GFYS: A Self Portrait

Despite having a number of high priority tasks to complete within a short period of time, I — for some reason — found this necessary. It is titled: GFYS Time Management, A Self Portrait Created While Very Slightly Intoxicated on an Insignificant Sunday Afternoon.

Drawn in Adobe Photoshop CS5 using Wacom Bamboo Pen Tablet

Random [no]fun fact: sometimes drawing on the computer requires moving your entire body to get the right angle.

On a side note, I have heard a lot of artists comment on how they feel about "ugliness" and "prettiness" of people in their art, saying that it is too easy to make draw pretty people so they choose to draw ugly or less attractive people because the believe it's more challenging. I would just like to say that I disagree entirely. I find ugly people to be so much easier to depict (in most cases for me: draw), however it may just be more tempting to draw pretty people because, of course, you want your art to look pretty. I personally like drawing ugly people and ugliness in general for fun, and it's mostly because it's so easy to do that I can just mess around, change and exaggerate things to my liking, making the image as well as the overall process so much more entertaining. But not at all challenging, really. I mean, let's stop kidding ourselves — in order to portray physical beauty one must meet a standard, whereas in ugliness there is no standard, it's anything that does not meet the aforementioned standard of beauty.
I do recognize that there is a slight challenge in creating something ugly as opposed to something pretty, but it is merely a psychological challenge because we are naturally driven to attempt to meet the beauty standard. But that is no more of a challenge than deciding to heat up a microwavable dinner as instead of cooking a meal from scratch — you know it would be so much more wholesome and delicious, but it takes more time, patience and expertise.

So next time you hear some imperious artist try to claim that they prefer to draw unattractive people or create things to look ugly because pretty is just too easy, make sure you tell them GFYS and be sure to send my regards.

Hello, Isadora [Comparison and Contrast]

Very often, I find myself being mesmerized by the glory of obscure works from before my time.The most recent instance happened while I was trying to find lyrics for a sub-psychotic no wave band called Arab on Radar and thanks to my totally irrelevant faulty transcription of the bizarre moaning vocal, I came across this picture of the early 20th century modernist dancer Isadora Duncan.

Portrait of Isadora Duncan c. 1906-1912

I'm a music nerd, so seeing this image I immediately thought of the Salem, Massachusetts hardcore punk band Converge's cover for their album Jane Doe.

Jane Doe cover art by Jacob Bannon

Luck would have it that both Converge and Isadora Duncan, while being so different in almost every fashion yet both deserving the title of iconic figures within their respective fields, have such similarly composed images that represent them — icons in and of themselves. I know nothing about Converge vocalist and visual designer Jacob Bannon's process in creating his image for Jane Doe, so I could not speak on his inspirations or what, if any, references he might have used. However it is necessary to point out that this image has become what I view as a modern icon for the entire school of art and music, within which Converge remains at the forefront.

Compositionally, both images are for the most part symmetrically balanced, with slight elements of variation so as to remain in a comfortingly natural realm.Discomforting in both images, however, is the position and expression of the figures. Both hold a stern, serious facial expression, with their chins slightly tilted upward. A lot of emphasis is put on this element, especially in the Bannon piece. This element gives off an air of divine scrutiny, almost as if we are not the viewer but instead the subject — we are the ones being watched. However, what sets the two images apart in this respect, is that Isadora's soft skin and face is clearly visible thus enabling us to see that her eyes are focused straight forward, while Jane Doe, with her rigid contrast, appears to be looking slightly downward, thus adding even more emphasis to the discomforting scrutiny under which the icon places the viewer.

As if this was at all necessary, here's a PV of Converge's "Fault and Fracture" off Jane Doe.
Just a heads up though, it is not meant for the faint of heart.

Formalities = Plague

I honestly don't remember where I got this…

No one is going to read this, I am sure, so I am just going to take a minute to vociferate my frustrations with format — rules. What I am referring to are the "life lessons," the laws of art and design with which we must comply in order to create a "successful" piece, and eventually become "successful" in the field. For all the time that I have spent in art/des. classes, I guess you could call me a career art student. Each time I come away from a class I feel not that I have learned something to help me with my form (aside from that which I learned on my own) but instead that I have become less appreciative of the discipline as it is governed by statutes within which I refuse to restrict my work. These are laws regarding use of color, compositional structure, subject matter, style, how we refer to what we see, and even how we see.

