Razzlewolf

"Final paper 502 exerpt" OR "Go, Go, Godard!"

***WARNING Bande à part spoilers!!***

Godard performs the actual duty of the narrator in Bande à part. While he is omniscient and unannounced by the diegetic world, he is also able to participate in the formal aspects of the film, which announces the work as a fiction. This places him at a unique position both inside and outside the film’s diegetic world. For the duration of the film, Godard oscillates between the two positions, effectively empowering both himself as a young auteur and his characters as complex Parisian youths.

Godard announces that, “My story begins here,” well after two of the main characters have spoken and establishing shots of Paris are shown. In this way he creates his own timeline that is separate from the film, leaving us with the implication that the characters have existed in some form before his introduction.

He reinforces this by later adding that for latecomers to the story, which is the entire audience at this early point in the film, he has a few choice words. Godard then proceeds to list a few of the variables that constitute the plan of the main characters, Arthur and Franz, to rob the wealthy benefactor of Odile, who they met in an English language class. Godard leaves it up to the viewer to combine the words with the conversation the would-be robbers have had up to this point. He is willing to sacrifice legibility in order to direct the viewer to more actively participate in understanding the narrative. Godard’s power as a narrator comes from his ability to force this participation from the viewer.

Perhaps the most famous scene in Bande à part, the Madison dance sequence, best illustrates Godard’s empowerment of the French youth and of himself. The scene follows two other events of note, in which Godard makes his presence felt as a director of the movie—when the characters decide to observe a moment of silence, the movie’s soundtrack cuts off completely, engulfing the viewer in a total silence which permeates beyond what the characters would experience diegetically. The subjective realism of the awkwardness that can accompany a prolonged silence is felt by the viewer.

Eventually, Franz cannot take the silence and leaves early to put a record on, leaving Odile to question why Arthur keeps him around. Arthur responds that, “It’s like in the movies. He’d make a good shield.” This is one of several self reflexive comments that the characters make, comparing their own lives to film.

This initial intrusion into the aural space of the film sets him up for the famous Madison dance sequence. The sequence begins as the jukebox starts playing an original rock and roll track by Michel Delahaye. The trio begins to dance in sync for a few seconds.

While the trio is performing the same dance, each character has his or her own nuances and sometimes makes mistakes. These imperfections, which are laid bare by the fact that the entire scene takes place over one long take, provide a metaphor for New Wave cinema at large. It is a cinema that is willing to take chances and define itself in opposition to certain cinematic conventions with the simple goal of becoming more interesting. Perfection through visual symmetry is not a New Wave goal.

Suddenly, the music stops and we are left hearing the shuffles and stamps of the three characters as they dance in a film world where sound can be manipulated at the narrator’s will. It is here that the Godard gains another power, as the sound engineer, breaking the movie’s diegetic world by turning the music, which is initially presumed to be heard as a result of a jukebox, into a non-diegetic sound.

Godard first speaks as a director, breaking the silence and informing the viewer that “Now is the time for a digression.” However, he then reverts to a literary style and informs us of what each character is thinking.

From here he explains that Arthur is experiencing an intense simultaneity of thought as he is dancing, self-conscious of his dancing, and thinking about Odile romantically at the same time. He then moves on to explain that Odile is wondering if the Arthur and Franz notice her breasts moving under her sweater, letting the viewer know that she is interested in the representation of her own sexuality. Finally, the narrator expresses that Franz is pondering the very nature of reality.

The diegetic plausibility of each description is sharply contrasted with the transitional moments in which neither the music nor the narrator can be heard. Godard’s power as a director becomes most apparent at these times as the viewer is forced to watch the trio dance, in sync, to some unheard rhythm. The result is alien leaves the viewer aware of the artifice of film.

Without this voiceover narration, the viewer would see only a group of youths performing what would seem to be a repetitive and thoughtless task. Godard’s careful combination of the café, the popular music, and the dancing emphasizes that this moment and accompanying thoughts belong only to the French youth.

Arthur is gunned down by his uncle after he finds that a bulk of the heist money is hidden in a doghouse. Here we see that Arthur’s own death has become a reenactment of his own performed death from the beginning of the movie. Godard’s voiceover begins after Arthur returns fire, killing his uncle instantly, and begins to stagger from his wounds:

"Arthur’s dying thought was of Odile’s face. As a dark fog descended on him he saw that fabled bird of Indian legend, which is born without feet, and thus can never alight. It sleeps in the high winds, and is only visible when it dies. When its transparent wings, longer than an eagle’s, fold in, it fits in the palm of your hand."

The careful wording seems to imply that while Arthur consciously thought of Odile’s face as death was closing in, he also experienced a sublime moment beyond his own reservoir of knowledge. Thus, this moment is also occupied by Godard, who appears to be inserting the knowledge into Arthur’s consciousness at the same time it reaches the viewer. The juxtaposition of Arthur’s fading existence and that of the bird ties the two beings together.

By explaining that the bird “fits in the palm of your hand” Godard hands the dying bird, now imbued with Arthur’s own dying life over to the viewer. Thus, when the voiceover ends, both lives seem to evaporate with the narration.

The film ends with Godard stepping back into the role of a director for the closing voiceover:

"My story ends here, like in a pulp novel, at that superb moment when nothing weakens, nothing wears away, nothing wanes. An upcoming film will reveal, in CinemaScope and Technicolor, the tropical adventures of Odile and Franz."

While the first sentence appears to reflexively refer to pulp novels as his inspiration for the timing of the film’s ending as well as his genuine wish for the film’s impact, the second is a scathing commentary on the film industry.

The narrator simultaneously criticizes film sequels, color film, and widescreen aspect ratios with this trite interjection. This seems to sum up Godard’s own attitude towards profitability and technological changes as it takes place without any diegetic motivation. He announces this like an advertisement, against a backdrop of a spinning globe, which seems to parody the Universal Pictures and RKO Pictures production logos. By doing this, he further establishes his directorial prowess by telling the viewer exactly what types of film Bande à part was created in opposition to.

