Fude for thought

I got new pen last week, it's a Japanese style fude pen, which means it's a simulated calligraphy brush. I've seen similar concepts over here a while ago but they were incredible useless, this on the other hand pretty handy, it utilizes real carbon ink, not aniline dye and it's the ideal solution for no-fuss inking. I've done a couple of tests with it and I can report it a pretty effective tool for line work, it does a get a bit tired if you're inking a large area but that's only to be expected as it's intended for calligraphy. Mine cost about £4 with delivery but in asia the price of this model is usually less than a £1, the ink and the pens are available here, at a suitable inflated price of course. The ink itself is very good, supposedly water resistant and dried incredibly fast on the surface I tested it on, which was typo -detail paper, which is quite absorbent but not the best medium for inking.

It's capable of incredible fine detail and I had to get my strong reading glasses out to give it a proper go, I also found that it modified the fineness of my line as I went along, much finer than I usually use.

Here's a snap of the first test 

A close up

I'm not going to finish this particular drawing it was just a test, the drawing need to be refined a bit before it's inked but I might complete a version with this method later. As you can see with the close up the line is a little broken but that's probably a product of the surface more than the pen, I think on Bristol board it will come out a bit more regular.

Dennis Potter -- kind of

He's a menace...

...he's a wizard...

...he's Dennis Potter the recalcitrant magical playwright, who's always in trouble with the censor.

"Dennis!!" it's the controller of the BBC on the phone, he sounds very angry.

"Oh what is it now?" replies Dennis.

"It's this new play of yours, it wont do, it's far too..."

"Too what?" chuckles Dennis.

"Less of your cheek, sonny, you know far too well what it's too much of, it's far too fruity for BBC1."

"Stick it on BBC2 then, no one will watch it there."

"Now look here you little..." the controller is getting very angry with Dennis now.

 "Stick and stones..." taunts Dennis, his delight at the controllers apoplexy is short lived however, as the controller gains control of his temper and tries a bit of charm instead.

"Dennis" he says with all the smarm he can muster, "don't be like that, I know you're a good playwright. I just need you to be a bit more cooperative. What I need from you is another Pennies from Devon, the play about the dairy farmer who smuggled money in clotted cream buns to his brother in gaol, Or the Spinning Detective the play about a crofter in the Hebrides who investigates the mysterious events surrounding the disappearance of his wife every Saturday afternoon while he's watching the football on the only telly on his island.

"Righty oh" says Dennis, I'll knock something out this afternoon."

"That's a good playwright and remember nothing too fruity."

"OK"

"Promise?"

"Oh all right," Dennis concedes wearily  "cross my heart"

"Good, by the way, I've got that Mary Lighthouse coming round tomorrow, I want her to read it to preempt any trouble from her and her cronies, can you get it ready for then?"

"Mary Lighthouse! not that old bag."

"Now now Dennis, sticks and stones, remember."

"Yuck, oh alright then" says Dennis as the controller hangs up.

Now what's that spell for a play with no rude bits in, he wonders to himself, "Dramaticus nil perviumdum". Flash!! a collection of Mickey Mouse and Whinny the Poo DVD's appears out of nowhere. No that's not right how about...

"Bardicus no Saucybiticus" Crack!! A copy of Frankie Howard's autobiography appears. "Oh dear."

"Plagerous non tissueneedicus..." Woosh! "...bugger."

 "Scriptorius nil filthyiticum,,," Zap! "...oh flip"

"Tellyplayus san bluematerialus..." Fwwap! "...this is getting tedious now."

*****

Finally after hours of fruitless spell casting, at something like 5:00 in the morning:

"Yawhhniodacium me soknackerdius" Foooff! a completed double spaced manuscript appears annotated with stage directions, lighting, camera angles and music suggestions.

"At last!" Dennis says wearily then promptly falls to sleep.

After he's woken by his alarm Dennis calls a bike to courier the manuscript to Shepard's Bush. Bleary eyed he copies the title from the first page and writes the strap-line on a covering note:

The Blue Remembering PIlls

One man's fight to find a cure for dementia.

After the courier call he trundles wearily back to bed for a snooze. He's woken a few hours later by an angry controller.

"Dennis!" the controller shouts angrily down the phone.