What am I doing here — with this blog? Analyzing things, putting my analysis into words, and making my words public. But to what avail? The form of analysis is one I am very familiar with, but I have never felt the need to put it into writing and share it with the world. It feels like nothing more than a pretentious gimmick. Oh but it's analysis, which automatically makes it too deep for gimmicks, right? That is exactly it, the gimmick in and of itself is the false image of depth conveyed by the mere idea of analysis.

I suppose the issue is not so much the existence of the laws themselves, or the unnecessary analysis of the forms in regards to such laws. But instead, it is an issue of who has the means —the knack— and who has the desire but lacks the means. Wielders of the knack can choose to whether or not they desire to use it, and if they do choose to use it then the next step is to polish it with some practice. Those who have the drive but lack the means, however, are condemned to analyze the work of those who do. They analyze it to the point that they develop postulates as to what defines "good" art or "good" design. They continue to analyze until they feel like they have derived laws to define what is good and what is bad. Then they either try to replicate it, or spend the rest of their lives writing about it.

Design as Conversation

Lifted from Chicago Tribune, photo by Petros Giannakouris

So I saw this program on KVIE recently, in which they discussed the architectural marvels of the parthenon that were discovered during its restoration. While I am not for the restoration of ancient constructions — as I feel they should rather be replicated in order to preserve the condition of the original while still enabling the indulgence of our awe and curiosity — I feel like such processes allow us to decipher the spectacle of archaic techniques. This speaks to the idea that we, as creators in contemporary society, are virtually having a perpetually evolving conversation with our predecessors. What I mean by this is that as time progresses, we make steady advancements in our technology and creative process to meet our insatiable desires and ceaselessly evolving tastes. As we advance, however, the processes and objects of our creation stray further and further away from their antecedents. It is not uncommon that our advancements deviate so much from the origin that the anterior process from which we developed such concepts and constructions become lost in history as relics of a forgotten design.

We forget our roots.

We continue on for quite some time without realizing this, because we are so focused on the our present desires, our consumer tastes. But every now and then some kid takes a walk down the street, staring down at the ground, notices a crack in the sidewalk and has the epiphany, "Oh crap! Remember the Parthenon — the temple constructed in Ancient Greece nearly 2,500 years ago, which resides on the Acropolis of Athens!?" And just like that…

We remember our roots.

Thus we find inspiration in what we feel we have advanced so far beyond and yet have become so disconnected from. We look back, and realize by analyzing the construction and design of these creations that our ancestors were no where near as barbaric and obtuse as we like to think as we go about *slapping numbers into our Excel spreadsheets, throw together websites in Dreamweaver, and play games on our iPhone. The Parthenon is merely one example of a vast number of the astonishing opera of our past, many of which we have yet to rediscover.

How is this a conversation?

The designers of our past speak — statements are made in their work and in their plans, and questions are asked. Another responds, expanding upon the topic, refining the words, answering questions and asking new ones. The proces continues as time goes by, generation to generation, some of which get shrouded and forgotten. Our forbearers speak, and sometimes we listen and respond.

Now is OUR turn to speak. How will the future respond?



If you're interested in more information on the program Secrets of the Parthenon, you can find it on the NOVA website.

*When I say "we," I am of course referring to society in general. I actually don't do any of these things, aside from maybe calling on Dreamweaver to help me out with it's interface though I still prefer to code by hand.

So… Murakami, huh?

Has anyone heard of "My Lonesome Cowboy"?

Yeah, Google images and get back to me. I'd put an image of it up here, but I'm pretty sure I'd get reprimanded. But that's Murakami. Not Murakami, the author, nor the silkscreen artist, but Takashi "Killer Pink" Murakami. Food for thought.