Gomu Gomu!!

I love Pirates. I blame One Piece.

Raising Tides, logo sketch

Want it to kind of look like a beer label when it's done. Waiting for the go ahead to continue.

Tiger Final, painted

Warscribe Redux Pages 1-6

A knot of desperation grew in Ian’s stomach as he ran through the boot sucking mud of the streets. He raced towards the building where a regiment of the army was recruiting locals. They had been in his village for the past few days, touting the opportunities and honor of service to any who would listen before they departed for elsewhere. It was their final day of stay in Ian’s village and he hoped that he would reach them in time. Not to sign up however, but to stop someone else from enlisting. He reached the front of their makeshift office, panting. Throwing the door open, he shouted, “Where is my son!?” Blank young faces, some of whom he recognized, turned towards him. They didn’t seem to know what to make of the gaunt-looking older man with thinning hair in the doorway. A perturbed looking and scruffy headed young man emerged from the back and walked up to Ian.

“What are you doing here father?” he muttered, trying to save face in front of his fellow recruits.

“I’m here to stop you from making a mistake,” Ian said. “What do you think you’re doing? Do you have any idea what you’ve done to your mother?”

“It’s what I want,” he explained. “There’s noting for me here, not any more.”

“Fool boy, you don’t know what you want.” Before their argument could get any more heated, a man in a blue uniform walked up to them with a glare in his eyes that could kill.

“Is something wrong here?” The officer asked. The fire in Ian’s blood cooled considerably as the officer directed his ire towards him like a weapon.

“No, sir.” Ian said, calming himself. “I was merely discussing my son’s… choices. My son, though I love him so, can be a fool at times.” At this, Ian’s son glared at his father but said nothing.

The officer sighed to himself. “Your son has chosen to enlist himself in the army.”

“Yes sir.”

“Do you not find honor in serving the empire?” The officer’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “You should be proud.”

“I know, sir. It is just—” Ian took pains to not look in the eyes of officer directly. Instead he turned towards his son. “I cannot bear to lose him. And I know he is making a mistake he will regret.” He mustered his courage and looked at the officer. “Please, take me in his place.”

“Father, no!”

The officer cut him off with a raised hand. “If what you ask were even possible, why would we do such a thing?”

“I—I don’t know. Please, my son is young. Let him serve the Empire in some other way.”

The officer ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “What is your occupation?” He seemed to at least be humoring Ian.

“I am a scribe, sir.”

At that the officer paused. He raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“I track agreements between people. Debts, credit. I put them to paper for them to sign. Sometimes I am dictated letters to be sent to people.”

“I see.” He rubbed his chin in contemplation. “Interesting. Does your son here apprentice to you?”

“No sir, though I have tried. He’s decided to apprentice to a local blacksmith instead.”

The officer smirked and placed a hand on the shoulder of Ian’s son. “Perhaps you should listen to your father more.”

“Sir? What is the meaning of this?”

“I believe we may be able to find a use for you after all,” the officer said to Ian. “Young man, you may return home.”

“What?!” Ian’s son looked incredulous. Ian took his hand.

“May I have a moment with my son?” he asked the officer and received a nod in return.

“You have one minute, then we move out. It was lucky you arrived when you did,” the officer said with a chuckle.

Outside, the two stood in the cold. His son stared at him in disbelief, confused and angry. “Why are you doing this?”

Ian shook his head. “My son, I pray I haven’t made a mistake for the both of us. If time passes and your head clears and you still wish to enlist, then so be it.” He added, “But, I think I know you well enough by now.”

“You’re insane. How are you going to survive?”

Ian shrugged. “I have lived a good life.” He placed a hand on his son’s shoulder and squeezed. “Listen to me. There are other ways to serve the empire. Reconcile with Natalie. Or find someone else who will make you happy. Grow old together and have children.” Ian looked at the office door. “Take care of your mother and sister. Tell them I will return if I am able. Now go.” He pushed his son and said louder, “Go before they change their mind!” His son took a few steps back before turning and breaking into a run. Ian watched, his old life raced away with the footsteps of his son.

Ian, along with the rest of the recruits, set out soon after. They rode by wagon to where the rest of the army was camped in fields on the outskirts of a handful of villages including Ian’s. The other recruits with him cast sidewise glanced towards Ian but said nothing. He spent most of the trip looking down at his hands, creased and worn from age, but soft. After spending most of his life holding quill and paper he wondered if he could even hold a sword without bruising them. The sun set before they reached camp, but its many torches and campfires lit it and the surrounding fields up. By the light, Ian could see that the camp was a large collection of tents, some of which were massive, at least equal in size to the buildings from his village. Their wagon came to a stop at the front of the camp dropping them off with recruits from other villages who had arrived before them. Left to themselves, the recruits stood in a disorganized clumps talking to each other. Ian counted about two dozen or so young men and him, the geezer amongst them.

“Fall in!” A powerful voice came at them. Each of them, even Ian, quickly gathered shoulder to shoulder and stood as rigid as they could manage. A tall, older man with closely shaved gray hair in a well worn uniform walked out of the camp to greet the recruits. Ian reckoned him to be around his age, but obviously more hardened. “I am Commander Petrov,” he began. “Welcome to the glory of the Alban Empire. Here, you will learn to fight and kill to protect your homeland. There is no greater honor than the one you are about to embark on. The life you once knew is over. I suggest to all of you right now to put whatever warmth and softness is in you into a safe, dark place in your soul. They will not serve you in the times ahead.” He swept out his hand and gestured into the camp. “Now, come and join your brothers and sisters!”

