Posts Tagged ‘drawing’
By Esra Roise, Norway.
“I think I’m in love with Margot.”
(Richie and Royal. The Royal Tenenbaums (Wes Anderson, 2001).)
Flashback Friday, New Years’ Resolution Reality Check #1 — Music Moment: Les Paul and Mary Ford, “Goofus”December 10, 2010
This entry was originally posted on January 12, 2010 at 3:55 pm. It contains the second of my New Years’ Resolutions for 2010. Over the next several Flashback Fridays, I will be taking them out, dusting them off, and seeing how well I followed through. I do not anticipate it always being pleasant, but the truth can’t be.
Les Paul & Mary Ford – Goofus
This recording of “Goofus” (King-Harold-Kahn, 1930), one of my favorite songs, is just instrumental. It’s performed by legendary husband-wife duo Les Paul and Mary Ford (so, so, so much more on them another day).
The Paul-Ford version topped out at #21 on the Billboard chart on its release in the early Fall of 1950. The ensemble Paul and Ford had gathered is plucky and fun, although I have heard recordings from the ’30’s with saws and washboards which sort of put ukes and slides in the shade, but you work with what you got, and they did a great job re-popularizing a well-loved classic.
It really gets me that there was a time in this country when there was a) a set of songs that everyone knew, and b) a time when you picked up an instrument and sat down together and played, sometimes just as a family, but often as part of a larger community group. What happened? Radio killed the vaudeville star, but, moreover, the vaudeville star took group singalongs and skit shows down with him. No more public singing.
People just don’t do that often enough anymore, I think. I remember reading, quite a few years back, Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood (I consequently did not see the movie), and, in one of the super-tolerable parts, a character aged in her mid-70’s during the 1990’s was remarking on the emptiness of the sounds one hears walking the streets in the present day. She recalled being a child and teenager in the ’20’s and ’30’s, and how you could not so much as hang the laundry without hearing someone whistling or singing a street over or while walking past the yard.
“One Last Tickle on the Ivorys,” St. Ebba’s Lunatic Asylum, by Christopher O’Donovan on the flickr.
The idea of that touched me very deeply, because it resonated. I have always liked music, and always known a little about the history of radio and the record industry, being a big vinyl guy, and I’m not saying even at all that radio itself massacred town talent shows, I think increasing materialism and isolationism happened to dovetail with that new mass media, and long story short: it should change back. We need more of that old way of doing things, especially now, when so many people have lost hope and there are young people growing up for whom there are no stories about uncles who sang Irish tenor or great-grandmothers that could play the spoons.
It’s always fun to find out what hidden talents your friends and neighbors have (unless those talents are taxidermy and soundproofing basements), and it brings communities closer together. I think I remember hearing that a song is like a prayer times two, or some such thing, and I believe it. Everything is better with music.
I used to perform in singing groups and church choirs, and even participated in competitive choral groups in High School. The older I’ve gotten, the more I have grown very shy about my singing, but why? Half of what I hear on the radio has been triple-processed and slickly produced, and who cares if someone hears me fall a little flat? The spirit and song in my heart that made me so happy, that urge to open my throat that I couldn’t repress, that hasn’t changed, so why do I let fear and modern ideals of social behavior fence me in?
Holy cow, I think I just found my second resolution of 2010: Make a joyful noise. Join me, y’all!
Reality Check: I did not do as well as I wanted on this one. I started sporadically singing in my friends’ “band practice” Rock Band video game nights, but I did not join my church choir, which was what I really wanted to do. Partly intimidation because the director is an old friend, partly feeling too busy (excuse). I guess where I feel I really failed is I did not keep that song in my heart that I felt when I had written this originally. I need to try to get that feeling back.
via hhhelloalex on the tumblr.
If he is only in it for the pussy … it’s working. I am not deterred by today’s Hot Man’s facelessness nor non-existence. I can break down exactly why this sketch of a gentleman melts my cold, cold heart.
a) Girls Like A Boy Who Plays Music.
b) Dressed like Han Solo.
c) Dressed like Han Solo (counts at least twice).
d) Looks like he could not borrow my jeans.
Emo boys, I have given you warnings in the past, but I’m still seeing these skinny jeans and “jeggings” hanging off your narrow heinies all around the town. Let me phrase it to you less delicately than in the past.
If you look like you could literally get in my pants, you are not getting in my pants.