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Update: I went and grabbed a cropped version of a photo taken of the sculture

Creativity From Without

Have you ever looked at a cluster of staples on a post board and thought about hatching? I'm guessing the answer is no. Well unless you happen to be the mastermind behind this:

Air Force One by Baptiste Debombourg

As the caption reveals, this is an installation by French artist Baptiste Debombourg. The piece is simply an enlarged rehash of a 16th century drawing by Hendrick Goltzius titled The Fall of Phaëton, except this time its one a wall fleshed out in nothing more than staples over the naked white wall. Debombourg also did a second slightly more elaborate piece on another wall featuring two intertwined figures using mangled nails rather than staples this time. On his portfolio site, Debombourg admits to not knowing the original draftsman of the stock drawing he used for the second piece. I'm not sure if this is because this information is generally unknown or if Debombourg himself is just not sure of the images origins. Nonetheless, his inability to cite his resources in precise detail is a negligible fault in comparison to what he managed to pull off in re-imagining the archaic images into a modern wastefully utilitarian concept. Here are some more images of the installation…

And this is what the original drawing by Goltzius…

Stoned Soup

Is "stone soup" really just a reference to a grassroots breed of collaborative productivity? Honest question. Because that is exactly what it sounds like to me. That being said, I have not seen one single film, heard a band's album, or walked into a building that could not be considered a stone soup. All movies are are massive (and in some incredible cases, small) collaborations of artists and engineers working with whatever materials accessible in order to create one unified piece. Ok, so a lot of films we see or hear about today happen to be backed by millions of dollars and are not exactly democratic in the nature of production, which would arguably conflict with the "grassroots" part of my definition of stone soup. So then shall we limit films worthy of the label to indie flicks? I suppose I can get on board with that.

Sam Bottoms as Gunner's Mate Lance Johnson, Apocalypse Now

But allow me to indulge, for a moment, the idea that all it takes to consider a work stone soup is that it must be a wide scale collaborative endeavor using whatever tools are available. In this sense I'd like to call attention to the film Apocalypse Now (1979) as a remarkable example of such an endeavor. I'm came to this conclusion after watching the documentary chronicling the near fatal trials and tribulations that plagued the production of the film — Hearts of Darkness: A Filmmaker's Apocalypse (1991). Before watching the documentary, I was still asking myself "What qualifies as 'stone soup' anyway?" However I barely made it past the introduction before deciding "This is it!" I mean, I'd labor over the precise definition of a whimsical term used metaphorically to describe a process with no purpose other than to promote inspiration and good old fashioned kindergarten style teamwork, but what's the use? Fauvism, Impressionism, Neo-post-abstract-expressionistic-brushed-steel-exhibitionism, whatever-ism. The lines are fuzzy any which way you look at it, so I'd prefer to just stick with my gut when it tells me "This is it!"

Francis Ford Coppolla, on the set of Apocalypse Now

So now that I've [probably not] made you curious: What makes Apocalypse Now worthy of the [not really] coveted title of stone soup? If you've already seen either, or preferably both, of the two previously mentioned titles, you're likely to see what I mean. The film's basic plot itself is an adaptation of a story published in 1902 called Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad. The story was rewritten and adapted into a contemporary setting as a movie, and the project was ultimately taken up by director Francis Ford Coppolla (dare I mention Mario Puzo's The Godfather? … I totally just did). But that doesn't make it very stone soupy yet, does it? No that's not a sincere question, so don't bother answering. I won't go into much excruciating detail, or any at all for that matter, but in order to go through with this project, Coppolla had to put up the entire film's budget out of his own pockets. In that sense, he was putting the small fortune he'd acquired for his work on the first two Godfathers on the line, risking bankruptcy for failure to either complete the project successfully or complete it at all — which he viewed as incredibly likely within months of shooting. The most interesting part about the film is that it partially acts as a Vietnam war exposé during the war, so in order to shoot the warlike scenery deep in the Vietnam-esque tropical climate, the crew went to the Philippines and actually worked with Philippino government and army to participate. The exotic tribesmen and some of the rituals they performed such as killing the bull were in fact real traditions that they'd presented to the filmmakers ceremoniously. These are a couple of the numerous unrehearsed contributions that went into the film and I won't go any further because it's just something you will have to see for yourself… if you haven't already.

I guess my "Followers" widget is out of commission

How sad. If you want to follow, there's a link up there though… at the top of your page… yeah, there on the left. No the other left. Hold your hands up with just your index fingers and thumbs extended. Which one makes an "L" shape? Yeah, that one. It's on that side.

