


On a side note, as I have been rereading these books I have become more and more impressed with Lloyd Alexander.  Obviously he hits his stride in the later books, but he has high standards for his characters and he's not afraid to put them through the ringer and pull them out the other side all the more stronger for it.   I am so tired of characters whose lives are full of stuff they can't control and everything's unfair and they're all alone, etc. And then, Wham! Yay!  The universe aligns itself, or that bully sees the error of his ways, or we get pregnant with some parasitic vampire-baby that somehow magical solves all the emotional constipation of all the other characters in the books, or whatever, and everything is better and fair.  Ugh.  


I hate sparkly vampires.  I swear, it has to be something in the water.  


But, it's not just that stupid series - there are so many other books out right now that have NO POINT and they're badly written.  And re-reading these 10 years old and up books has restored some sense of balance in my own personal universe.  If I wasn't so very satisfied with their struggles and triumphs I might be tempted to wonder if my very great love of illustrated children's books and pre-teen chapter books says something about my general state of mind.  But I am satisfied.  So I'm not going there.  


And just so that you know that I do on occasion turn to adult reading, I have also been trying to read the Kristen Lavransdatter series and that has been like wading through slime.  I'm not feeling any kind of life lessons learned or poetic justice or - anything - coming for this girl - if I can care enough about her to get to the end of the series.  Which isn't happening.  So.  I am not just complaining about teenage paranormal series. I have one other specific source of irritation.  One other.  That's reason enough to rant, right?  Right?

Gwydion, Prince of Don

Hen Wen, the oracular pig

The Horned King

Running from the Horned King, sketch.

Taran, Assistant Pig-Keeper

Taran, a little too young

Eilonwy and Taran on Melyngar doodle

Gurgi?

Gurgi looking more like . . . himself.

Designing the Horned King's Mask

Doodles and Notes

Eilonwy

Also I am trying to put together a short comic to work on my sequential storytelling.  I'm taking "East of the Sun, West of the Moon", a Norwegian/Scandanavian fairy-tale and turning into a comic-ish thing. Yeah.

And there might be some . . other things I am working on, too.  Yeah.  Maybe one or three others.  I am trying, okay?


Anyway, I know I am getting carried away with the Instagram thing, but it's so easy to post pictures of work in progress with it . . . and I don't have to scan anything . . . and I HATE scanning . . . 

Queen Victoria, Illustrator?

New illustrations from Queen Victoria's journals have been made available online and I've heard a couple people express surprise that she could draw so well.  It touches on a point that I've come to believe very strongly over the last few years and I thought this was a good opportunity to share them.

First of all, I want you to be encouraged.  Even if you don't consider yourself and "artist" (like we really know what that means) you are creative.  I recently came across a great article from The Rabbit Room about creativity that I thought was incredibly well put.  Here's an excerpt:

"My point is this: we’re all creative. Tolkien coined the word subcreator. Some of you have likely heard me or someone else talk about that idea, but it bears repeating. He said, “We make in the manner in which we were made.” To put it another way, we serve a Creator, with a capital C. One of the ways in which we’ve been made in his image is that we also delight in creating. Everything we make is derivative and secondary, and in some manner draws attention to the primary creation, the truth, and the Creator himself. That means everyone on earth could justly label themselves a Creative. That means that even if you don’t wear hipster glasses, skinny jeans, and have Justin Bieber hair, you’re a Creative. It means that even if you’re a banker, a produce manager, or a doctor you’re a Creative. So allow me to reclaim that hijacked adjective, for the good of the world. None of us in this room is a Creative. But all of us are creative."
         - Andrew Peterson, transcript of opening remarks at Hutchmoot 2011

Secondly, anyone can learn to draw.  Drawing is about observation, it takes time and patience to learn but everyone can.  It's like reading or doing sums - everyone can learn how to do it.  And just like reading and writing and math, some people have a greater aptitude for the subject.  So, will you come out the other side drawing like Leonardo?  Probably not.  Will you be able to express yourself on a two-dimensional surface - yes.

I cannot tell you how frustrating it is when people say things like, "Man, I wish I could draw like that" or "Ugh, I'll never be able to do something like that".  Guess what?  All of those people that your admiring didn't come out of the womb with the ability to do that.  Artists spend years developing the skill to do all of the stuff  they do.  Years.  So all of that awesome that you're admiring?  Yes, it's talent, but it's also a lot of hard work.  They (hopefully) don't sit down with just the intention of drawing or painting something - they sit down (or stand, whatever) with the intention of making something better than whatever they did the last time they tried to put something down on paper (or canvas or whatever).  The best artists never settle for just "good enough".  They're always trying to improve their craft.  And every artist - from the one who's "made it" to the one that is still trying to break out of their boring day job - every one sees something in their work that isn't quite "it" yet.  You have less of that as you improve, as you make more and more art, but that "grr" moment is ALWAYS going to be there in some way shape or form.  The point is to keep pushing through that, cause there is improvement just around the corner!  I promise!