The young recruits cheered and rushed into camp. Ian followed them, walking with a less enthused pace. He glanced at Commander Petrov, only to see the commander’s eyes locked on him. Ian quickly looked away, but felt the commander’s gaze burning into the back of his neck. Once inside, Ian was issued a uniform, blue long-sleeved buttoned shirts and pants. The recruits were then led to the mess area, a series of large open tents, where food was served. They were arranged in such a way to encircle a courtyard area with tables and benches. Ian was given a tin tray with a hard biscuit, a scoop of mash with gravy, and a mug of beer. The mess area filled up with recruits chattering and joking to each other excitedly. Each told taller tales than the last, boasting of the feats they’d surely accomplish in battle. Ian sat by himself, away from his fellow recruits. The biscuit was about as he expected and reminded him of biting into a chunk of wood. The mash was slightly better and he spent most of his meal soaking his biscuit in it to soften it.

Afterwards, they were sent to their barracks, a long hall-like tent filled with cots. Recruits filed in, eagerly claiming territory for themselves. Ian picked out a cot at the head of the barracks, took the boots off from his aching feet, and pulled the covers up over himself. The others were still wound up with excitement and took some time to settle down. As the night wore on, more and more of them crawled into bed and the barracks fell into enough of a silence that allowed Ian to begin to drift to sleep. He thought of his family. The brown curls of his daughter, the freckles on his wife’s face, and his son’s impetuous smile. A muffled noise came from the back of the tent, catching Ian’s attention. He focused in on it and realized what it was. One of the recruits had begun quietly sobbing.

Rahaha!

Hands!

Maids...

Undead Warrior?

Didn't do much this week, so here is some random stuff.

Now go listen to this song!

Warscribe Pages 9-11 (NaNoWriMo)

Ian wandered down the direction Korb pointed and it wasn’t long before he arrived at what must have been the most ruckus area of the camp. A series of large open tents where food was served had been arranged to make a courtyard area with tables and benches. While waiting in line, Ian observed the soldiers. Most of them seemed to be having a rowdy time for themselves, conversing loudly and laughing. He was given a tin tray with a hard biscuit and a scoop of mash with gravy. Ian found a half empty table and sat on its edge by himself. The biscuit was about as he expected and reminded him of biting into a chunk of iron. The mash was slightly better and he spent most of his meal softening his biscuit bit by bit in it.

There was triumphant yell at the other side of the mess. Ian turned just in time to see a raven haired woman slam her opponent’s arm down to the table. A small crowd of soldiers was gathered around them, most of whom were now grimacing and covering their faces in despair. He noticed that though the rest of the soldiers wore simple uniform of blue tunics and pants, she had on a thick navy jacket with yellow trimming. Ian shifted slightly over towards the soldiers sitting at his table and cleared his throat to get their attention. He pointed at the woman and asked, “Excuse me, but who is that?”

They shot Ian strange glances before a freckled lad finally spoke up, “You must be new then? That’s Lieutenant Renata, she’s Aegisgarde.”

He looked back to see her opponent sorrowfully push a small stack of coins towards her as she raised her arms in triumph. “I see.”

“I wouldn’t go out of my way to trouble her if I were you. Those Aegisgarde are tough bastards.” Ian nodded in response. Reasoning that he would have plenty of time to get to know the Aegisgarde in the future he got up and headed back to Mikhail’s tent.

“How was your meal?” asked Mikhail as Ian pulled back the flap to his tent.

“It was fine,” Ian replied.

Mikhail scoffed from his bed. “Nonsense. The food here is terrible.”

Ian smiled and agreed, “It was pretty bad. I saw one of the Aegisgarde at the mess. Renata I think her name was.”

Mikhail began to chuckle. “Been showing up the younger soldiers again has she?” A coughing fit cut him off. Ian poured Mikhail a glass of water from a pitcher by his bed which he took gratefully. “She’s trouble, that one,” he remarked, his tone held a bit of warmth. He took a few sips. “You should begin your study.”

Ian flipped through the pages. “I’m not even sure where to begin.”

“Perhaps you should tell me what you know about the Aeigisgarde already,” Mikhail said.

“Just what everyone else knows. They are the elite cadre of the Alban army.” He picked up Mikhail’s unfinished blade. It was a magnitude larger than any sword Ian had ever seen and he had to put his weight into even hefting it off the workbench. Runes about the size of a palm were etched into the blade, deep enough to be easily seen. They held an almost delicate quality to them. “It’s a wonder how any of them can wield these.”

“That has to do with the runes,” Mikhail explained. “You must understand, they have their own rules. Each rune has to be a certain depth and distance from each other. It all must be just so or it will not carry the effect you desire.”

Warscribe Pages 5-9 (NaNoWriMo)

He raised an eyebrow. “Surely an ordinary blacksmith cannot be uncommon for you to find?”

“No, but an ordinary blacksmith is not what we require.” Sergeant Petrov led Ian to tent the size of a small room. Pulling the flap open, Ian immediately saw a man lying in a cot at the other end. “Mr. Vlasek, I would like you to meet Mikhail.” Ian entered the tent, followed by Petrov. Mikhail was an elder man, though Ian could not tell if Mikhail was older than him. Some sickness had made Mikhail’s features stretched and pale.

“Ah, Sergeant Petrov. Am I to meet my replacement after all?” Mikhail turned his face towards the two of them slowly before descending into a coughing fit.

“It is with my hope, old friend.”

“Ian Vlasek, sir,” he said, nodding.

“What has the sergeant told you Ian?”

“Dreadfully little, I’m afraid.”

Mikhail winced. “You would make a dying man waste time explaining matters, sergeant? Bastard.” He cleared his throat. “Very well. As you can see, I am dying. Over by the door you will find my workbench. On it is my last work that I have left incomplete.” Ian looked back and found a large sword lying on a small wooden bench, turned into a makeshift table. Symbols lined the blade, leading up from the hilt. The symbols ended halfway up the sword. A hammer and chisel lay by its side. “You must complete my work Ian. And hopefully a great many more.”