"Wha..." Dennis peeps meekly

"That play you sent over, The Blue Remembering Pills, I've just had Mary LIghthouse in my office tearing me off a strip over it"

"What's wrong"

"You put the wrong title on it, it's called The Blue Restraining Hills, it's a play about a group of bondage fetishists who conduct their wanton habits amongst the heather clad hillocks of the lake district"

"But... but..."

"But what?" says the controller

"But..."

"Grrrr" snarls the controller.

"But..."

"...heather's purple"

Holy Terror - Frank Miller

Caveat:
The subject here is Frank Miller's Holy Terror, a work which reflects on the incidents of 9/11, as such it may not be suitable for casual reading.

Reviews, yeah reviews: I gotta confess I have problems with them, for a number of reasons. I suppose the first of these would be the implicit notion that criticism has parity with creative work, you see this a lot lately, you know the kind of thing: some internet bod mouthing off, sometimes quite eloquently it has to said, about some work, usually one that's a suitable target to exercise a talent for ridicule, er, yeah, not really interested thanks. Then there's the appalling lack of insight perpetrated by folk whose eagerness to foster associations with high profile names and works is so acute they neglect to research their subject in any depth, for the love of Christ If you're gonna review I am Legend, the Will Smith vehicle, at least read Matherson's original work first -- please! My biggest gripe though, is probably the lack of appreciation and sometime total lack of recognition of the phenomenon of barriers. Barriers are those things which prevent someone from gaining any appreciation or understanding of a work, they can be cultural, it might be a work that accesses symbolism outside your cognizance. They're most often questions of attitude and preference, you know, I like thrillers so maybe Catherine Cookson wouldn't be top of my reading list, why the hell would I write a review?

So why am I reviewing Holly Terror, well my excuse is that, I'm not. if I had a couple of decades experience in the professional comic publishing world, I might consider myself qualified to opine with some  degree of authority. As it stands I'm just another guy mulling over the works of a man who's work in that field can be described as truly seminal without any fear of lapsing into sycophancy or hyperbole.

There are a lot of opinions about Holy Terror floating around, they generally fall under the: how dare he category of cometary, of course nearly all these come from sources that haven't examined the work. So what's it really like? Let's start by trying to describe my visceral reaction to what is an extremely visceral work. It's no exaggeration to say that it made me feel sick, truly sick, I didn't lose my breakfast or anything but it engendered a palpable nausea that lingered uncomfortably. That's a pretty astonishing achievement for any work I can say. Holly Terror is literally unlike any comic I've ever read and I wasn't prepared for it, superficially the notion of merging real world threats with the superhero genre has historical precedents, Captain America and Wonder Woman are examples that spring to mind. Holy Terror couldn't be more different from these predecessors, they were exercises in reassurance, cosy fantasies to send the kids to bed with dreams of the omnipotence granted through supernatural powers. There are no such assurances granted in Holy Terror. There's nothing super about The Fixer, the costumed protagonist, no invulnerability, no cute sidekicks to alleviate the drama, just The Cat Burglar both garbed in crumpled customs in a world bereft of figure hugging one piece suits, unfeasible stilettos and physiques enhanced beyond the abilities of any worldly pharmacist.

Miller's drawing style has always had more chiaroscuro than normal for the super hero genre of American comics. His work is sometimes reminiscent of the old Battle Picture Library in that way, although he's always demonstrated great spontaneity. In Holy Terror he's pushed back the boundaries of what can be achieved with such an approach much further than I can ever have imagined, both in the use of expansive blacks and the spontaneity with which it is executed. It is a truly astonishing piece of work and Miller conveys more than is comfortable through the strident vigour of the line work. It's executed almost entirely in black and white with some colour, reproduced in what look to be spot colour but at a much higher degree of fidelity than normal for such, so that every tiny speck and splatter is faithfully reproduced. The starkly contrasting black and white makes reading it slightly uncomfortable, there's no moderating of the blacks or easing of the whites which a gently yellowing pulp would give. What little colour there is, is applied with a calculated crudity that does nothing to ease your eyes' journey across the pages either.