I'm not a fan of faeries but...

Have you ever heard of that obscure movie released in the early '80s by the mastermind behind The Muppets (my main man Jim Henson) called The Dark Crystal? If not, then It's about time! … Ok, enough soapboxing. If you're honestly not familiar with the film, it is a dark (hence the name) fantasy featuring a host of non-human characters and creatures surrounded by lush scenery, all of which was handcrafted by talented set designers and artists including Henson himself. Of course computer graphics were as primitive as type on a black backdrop at the time, so James Cameron's Avatar-type 99% computerized atrocities were yet out of the question. Oh, I'm soapboxing again. My bad.

Anyway, whether the in-film scenery is handmade and organic, or entirely digital, a large part of the imagery's style and depth is the result of conceptual designers. And in the case of The Dark Crystal, this department is far from lacking. With faerie illustrator Brian Froud — who teamed up with Henson again later for another worthwhile endeavor, Labyrinth (1986) — in charge of conceptual design, costume design, as well as creature design, which amounts to just about everything visually in this particular film save for lighting and post production, the evidence of the spellbinding world of The Dark Crystal is found both on screen and on paper. A myriad of Froud's conceptual works for the production of this film have been archived and published in a hardcover book called The World of the Dark Crystal. I'd share more, but I have yet to get my hands on this book myself, but for now here's a little taste:

Concept illustration for The Dark Crystal by Brian Froud 

RGB/RGBa versus Hex?

I just made the discovery — while I was editing the layout for this blog as a matter of fact — that RGB values can be used in CSS instead of hexadecimal, and nearly shat myself. To clarify, hex values are noted using the format #xxxxxx, where x is a number 0-9 or a letter A-F, and each couplet of digits represent red, green, or blue. This is limiting in terms of versatility, and somewhat involves guesswork if you don't have access to a hex chart, and don't happen to be a mathematics savant. As far as RGB values are involved, however, you have the ability to adjust the value of each red, green, and blue from 0 to 255 in this format: rgb(x, x, x). For example (0, 0, 0) would show black, and (255, 255, 255) would show white, (255, 0, 0) red, (0, 255, 0) green, (0, 0, 255) blue, and so on.

Some RGB value swatches — lifted from google images

What got me excited about this discovery, however, wasn't so much the added versatility of being able to use up to 255 values for red green or blue, but it was the ability to manipulate the alpha effect. In other words, using the rgba(x, x, x, y) property, you can can adjust both the color and the opacity of whatever object you are modifying. In this format, the colors work the same as previously explained, whereas the "y" value here refers to a decimal between 0 and 1. For example the property rgba(125, 97, 186, .5) would yield a purple element at half opacity.

This is extremely useful in that it makes it very easy to create streamlined effects with a mere line of code. This has probably been around for a while and I totally must have skipped over it, but I am glad I made this discovery now.
I know, it's such a small thing to be excited about.

Divine Intervention

Photo shamelessly stolen from 山と旅、ときどきイヌ

Amidst the vivid realm of the Japanese countryside, the phenomena known as 鳥居 (torii, lit: "bird residence") are vastly common. However, at the wee age of 3-4, I was only aware of one — and it was nothing less than monolithic in my tiny little eyes. In case you are unaware of what I am referring to, torii are the tall bright red gate-like structures that look strikingly similar to the A in Northern Renaissance narcissistic painter Albrecht Dürer's distinct signature (consequence?). These gates, from my insubstantial repository of knowledge, are intended to represent entryways to a given Shinto shrine or temple… usually.

But none of this mattered to me during my visit to the monument located on the eastern edge of Japan's northernmost mainland prefecture, 蕪島 (kabushima, lit: turnip island, though it is known colloquially in english as "Seagull Island"). The area is perpetually swarming with seagulls, and while this is a matter of nature and thus not technically design, it certainly added to the experience by exaggerating my perception of this gate in this specific composition as colossal in both space and time. With the combination of the water splashing into the rocky oceanside, overcast sky, low lying fog, and the pervasion of the seemingly omnipresent seagulls, on this island, the nearly overwhelming elements of nature worked in perfect yet immensely melancholiac harmony with this manmade structure to spark an everlasting sense of aspiration into the psyche of one single insignificant human being.