Ian swallowed. “This is an Aegisguarde sword, isn’t it?”

“It will be when it is finished,” answered the sergeant. “Do you understand why you are here now? Listen to me, I know this is an unorthodox situation, but I know what you are thinking. A new ‘scribe should have been sent to us from the capital. But, here is what you do not know nor have we told anyone in your city. We are cut off from the capital.”

Ian widened his eyes. “They have come this far?”

“Yes. And with Mikhail here unable to work, we are unable to utilize the Empire’s greatest weapon to reopen the passes. We need you to learn this new trade and make us more Aegis weapons and armor. Do you understand what is needed of you?”

Ian nodded.

“Good then. Are you ready?”

“In all honesty, sir? No.”

Petrov nodded. “I would have been surprised if you were. But needs what may. I’ll leave the two of you to get acquainted.” He let himself out of the tent.

Mikhail directed Ian to a thick, old book at the foot of the cot. Within were worn pages scrawled with a multitude of symbols in black ink. Each had at least a full paragraph of notations on their purpose and use.

“You must memorize that book,” Mikhail explained. “It matters not if you understand the words now. You will need that knocking about in your head for any hope to understand what will be to come.”

“I see.” Ian flipped through the book, running his fingers over the pages but being careful not to touch them. “How long it take you to learn this craft?”

Mikhail raised an eyebrow. After a moment of thought, he chuckled and settled on saying, “More time than you have.”

With his eyes still buried in the pages of the book, Ian asked, “I see.”

Mikhail waved dismissively. “Go to the mess tent and find yourself something to eat for now, we can begin your tutelage afterwards.”

Ian nodded and set the book down. “What about you? Should I bring you something or…?”

“Sergeant Petrov will have something arranged for me.” He descended into a coughing fit. Clearing his throat, he added, “It’s become something of a punishment for the junior officers, heh.”

Ian nodded and left the tent. It wasn’t until he was outside before he realized he did not know where the mess tent was and the idea of going back in to ask did not seem becoming of his new position. He picked a direction and began to walk, hoping that when he found a large enough gathering of people he would be in the right place.

Following the sounds of the camp did little to guide Ian. Everywhere around him soldiers and laborers were busy tearing tents down or putting tents up. A familiar clatter of metal on metal brought him to a smithing workshop where he felt an odd comfort.

One of the blacksmiths looked up from his work towards Ian. “Something I can help you with?”

“How much carbon do you use in your metal?” asked Ian.

“Oh, a metalworker are you?”

“Mostly tools, pots and pans.” He shrugged. “Swords once in a while for the city guard.”

The smith took off a work glove and extended a hand towards Ian. They shook. “Good to meet you, friend. My name is Korbova, call me Korb. I assume you are here to work for the army?”

“Yes, but not in the smithy. I was going to ask for directions to the mess tent.”

Korb winced. “Don’t tell me they have you working in there. That would be a waste of your ability, and we could certainly use your help here.”

“No—ahh.” Ian paused and wondered how much he should be talking about his new job. “They brought me in to work with Mikhail.”

“M-Mikhail?” His eyes widened and he withdrew his hand slowly from Ian’s. “I didn’t know. The tent you are looking for is down that way. Forgive me for my impertinence.”

“I was not offended.”

“Thank you, sir. If you will excuse me, I have to get back to my work.” Korb went back to his anvil where he picked up a pair of tongs holding a piece of metal. He brought it to a forge and plunged the end of the metal into the fire. Ian noticed that Korb ceased to look back in his eyes after he mentioned he was working for Mikhail.

Rats Project

Down on his luck, looking for some quick cash.

Didn't spend as much time on this one. T_T

Minimum Tiger ATTACK!

Pirate Booty

Random Prop sketches for upcoming project.

Warscribe Pages 1-5 (NaNoWriMo)

The rain fell on Ian Vlasek with disregard to the growing knot of desperation in his stomach as he ran through the boot sucking mud of the city streets. The office of the local regiment loomed into focus. He threw open the door. Those within turned their heads towards him, seemingly started by the gaunt older man with thinning hair standing in their doorway and dripping on the floor. Ian bellowed, “Where is my son!?” He stalked through the office paying no heed to the soldiers which began to gather at the commotion. Coming upon a row of young recruits standing before a soldier, one of them locked eyes with Ian and grimaced.

“Father,” he muttered.

“You!” Ian held up a near disintegrated piece of wet paper streaked with what looked like ink stains. “What is the meaning of this, Nicholas?”

“It’s my choice,” Nicholas fired back. “It is what I want!”

“You don’t know what you want!”

“Enough!” The voice of what looked to be the chief amongst the soldiers echoed through the halls. “Sir, perhaps we can better discuss the reasons you are here in my private office?” The fire in Ian’s blood settled and he at once felt the cold of the rains chilling him to the bone. Ian nodded.

Soon, Ian and Nicholas were sitting across the desk of the Chief Recruitment Officer. “Sir, if I am to understand correctly, your son has chosen to enlist himself in the army.”

Ian took a deep breath. “My son, though I love him so, can be a fool at times.” At this Nicholas bristled in his chair but said nothing. “He thinks this is what he wants, but it is not so.”

“That’s not true father!” Nicholas started and swiftly stopped as the officer held up a hand.

“Be that as it may, we have your son’s papers and signature. He is ours now.” The officer clasped his hands together over his desk.

Ian shook his head. “I cannot allow this to happen.”

“Do you not find honor in serving the Empire Mr. Vlasek?” The officer’s eyes narrowed. “You should be proud!”

“I know, sir. It is just-” Ian turned to look at his son. “I cannot bear to lose him.” He looked up at the officer. “Take me. Take me in his place.”