Philomythus to Misomythus, a poem by J.R.R. Tolkien

Very rarely do I have the urge to memorize poetry. But I do with this.


To those of you who may not be familiar with my very high esteem for BOTH these men, let me assure you that there is gold here, a great wealth of it, even if you don't understand it outright. I am very often encouraged - not necessarily in any specific or definable way - whenever I pick up any of their works.


I discovered this poem today and I hope it encourages you - whether you can define it, understand it or not.


Philo- having a strong affinity or preference for. Greek, from philos, beloved, loving.


Miso- hatred. Greek, from misein, to hate, and misos, hatred.


Mythus- really? Do I have to define this for you?

Fingon and Gothmog,

Justin Gerard

To one [C.S. Lewis] who said that myths were lies and therefore worthless, even though 'breathed through silver'.

Philomythus to Misomythus

You look at trees and label them just so,
(for trees are 'trees', and growing is 'to grow');
you walk the earth and tread with solemn pace
one of the many minor globes of Space:
a star's a star, some matter in a ball
compelled to courses mathematical
amid the regimented, cold, inane,
where destined atoms are each moment slain.

At bidding of a Will, to which we bend
(and must), but only dimly apprehend,
great processes march on, as Time unrolls
from dark beginnings to uncertain goals;
and as on page o'er-written without clue,
with script and limning packed of various hue,
an endless multitude of forms appear,
some grim, some frail, some beautiful, some queer,
each alien, except as kin from one
remote Origo, gnat, man, stone, and sun.
God made the petreous rocks, the arboreal trees,
tellurian earth, and stellar stars, and these
homuncular men, who walk upon the ground
with nerves that tingle touched by light and sound.
The movements of the sea, the wind in boughs,
green grass, the large slow oddity of cows,
thunder and lightning, birds that wheel and cry,
slime crawling up from mud to live and die,
these each are duly registered and print
the brain's contortions with a separate dint.
Yet trees are not 'trees', until so named and seen
and never were so named, tifi those had been
who speech's involuted breath unfurled,
faint echo and dim picture of the world,
but neither record nor a photograph,
being divination, judgement, and a laugh
response of those that felt astir within
by deep monition movements that were kin
to life and death of trees, of beasts, of stars:
free captives undermining shadowy bars,
digging the foreknown from experience
and panning the vein of spirit out of sense.
Great powers they slowly brought out of themselves
and looking backward they beheld the elves
that wrought on cunning forges in the mind,
and light and dark on secret looms entwined.

He sees no stars who does not see them first
of living silver made that sudden burst
to flame like flowers bencath an ancient song,
whose very echo after-music long
has since pursued. There is no firmament,
only a void, unless a jewelled tent
myth-woven and elf-pattemed; and no earth,
unless the mother's womb whence all have birth.
The heart of Man is not compound of lies,
but draws some wisdom from the only Wise,
and still recalls him. Though now long estranged,
Man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.
Dis-graced he may be, yet is not dethroned,
and keeps the rags of lordship once he owned,
his world-dominion by creative act:
not his to worship the great Artefact,
Man, Sub-creator, the refracted light
through whom is splintered from a single White
to many hues, and endlessly combined
in living shapes that move from mind to mind.
Though all the crannies of the world we filled
with Elves and Goblins, though we dared to build
Gods and their houses out of dark and light,
and sowed the seed of dragons, 'twas our right
(used or misused). The right has not decayed.
We make still by the law in which we're made.

Yes! 'wish-fulfilment dreams' we spin to cheat
our timid hearts and ugly Fact defeat!
Whence came the wish, and whence the power to dream,
or some things fair and others ugly deem?
All wishes are not idle, nor in vain
fulfilment we devise -- for pain is pain,
not for itself to be desired, but ill;
or else to strive or to subdue the will
alike were graceless; and of Evil this
alone is deadly certain: Evil is.

Blessed are the timid hearts that evil hate
that quail in its shadow, and yet shut the gate;
that seek no parley, and in guarded room,
though small and bate, upon a clumsy loom
weave tissues gilded by the far-off day
hoped and believed in under Shadow's sway.