The reaction to 9/11 in the US, aside from the war on terror, has been to seek a restoration in the faith of the good of human nature. This reaction has seen atrocities censored from public view, reality is too insane, too hard to comprehend or stomach. Miller deliberately references such atrocities both graphically and subliminally, not something most people read comics for and not something that has been reflected in other media. To appreciate the significance of Holy Terror you need to examine how 9/11 has been portrayed in other Media, things like the films World Trade Center or Flight 93. These examples epitomize the desperate need to see the nobility of humanity. How accurate the nobility and heroism  they depict is questionable but irrelevant because they represent a flight from the horror and terror. With Holy Terror, Miller has refused to acquiesce to this need and it's something for which he deserves recognition, terror is on the last page.

Holy Terror is never going garner great approval from many quarters, it offends too many sensibilities, rubs too many noses in the soil and what's true of the hypocrites who've condemned it is also true of me to a degree. It was just too much for me take take in, In a way I loath it, it really appalls me and makes me shudder. It's the same loathing you experience the first time you read Wilfred Owen's Dulce et Decorum Est and I suspect it was borne from the same frustration and disgust that inspired Owen to condemn the hypocrisy that ennobled senseless slaughter. I'm not qualified to comment on the state of humanity but if there is nobility within man it lies within our ability to confront the the truth. So...

...is it any good then? Yes.

Do I want to read it again in a hurry? No.

Is it worth reading? Yes.

Linear perspective in drawing -- nothing useful at the moment

I'm in the middle of writing a guide to linear perspective, well I say middle but I keep restructuring and rewriting, so I'm probably only really 10% done. None the less I've got a fair bit of wordage out already and I though I'd visit the Wikipeadia page on the subject and it was not a huge surprise to see the same errors I'd seen repeated so often in other sources. Part of the problem I suppose is properly defining what you mean by perspective, in the context of drawing and painting. Most of us realize that, perspective is a literal synonym for view or vista that's commonly used to label the art of depicting distance or regression in graphical form: so there's obvious scope for confusion already. That's probably why the term linear is usually prefixed in this context. Unfortunately that's only a partial resolution, because the technique of linear perspective i.e: the rendering of a  drawing with apparent realistic regression in dimension in relation to distance through the use of a geometric technique is very specific. However it's not the only method of drawing realistic perspective, see what I mean, confusing or what?

I suppose the only people interested in linear perspective now are artists, the draftsmen who used to produce so many drawing for architects and the technical illustrators have all been replaced by cgi, so it makes sense to target a guide at artists. One problem that arises from this for someone writing a guide is, definition of terms, you can't write a technical guide without lapsing into jargon really, it just becomes unreadable without it. That's one of the problems I'm having, I've noticed that the level awareness of concepts like: carteasian co-ordinates, planes and vectors has -- er, diminished in prospective artists. So I really need to define them but should I do it, inline, which looks really messy and can be teadious and interpreted as patronizing by those familiar with such, or should I place them in an appendix. Dunno, I'll have to think on that, one thing I have made my mind up about though is the necessity of brevity on the subject. The books I read as a youngster, the same ones with the mistakes in, were all quite wordy and hard to follow, replete with endless examples of, one point, two point, three point perspectives as they were termed. Artificially so, as I found once my comprehension of the subject increased.

One thing you might be pleased to hear though, is that the subject is a whole lot simpler than you might suspect, once you've cleared you head of misconceptions and have clear idea of the technique. Oh well I suppose I'd better get on with it then.

Cassandra 2

2 Pssshh

I close the door behind me, rest my back against it and close my eyes. For a few seconds there's the tiniest fear that I know has no rational foundation but I can't help thinking for a moment, that if I open my eyes and turn around I'll see her silhouetted through the dimples of the door class. The Sunday Morning sounds tiptoe through my head as I listen for clues: the beat of pigeon wings, some birds are startled from their perch, a baby cries for mother's milk, a dog barks for an early meal, the bells of some distant church summon the faithful, the blessed absence of stiletto on paving stone.

As I'm eating breakfast the mobile rings, the real one, It's Jack, "Where did you disappear to last night?" he asks.

"Oh nowhere" I consume breakfast while we converse, he knows full well what happened and who I left the night club with. He also knows I'm not going to tell him anything, I don't know why he bothers, after a few minutes of fruitless querying he gets to the point.