“Father!”

“If even what you ask were possible, why would we do such a thing Mr. Vlasek?”

“I—I don’t know. There must be something I can do. My son is young, he is barely a man. Let him serve the Empire in some other way.”

“Father, no!” The officer raised his hand again.

“Tell me Mr. Vlasek, what is your occupation?”

“I am a bookkeeper.”

“I see. Good with numbers and figures then?”

“That is my job. Sir.”

The officer tapped his fingers on the desk. “Perhaps there is a use we can find for you after all. Nicholas, return to your home.”

“Sir? What is the meaning of this?” Nicholas looked incredulous. Ian covered his son’s hand with this own.

“Please Nicholas.” He turned to the officer. “Can I have a word with my son, please?”

“You have two minutes.” He gestured towards the door for the father and son.

Outside, the pair stood as the rain began to die. Nicholas looked at his father with a disbelief, too surprised to be angry. They stood in silence for a moment before he asked, “Why father? This was my choice to make.”

Ian shook his head. “My son. I only hope I haven’t made a mistake for the both of us. If time passes and your head clears and you still wish to make the same decision, then so be it. But, I think I know you well enough by now.”

“How will you survive?”

“I have lived my life. There are other ways for you to serve the Empire. Make up with Natalie or find another that will make you happy. Grow old and have many children of your own.” Nicholas looked away, ashamed at his transparent motivations. Ian placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Go home and tell your mother and sister that I will return if I can. Our time is up.” Ian turned and walked back into the office, leaving his life behind.

Ian along with the rest of the recruits set out soon after. They traveled by wagon towards a camp on the outskirts of the city. He watched the little darkness of his home on the horizon fade out of view. The other recruits cast sidewise glances towards Ian but no one said anything. He spent the trip looking down at his hands and rubbing them together. They were rough and lined with time. Ian could not fathom that his hands could soon hold a sword when they had spent most of his life holding paper and pen, that his body, already beginning to sore from the ride, would be placed in combat.

They came to the camp late in the day. It was a large collection of tents and wooden buildings dug into the hard ground. The tents were massive, some were of equal size to the buildings back home and looked to be makeshift halls than tents. Ian reasoned that this was a semi-permanent training ground. There were already soldiers exercising in formation on the field. The caravan of wagons came to a stop and the recruits filed out. A sergeant came by to examine them and to put them in order. Ian fell in with the other recruits.

“I am Sergeant Petrov,” he began. He barely raised his voice and yet it carried down the line. “Welcome to the glory of the Alban Empire. The life you knew is gone. My advice to you now is to put it into a safe, dark place and not look at it until your service is over.” He placed his hands on his hip. “Now, you are mine.” He gestured into the camp. “You will find tent marked by three red stripes. It will be your home for the coming months. Go and get yourself situated. Supper is in fifteen minutes. Now fall out.” The line began to move. Ian started to follow the man in front of him but the Sergeant pulled him out of the line. “You, come with me.” The sergeant began to walk, forcing Ian to catch up to him. “I understand there was a bit of an incident in your recruitment.”

“Incident, sir? No incident. I am here to do my duty.”

“Hm, duty as a father, yes? No matter. All I need to know is whether you are prepared to follow orders.” Petrov swung around to face Ian. “Will you do as you are told?”

Ian stood as straight and firm as he could manage. “Yes sir, I will.”

“Good.” Petrov continued to walk. “Now, you may have gathered that you’re not here to be a soldier.”

“I was surprised I was accepted in my son’s place, yes.”

“Normally we would not have made the exchange, but your background has apparently inspired my subordinate to send you instead.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You want me because I can work with numbers?”

Sergeant Petrov led Ian to a small meeting hall. As he pulled the flap of the tent away they caught the attention of a small circle of people sitting at one of the tables in the center. There was a tall, dark-skinned man with faded soot stains on his face, a pair of studious looking older gentlemen in long coats, and a young woman with strong eyes in a soldier’s blue uniform. The sergeant led Ian to them and he saw that the group had been studying a number of papers spread out on the desk. The papers had been scrawled with large symbols that Ian didn’t recognize and notes detailing them.

“Mr. Vlasek, do you recognize any of these symbols?” Sergeant Petrov waved his hand across the papers.

Ian leaned down to examine them. “No, sir.”

“Have you heard of the Hotekin and their sorcerers?”

“Only that we are at war with them, but I don’t see how I-”

Petrov held up a hand and nodded. “The reason you are here, Mr. Vlasek, is to work with these people. I want you to help figure out the Hotekin’s magics. And, whether we can use it for ourselves.”

Pretentury of the Century

Kris Hattori
CTCS 502
Professor Kase

He Would Always Have Been Isak Borg, Ingmar Bergman

While Ingmar Bergman's Wild Strawberries (1957) is a film that largely embraces the personal, there are clear links to religion and Swedish nationalism that resonate throughout it. I believe that these three categories can never be fully segregated from each other despite an auteur’s intention to create a film that focuses on one. Bordwell hints at why this may be true. He explains that the competent art film viewer, "...watches the film expecting not order in the narrative but stylistic signatures in the narration: technical touches and obsessive motifs (Bergman's character names) (Bordwell 59)."

When viewing an art film, one can make the concession that even the most infinitesimal details can betray authorial marks. Because of this, I believe that a film must be looked at in terms of quantitative and qualitative patterns in order to discern the differences between conscious decisions, unconscious decisions, and simple happenstance.