Blessed are the men of Noah's race that build
their little arks, though frail and poorly filled,
and steer through winds contrary towards a wraith,
a rumour of a harbour guessed by faith.

Blessed are the legend-makers with their rhyme
of things not found within recorded time.
It is not they that have forgot the Night,
or bid us flee to organized delight,
in lotus-isles of economic bliss
forswearing souls to gain a Circe-kiss
(and counterfeit at that, machine-produced,
bogus seduction of the twice-seduced).
Such isles they saw afar, and ones more fair,
and those that hear them yet may yet beware.
They have seen Death and ultimate defeat,
and yet they would not in despair retreat,
but oft to victory have tuned the lyre
and kindled hearts with legendary fire,
illuminating Now and dark Hath-been
with light of suns as yet by no man seen.

I would that I might with the minstrels sing
and stir the unseen with a throbbing string.
I would be with the mariners of the deep
that cut their slender planks on mountains steep
and voyage upon a vague and wandering quest,
for some have passed beyond the fabled West.
I would with the beleaguered fools be told,
that keep an inner fastness where their gold,
impure and scanty, yet they loyally bring
to mint in image blurred of distant king,
or in fantastic banners weave the sheen
heraldic emblems of a lord unseen.

I will not walk with your progressive apes,
erect and sapient. Before them gapes
the dark abyss to which their progress tends
if by God's mercy progress ever ends,
and does not ceaselessly revolve the same
unfruitful course with changing of a name.
I will not treat your dusty path and flat,
denoting this and that by this and that,
your world immutable wherein no part
the little maker has with maker's art.
I bow not yet before the Iron Crown,
nor cast my own small golden sceptre down.

In Paradise perchance the eye may stray
from gazing upon everlasting Day
to see the day illumined, and renew
from mirrored truth the likeness of the True.
Then looking on the Blessed Land 'twill see
that all is as it is, and yet made free:
Salvation changes not, nor yet destroys,
garden nor gardener, children nor their toys.
Evil it will not see, for evil lies
not in God's picture but in crooked eyes,
not in the source but in malicious choice,
and not in sound but in the tuneless voice.
In Paradise they look no more awry;
and though they make anew, they make no lie.
Be sure they still will make, not being dead,
and poets shall have flames upon their head,
and harps whereon their faultless fingers fall:
there each shall choose for ever from the All.

Vermont, Costumes and All the Rest

So, a couple of weeks ago I got asked to make a set of costumes for a vacation Bible school thing that my church does every year.  Some of the teenagers were getting dressed up as characters from well known stories and interacting with the kids everyday as part of the group time.  I said, sure, no problem.

It just so happened that I was going to Vermont for a friend's wedding the Thursday BEFORE all of this was going down.  I don't know how I underestimated the time it would take to do everything, but I did.  And for two solid weeks I came home from work everyday and spent several hours working on making all of these costumes.  

Aren't they cute? From right to left we have Lucy and Edmund from "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe", Pinocchio, Dorothy from "The Wizard of Oz", Mary and Martha from "The Secret Garden" and our lovely Narrator.  Awesome and epic, right?  

I wasn't there, but I think the costumes were actually used more like this:

Pterodactyls backin' outa trouble have nothing on these guys. . . 

Also, I am very, very disappointed to have missed out on the apparently epic deep-cover Walmart adventure that was organized in search of Pinocchio's suspenders.  

Vermont was nice, though.

Some more of the stuff I'm working on.  Ugh.  I can't focus on one thing.  Bilbo and Aragorn up there are part of my attempt to put down on paper some of my personal vision for "The Hobbit" (Not that Aragorn is in  "The Hobbit", I know that, I just wanted to see if I could draw him the way he is in my head (I can't by the way)).  That's been a kick-and-a-half.  I'm sure if you've been taking a look over the past couple of weeks you've also seen that I'm doing some sketches for "The Horse and His Boy".  Here are some more I'm doing for "The Silver Chair".

These are all on top of the Robin Hood Project that I'm still working on.  And because I obviously haven't given myself enough to do and need more options, here's some comic/graphic novel stuff I am experimenting with:

I have been told that I need to learn how to say "no" to people.  I think one of those people might be myself.  

Also, I might have mentioned this before, but I really love Instagram.  Which may add to my already legendary predisposition to let art that needs to be scanned, well, not get scanned.  

Don't Worry, I'm Not Dead

I know I've been gone a while. Things have been busy. Here's some of the stuff I've been working on.

Also, I love Instagram.