/End PSA. Now please refer to the handsome faceless internet drawing of what a real man looks like, and eat some spaghetti, Slappy.
edit: The lyrics are from “Awake My Soul” by Mumford and Sons. Here is what I assume to be the inspiration for the drawing:
Nothing to complain about, but is it weird that I like the drawing better? It isn’t anything so explicable and logically psychological like that the facelessness implies more tantalizing possibility: I genuinely just prefer the drawing to the dude. Could be the camera angle making him look shorter and thinner. Don’t worry, guy, you are still okay. Maybe give the other one a Twinkie, though.
I was wayyyy too lazy about actually posting up my thoughts each day on the reading and research I was doing on Wonder Woman and I’m playing catch-up now. In order to make up for that lost time and have something properly worthwhile to represent the span of days lost, here’s a little drawing and expounding on the Amazonian from superfly amazing Adam Hughes, whose Catwoman work has been spotlighted here numerous times in the past.
Wonder Woman is the greatest comic-book superheroine of all time, and I can prove it with math. If you need proof of Wonder Woman’s stature as the greatest comic-book superheroine of all-time, then, PLEASE, go add up all the issues of any other female character and see if you come close to SIX HUNDRED.
No other female character has remained in print, consistently, since the Second World War. Think about that. Are there ANY? From ANY company? Nope. Sometimes, simple statistics speak volumes: Wonder Woman has been around, month-in-month-out, for almost 70 years. How many heroines (or heroes!) can boast such a feat? How many PUBLICATIONS have been in print since WWII?
She has inspired, intrigued, and entertained – NON-STOP – through 5 American wars, 13 U.S. presidential administrations, and she’s even outlasted regimes like the Soviet Union. Wonder Woman endures because she’s the best of the best, the baddest of the bad, the bluest of the blue.
(Hughes, Adam. Posted by Alex Segura via the DC Universe Blog.
Dang if that is not a convincing argument. Actually what I’ve found is that I am growing to like her the same as I do any of my regular favorites (perhaps with more respectful acknowledgement than, say, fervent love), and wonder why I didn’t before. Like it’s not even a big deal.
It’s interesting how quickly, even before the infamous code descended and cut out some of the popular gory lines, comics became dominated by superhero/crimefighter stories, due of course to the mad success of Superman. Sure, there have always been pulp adventure and horror comics, but when most people even think of comic books, it’s the heroes with which they associate the genre. The writers are driven by the publishers, who are driven by sales, which are driven by readers — so the natural conclusion is that a story about a badass goodhearted hero who fights crime is what the audience wants to read.
Drawing by Anthony Tan via fyeahww on the tumblr.
Comics are such manifestly wish-fulfillment-meets-folktale, flimsy-and-touching paper myths, that I think there’s a beautiful lesson here: we want to read about the hero who fights crime, who is “against” troublemakers and waiting with her golden lasso to show them what real trouble is, because we, ourselves, wish to do that. We wish to have a secret identity and fight for those who have no voice, to put a stop to injustices against our fellow men. All these generations of readers have wished to make the world better, not just for accolades or girls but because it is the right thing to do. And that’s really a great and inspiring thing. It’s sweet and charming and kind of triumphant, isn’t it?
“Catwoman 3” by 89g on the da.
Writing is easy. You only need to stare at a piece of blank paper until your forehead bleeds.
If one more person uses my recent illness as the basis of a “you should” type sentence whose predicate is, “finish some of your writing,” I am going to jump off the roof. This threat is less dramatic than it seems: I live in a one-story house. I just figure that if I’ve got a lot of stitches and splints, maybe it will give these well-meaning loved ones something else to talk to me about.
Sin City (Frank Miller and Robert Rodriguez, 2005). Jessica Alba portrays Nancy Callahan. Rescued from kidnap and rape in her youth by Detective John Hartigan (Bruce Willis), Nancy is now an exotic dancer at a divey downtown night spot guarded by my crowd-pleasing favorite character, Marv (Mickey Rourke).
Things have been kind of heavy for me lately. Et tu? Seems like everyone I know is kind of down this week; guess Mars is in retrograde or some kind of similar jello salad. So I encourage you to hit “play” on the song below and watch in amazement as Nancy Callahan “dances it out” in the exact same beat at that there ol’ Kadie’s Club Pecos in fabulous Basin City, a sunny place for shady characters.
FIRST PLAY THIS:
Les Paul and Mary Ford — Goofus (1950).
THEN WATCH THIS:
Actually, it works with all kinds of songs, but “Goofus” is the one that struck an absurd and juvenile chord of laughter in me. If you’ve been feeling a little out of sorts today, please do have a laugh and promise to try and make some of your own fun.
Catwoman by phenomenal artist Shelton Bryant.