At one level, the film is a narrative about one man who is able to relieve some of the loneliness in his life by taking both a physical and mental journey. Examining the film at an authorial level, it is the work of Ingmar Bergman, who wrote the screenplay after taking his own road trip to a town from his youth and toying with the idea of the past and present merging. He elaborates, "The film was based on my experiences during that trip to Uppsala. It was all as simple, concrete, and tangible as that. And I had no difficulty at all in carrying it through (146)."
His choices in the film, both formal and narrative are distinctly his own. He asserts that one of the film's most iconic scenes, the dream sequence in which the protagonist, Isak Borg (Victor Sjöström), walks down a street and encounters a hearse and his own living corpse, is based on a recurring dream that he had been having at the time. The scene is brightly lit, imagery is hauntingly alien, and sound design is disorienting. Bergman has created a scene that is distinctly personal art in both content and formal execution.

From the film’s introduction, we see Borg pause to make a move on a chessboard and dismiss it with a grunt. This simple interaction places the chessboard’s importance over many of the other props in the movie. It seems to be a nod to The Seventh Seal, a Bergman film that immediately preceded Wild Strawberries, in which death himself commanded the game. In the dream sequence, Borg encounters a clock with no hands that looms overhead. While these are simply props, I believe that they indicate that there is a threshold that a particular element of a movie must meet based on importance or distinctiveness before registering it into one of the three categories. As is the case with the handless clock (clocks and time being recurring motifs in Bergman’s work), this distinctiveness can operate across an auteur's films.

The reflections of the personal resonate more heavily through Wild Strawberries than its representation of the ideological or national. Borg even shares the same initials as Bergman. The odds that this would happen by chance are one in 676. When an interviewer questioned Bergman about the decision, he responded that it was an "innocent coincidence (Björkman 146)"—a response that seems about as coy as The Beatles insisting that “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” was not about LSD, especially when one considers the sheer amount of autobiographical content within the film.

RELIGIOUS IMPLICATIONS
Many critics like to point to the ideological implications within the film, often citing Bergman's own Father, a Lutheran minister and strict disciplinarian as a reason for this. When asked about how conscious he was about including Catholic implications within Wild Strawberries, he simply replied, "Not at all (Björkman 146)." Despite this, it is hard to ignore the quantity and specificity of formal and symbolic elements in Wild Strawberries that can be read as distinctly religious.

Borg and his daughter in law, Marianne (Ingrid Thulin), meet with university students Sara (Bibi Andersson), Viktor (Björn Bjelfvenstam), and Anders (Folke Sundquist). The group takes a lunch outdoors where Viktor, a rationalist doctor to be, and Anders, a theologian and future Lutheran minister, argue the merits of religion and rationality. They exchange clichés such as “religion is the opiate of the masses.” Unable to settle their differences, they both implore the wise Borg for an opinion, which he deflects by reciting a hymn rather than answering. This lack of concern seems to mirror Bergman’s own thoughts on the issue—that he would simply like that his own message. In this case it is likely that Borg’s own thoughts stray towards reconciliation with his father (Törnqvist 127).

Eventually, Viktor and Anders' differences erupt into a shoving match that Borg and Sara watch from the car, amused. The short fight is filmed at a long range, leaving the viewer simply as a spectator. It lacks the intensity and involvement that close ups and fast cutting between the two combatants would bring to the viewer. Thus Bergman uses formal methods to transform the fight between two friends into a controlled exhibition of levity. Here Bergman uses them as a way of infantilizing an argument between religion and rationalism through allegory. Their sophomoric debate and one dimensional natures make them decidedly impersonal characters. In neither of the two encounters between Viktor and Anders does one gain a clear upper hand on the other.

The origin of obvious visual symbolism such as the stigmata Borg receives by puncturing himself on the nail is hard to deny; however, the recurring themes of mortality, confession, and redemption can easily be said to transcend religious dogma. Dissecting the ideological from the personal becomes problematic at this point due to Bergman’s own relationship to Lutheran Protestantism. Perhaps the ideology has shaped so much of him during his formative years that his decisions are unconscious. This could account for the heavy religious implications throughout the film which oscillate with the lighthearted banter between Viktor and Anders. Although Bergman admits that there is a general religiosity to the film, even this seems to be a concession that he makes only to appease his critics.

SWEDISH NATIONALISM
In the first flashback to Borg’s past, the viewer is greeted with a stylized depiction of the Swedish bourgeoisie. From the color of the walls, appliances, and clothing of Borg’s family to the sunlight pouring into the room, everything is white on white. French argues that the idyllic imagery is taken from the iconic works of Swedish designer, Carl Larsson (French 53). As Sara becomes torn between Borg and his brother, she retreats into a darkened hall. Shadows creep over her face as she confesses her turmoil. It is here that Bergman breaks the façade of this Swedish ideal and subverts the iconic Swedish imagery in order to serve his own narrative.

The structure of the Swedish educational system provides Bergman with a framework for the film's narrative. It is the catalyst for Borg’s need to travel and allows him to hold a place of reverence amongst the three students. Although Bergman engineers the simplistic dichotomy between Anders and Viktor, it does not appear as though this is his indictment of a poor educational system or of the Swedish youth. Bergman admits that while he had attempted to make the three students representative of the Swedish youth, they are a weakness of the film. Bergman recalled "Even at this time the image was utterly outdated (Björkman 147)." The simplistic nature of the trio is often attributed to Bergman’s own disconnect with the age group.

DEMARCATION
What we see occurring most often in Wild Strawberries is an overlapping between the personal and the ideological and an overlapping between the personal and the national. Bergman explains, "I'm a radar set. I pick up one thing or another and reflect it back in mirrored form, all jumbled up with memories, dreams, and ideas (Björkman 18)." He seems to hint the impossibility of absorbing and redistributing ideas of nationalism or ideology without coloring them with one's own experiences.

This becomes one of the most problematic aspects of quantifying a film, its scenes, or even its stills as providing meaning discretely in a single register or representation. It seems that while a filmmaker can intend, at least consciously, to create scenes that register as being personal, ideological, or national, there are levels of the unconscious that can speak volumes to viewers. Bergman describes wrestling with the conscious and unconscious.