"You coming over?" he's not actually asking if we're going to meet up with, he's asking when am I going to turn up. I don't miss a Sunday morning at the snooker club, unless someone's died.

"Of course I am, what do think I'm going to do"

"It's just that it half ten already and there's no sign of you," he patters out with a hint of sarcasm, "must have been a busy night"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be there, don't twist yer knickers over it" it's later than I thought but not that late, he's just being a pain. Last nights activity had taken it's toll though, must be getting old. "I may be a bit later than normal though, something’s come up."

"Don't be too late, we've got a game set up for you," then he hung up, that means there's a stranger in the club, I don't mean a literal stranger, could be someone who's familiar but it'll be someone from outside the club, not a regular. That struck me as slightly odd for a Sunday but I didn't think any further about it.

I threw the coffee into the sink, give the mug a rinse and drown a teabag as soon as the kettle boils, then toast the last of the loaf. I retrieve my laptop from the den, ready to re-familiarize myself with the details of Cassandra's biography. Once I'm comfortable again I sit at the table with my repast and take out Cassandra's letter.

It's an interesting compulsion, this desire to get the words out. I once had a vision of a man standing on the banks of the Thames at Henley, holding a bible and cursing the river at the top of his voice. No one who witnessed the event could comprehend his words, he wasn't sure he did himself. I'd been feeling a lot like that man when Cassandra came along. She was a name I pulled out of the hat, amongst others. Massada Willmot, Beatrice Clattinger were a few of her compatriots, there was even an Angus Moeketsi. Fictional allies I'd enlisted in my efforts to get something published to a wider readership, you know, something a bit further along road to kudos than lining the local cat baskets. Each of these pseudonyms were accompanied by a biography, a suitable tale of hardship, misfortune and woe, something to get the sympathy vote. Some of the trials and tribulations I'd put these hopeful authors through were quite extreme. My imagination took off and I took a some satisfaction in pushing them through ever greater bounds of misery all of which they'd overcome with their outstanding fortitude and strength of character.

As far as I know there are no Wheatfields in the phone book but it sounds a bit like Whitfield so it could be an alias consistent with Cassandra's biography. She's a migrant from Lithuania who's family were all tragically killed while at a picnic site by a swarm of hornets whose natural aggressive instincts had been aggravated by a discharge from a local chemical plant. In an unfortunate coincidence, her children and husband were all fatally allergic to insect stings. The incident had been covered up by the corrupt local officials who conspired with the callous owners of the chemical plant. I'd provided similar such culprits with all the biographies, pandering to prejudices and sentiments I identified in their intended recipients. The actions of the conspirators had driven Cassandra from her native land, that she pined for so deeply while alone, a stranger trying to make her way working as as a mushroom picker, in this foreign and often hostile land called England. Cassandra had struggled, heroically, to overcome her trauma but its legacy had left her with a morbid and paralyzing fear of the colour yellow.

The letter's from an literary agent called Carol Reid, a one man band I think, in one of those offices somewhere near Leicester Square. I've met Carol or rather people like her, in a previous era she would have chain smoked Sobraines from an ebony cigarette holder, today she probably makes do with rolling supply of double strength cappuccino from the nearest Starbucks. As I digest the letter it reads a little on the eager side, not as effusive in its complementary tone as something you'd get from a member of the vanity press but not quite the measured response I was expecting. Still, she's an agent, I think to myself, hyperbole is their trade. Then I read the final paragraph.

During a meeting with a Publisher three months ago your submission garnered positive attention from my contact who complimented your work on it's rare insight and pointed commentary. After such positive feedback I took the liberty of submitting your work for review. You might be aware that opportunities for such a review are rare and submissions to this publisher by new authors are seldom successful. However I received notice last week that the reviewers regard your submission as suitable for publication and have provisionally offered a payment in advance of publication of £4000. This sum would of course be subject to  a 14% commision payable to this office. Please let me know if this arrangement is agreeable so I can arrange to have a contract drafted for your inspection. I hope we can successfully conclude this matter promptly as the publisher has indicated they would like to conduct a meeting with yourself at your soonest convenience.

Onomatopoeia is tricky but I think Pssshh is a suitable rendering for the sound I made when i nearly choked on the toast and the tea squirted over the screen of the laptop.