Suffering has been stronger than all other teaching, and has taught me to understand what your heart used to be. I have been bent and broken, but — I hope — into a better shape.
(Charles Dickens, Great Expectations. 1861. The speaker is Estella, addressing Pip in Chapter 58.)
A caricature is putting the face of a joke on the body of a truth.
The soul becomes dyed with the color of its thoughts.
via batmanpunchingpeople on the tumblr.
If you know the provenance of this panel — like, its backstory and the issue in which it appeared, etc — please, please don’t tell me. I want it to stay exactly like this. Because this? Is gold.
‘Nam-native Beetle-Bailey ear-necklace update: I still suck.
But seeing me hunched over and going through a ream of paper trying to do studies inspired kidlet to grab one of her own most recent “commissioned pieces,” the last assigned coloring project she had before school ended. Speaking of Jurassic Park and bloodthirsty drawings:
When she first brought it home, knowing what a girly-girl she can often be, I asked naively, “Is your T. Rex a girl dinosaur? With lipstick and fingernails?” She gave me a long-suffering, how-sad-that-my-mother-is-Grimace-from-Ronald-McDonaldland expression and said, “Mommy. Tyrannosaurus Rex was a killer. That is blood.”
Check. It was already all cut out so we put it on a couple popsicle sticks so she could use him as part of her various paper puppet shows.
Think about it: wouldn’t every single puppet show you’ve ever seen have been improved by the introduction of a tyrannosaur? It’s like a recipe for Imaginary Awesome and you just kicked it up a notch. T. Rexes are truly the paprika in the potato salad of the toybox.
So I was trying my hand yet again at drawing Beetle. The problem is I want his shirt open to display the necklace to best advantage as well as convey how unhinged he’s become, but both the open shirt and his chest itself are giving me trouble as far as drawing them as simply but representatively as possible, and I can only imagine my plan for his right hand to be flashing a peace sign will also end in tears. Meanwhile, kidlet, like I said, went and fetched her T. Rex puppet.
She made “Blarrrghhh, Gahrrrrr, Rawrrrrr” kind of noises at me from the other side of the table, kneeling so only the puppet showed and, when that did not sufficiently distract me, she snuck up beside me and pounced, pretending the dinosaur was biting my hand (very convincing flesh-tearing noises accompanied this move), and I said, “You’re very scary, but I’m kind of in the middle of this. Why don’t you go eat a Barbie? We can play later. Promise.”
First the T. Rex turned his cap backward, then they started the arm-wrestling. If you do not understand this humorous reference and you want to get in on the cheesey action flick joke, rent Over the Top (Menahem Golan, 1987). Don’t necessarily buy it though, heh.
Kidlet danced the dinosaur away, making stomping noises with her feet to simulate his weight stalking out of the room, then stuck the puppet back around the corner and said loudly in a deep, ominous voice, “You haven’t seen the last of Tyrannosaurus Rex!!”
I said, “I’m pretty sure I have, actually.” Extinction is a bitch. But the whole exchange cracked me up and lightened my mood. She’s so wonderful. I don’t know where she came from but I’m damned lucky she’s here.
Lastly, the best thing I have ever seen, a comic panel that never fails to cheer me up:
Everything is right in that picture. Especially how psyched the tyrannosaur pilot looks. I told you: they are the paprika in the recipe of AWESOME!
Where is this afternoon going? Super-sorry. I know I’ve been poo about posting up the usual shenanigans today — no Blake, no Girl of Summer, no Batman, like practically nothing at all yet — but I was fully absorbed in a project this morning. Must’ve been all this Vietnam talk lately, but I basically woke up today with only one goal on my mind:
Draw Beetle Bailey with a necklace of human ears.
Not in a funny way. In a dark and serious, satirical but sad way, like to make a point.
Way harder than it sounds, as it turns out. Reminds me of this great idea I had a few months back for a single-panel comic of a rat in hawaiian shirt and boater hat with a little cane and tiny specs, standing upright, top legs like arms spread grandly, saying, “Welcome — to Thoracic Park!” And the rat-John Hammond saying this was to be inside a rotting human rib cage along with little precious mousey-rat versions of Doctors Sattler, Grant, and Malcolm, and it would have been wonderful (is there a name for what’s wrong with me?) but for the ass-huge stumbling block of my complete inability to transfer the idea in as effective a way as I’d hoped from mind to paper. Blocked it fifteen different ways and it never gelled.
Looks like that’s going to be the story with Beetle going Apocalypse Now-style native. Another for the Fail tray. I’m going to try a little more later today. Keep you posted.
I hate it when my ambition oustrips my art skills. Blarg.