Bergman explains:
All the time a film is being made, one flinches away from marginal thinking. If I relyin on my intuition I know it will lead me in the right direction…If I begin hesitating and discussing, I get so tangled up in personal complications and become so crudely aware of what it really is I’m depicting, I can’t go on…Obviously I was perfectly well aware from the outset, on the other hand, that Engineer Ahlman and his wife are a scurrilous portrait of Stig Ahlgren and his wife (Björkman 140).

Bergman himself later becomes an unreliable source to his own film as he stated that his admission that Isak Borg was portrayal of himself as “a tired, old egocentric, who’d cut himself off from everything around him—as I had done (Ruuth 22),” as being false. Bergman’s own indecision points at the reality that one cannot separate the personal, ideological, or national within a film. It is up to the viewer and the critic to set the threshold for qualifying these elements as such.



Bibliography
Björkman, S et al (1973). Bergman on Bergman. New York, NY: Simon and Schuster.
Bordwell, D (1979). The Art Cinema as a Mode of Film Practice. Film Criticism, 4(1), 56-64.
French, K & French, P (1995). Wild Strawberries. South Bank, Waterloo: BFI Publishing.
Ruuth, M (1994). Images. Bloomsbury, London: Bloomsbury Publishing.
Törnqvist, E (1995). Between Stage and Screen: Ingmar Bergman Directs. Amsterdam, Netherlands: Amsterdam University Press.

Raft Project

Hes a traveling botanist.

The Swimmer Part 5 (Draft)

     Anton rushed through the halls of The Indigo Virgo towards the command deck. There he found his father and Tracy discussing something. “Anton,” his father said as he reached them, “What’s the matter?”

     “The pirates,” Anton gasped, “They’re back. Three ships.”

     “That’s impossible.”

     “How do you know this?” Tracy asked as she moved to her station. “We can’t see outside the Swimmer ship.”

     “I’ve been talking to her,” answered Anton. “To the pilot.”

     “I gave strict orders Anton,” said his father.

     “How do you know she’s not lying?” Tracy questioned.

     “I’m not lying,” the voice broke in on the ship’s intercom. The three of them stood in shock as their computer screens flared to life, showing video footage of three ships heading towards them. Bright light haloed the ships from behind indicating their intense engine output. The voice continued, “The pirates are burning towards our position fast. I estimate 30 minutes before weapon’s range. I suggest you call your crew and disembark before then.”

     Anton’s father stood up straight and addressed the pilot, “This is Captain Smith of The Indigo Virgo. Our jump drive isn’t repaired yet. Judging from those ships, we’ll be run down.”

     “I will hold them off.”

     Five minutes later, the crew of The Indigo Virgo boarded the ship and undocking was taking place. Anton watched the Swimmer from the central monitors as they drew away. From the Swimmer’s dorsal side, he saw a small squadron of twelve craft detach and fly off towards the pirate ships. “Drones,” his father pondered aloud. He snapped his attention away from the monitors and continued to coordinate the repair procedures that The Indigo Virgo still required, putting everything except the jump drives on hold. “Take us away from the Swimmer, we need every second of time it can buy us.” He sat back into the command seat and watched the battle unfold.

     The pirates began to fire immediately as the drones came into their range. Faint glints of light seemed to pulse away from the pirates. It was the rounds from their railguns catching hints of sunlight. From their distance it was the only hint of their deadly fire. The drones darted in and out, converging on the lead pirate ship. The drones began to return fire. Puffs of orange fire blinked to life on the surface of the lead pirate ship. The drones were doing a good job of cutting into the beast, but the pirates continued to burn towards them undeterred. One of the drones exploded, and then another, and another, the pirates apparently coordinating their defensive fire more effectively. Another squadron of drones flew forth from the Swimmer as the first wave retreated. The returning drones docked with the Swimmer. The battle continued with the pirates inching closer.

     Anton unclipped the radio from his belt and held it up. “What’s happening?” He asked, hoping for a response.

     “I’m keeping up the pressure on the pirates,” she replied, at a whisper. “Their ships are tough and my drones need to be repaired, refueled, and rearmed.”

     “You can handle all that on your own?”

     “The interface does a lot of the work, but I’m monitoring a lot of systems at once. Pilots like me learn to split our attention.” She paused. “Hold on.”

     “What is it?”

     A sudden shock of jagged light burst from the face of the Swimmer. In the distance, the pirate ships followed suit with their own twinkles of intense light.

     “We’ve entered range for anti-ship cannons,” she said. “Tell your father to keep The Indigo Virgo behind me.”

The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe

Cropped section of my Digital Life midterm. Still working on it...

The Swimmer Part 4 (Draft)

     Anton delivered the load of parts to the Chief and two hours later, Anton finished his work shift. He hastily made his way to his quarters on The Indigo Virgo. As soon as he shut the hatch to his room, his hip radio crackled to life.

     “Hello, Anton.” It was the same feminine voice.

     “How did you do that?” He asked.

     She actually seemed to chuckle at the question. “What the number of instruments and sensors I have, I can practically see and hear everything you do.”

      “So you mean you’ve been spying on us?”

     “No,” the voice said, slightly taken aback. “Well, yes, sort of. I don’t really mean to. I can monitor everything on my ship, from atmospheric pressure to heat signatures to vibrations. I need to know if something’s gone wrong.”

     “I see. That makes sense,” Anton offered. “If I may ask, why do you want to talk to me? And why were you so willing to help us?”

     “Like I said before, I was curious. It’s not every day I come across people in my travels. And as to your second question, wouldn’t you help people in trouble?”

     “Yes, of course. But, I’m not even sure what you are. My people called you a ‘Swimmer.’”

“Swimmer?” She seemed to mull over the moniker. “I like it. How much do you know about my people?”

“Not a lot. Is it true you pilot your ship on your own?”

“Yes. I interface directly with my ship. My people learned the technology a long time ago.”

“Like, with your brain? You were humans right?”

     Anton was sure she chuckled at his last question. “My people split from your culture hundreds of years ago, but yes. We still consider ourselves humans.”

     “Fascinating.”

     “My physical body is in an interface chamber right now about a quarter of a mile from you. You could say it’s sleeping right now, but my mind is in the ship.”

     “I see. I’m not even hearing your real voice right now, am I?”

     “I’m told it’s a fair approximation. Is this creeping you out?”

     It was Anton’s turn to laugh. “No. I guess you can’t see my facial expressions.”

     “My instruments aren’t that fine.”

     “Well I’m smiling pretty widely. This is incredible. How many people can actually say they’ve talked to a ‘Swimmer?’ The rest of my crew is too afraid to even communicate with you. But, you’re just a... person.”

     “I’m glad.” Synthesized or not, Anton could hear the pleased tone in her voice. “Now I get to hear about you Anton. It’s only fair.”

     “I don’t think there’s much to tell.” Anton sat on his bunk and reclined. “My father’s the skipper of The Indigo Virgo, but you’ve probably picked up on that. I’m here right now mostly to learn about how the ship and crew works. I’ll probably take over the Virgo some day. You must find this incredibly boring.”

     “Not at all!”

     “I’m sure! You must find having to learn how do something so very quaint.”

     “Not really, I wasn’t born into the ship after all. Learning how to ‘be a Swimmer’ if you will, took a lot of training and—hold on.”

     “What is it?”

     “The pirates that attacked you are back.”

     “That’s impossible.”

     “There are three of them.”

     “Ships? They must have a base in-system.”

     “Go tell your father to get your crew into your ship.”

3d stuff -WIP

More Scion DIY

Hamburger Exploded View

I forgot the cheese.

SF 3 day vacation post

Seward Street Slides (part 1 of 2)

“I can’t believe this exists.”

“Well, it does, now help us with the cardboard.”

“No, I mean it doesn’t make any sense. Some city council had to get together and decide that ‘Yes, we will build this deathtrap…for the kids.’”

“Just hold it like this and make yourself into a cardboard taco,” Jean demoed the method a rider would take to make it down. “And make sure you keep your hands tucked in when you pull the sides up.”

We were enclosed in a valley between two lines of housing whose incline had so much more rise than run that a fall backwards while climbing up had been a seriously possibility.

I looked down the concrete slides. Their twisting paths ran parallel to each other and into a sand pit filled with all manner of discarded cardboard: pizza…Amazon…Office Depot. The wear and tear from the weight of a million asses wore off the original preschool green and smoothed the inside of the slides to a reflective grey. From up here they seemed to advance about 10 feet forward for a 40 foot drop.

“I mean, this wasn’t repurposed from being some sort of San Francisco garbage chute or something?” I implored the local residents for an answer as I heard the tentative scraping of one aligning himself before takeoff behind me. I turned around in time to see the top of Tony’s head disappear over the edge.

Halfway down, the slide flattened out for just long enough to launch him in the air as it dropped a final time.

“Uaah!”

Hmm…that was a sound we’ve never heard Tony make before.

He skidded to a stop and said with his usual composition, “Whoa, got air that time.” Tony climbed up the side of the slide with our white piece of cardboard from a microwave box. A large, smooth sticker on the bottom made it the “fast one” compared to another random brown piece we brought. He placed it back at the top of the slide.

I stared down the length of the concrete chute and said to no one in particular, “Can someone hold my cell?” I sat down on top of the cardboard and skidded forward, tentatively. I pictured bloodied knuckles trying impossibly to clutch each other to stop the bleeding. I toyed with the idea of the cardboard disintegrating going down and burning me in the fires of some impossible hyper-friction. In half a second I thought all the things diving boards, rooftops, and modified fireworks made me think. What was I doing? 24 and still putting myself in situations where physical damage was a possible consequence.

The Swimmer Part 3 (Draft)

     Repairs on The Indigo Virgo were coming along smoothly. With the ship berthed, the crew could work on exterior damage without need for bulky EVA suits. Anton stood on the floor of the docking bay, supervising. He concentrated on the work schedule on his clipboard, but couldn’t help looking around the bay. It was massive to hold their merchant vessel and it was only a part of a much larger ship. They had negotiated terms via written messages. Their host did not ask for any repayment and even offered additional supplies and assistance. His father had turned down their host’s offer, he seemed keen on having the crew keep to itself during their stay. He wanted to repair the ship and leave ASAP. But even without the extra help, The Indigo Virgo was on time to be operational before the pirate vessel was likely to return. The radio clasped on Anton’s hip hissed to life.

     “Anton my boy, you there?” It was the chief engineer.

     “Go ahead chief,” he replied.

     “I need an extra set of engine parts down here, can you grab them for me in the machine shop?”

     “On my way.” Anton pushed off from the ground and floated up in the direction of one of The Indigo Virgo’s hatches. He entered the ship and made his way down to the machine shop. Anton was gathering tools into a crate when his raid hissed with a burst of static. “Chief, is that you? I’m at the machine shop.”

     “No it’s not. Hi there.” It was a feminine sounding voice Anton didn’t recognize.

     “Hello, who’s this?”

     “I’m the pilot of the ship you’re docked in.”

     Anton raised an eyebrow, this had to be a joke. “Okay, really. Who is this?”

     “I’m serious Anton. I’ve tuned in to your radio frequency.”

     “Why would you do something like that?”

     “I wanted someone to talk to. It’s so rare for me to get the chance to. But the others on your ship, they’re all suspicious of me. You’re the only one that seems to have my… curiosity.”

     “You’re serious?” Anton looked down at the radio in his hand. “Listen, I’d like to talk to you too, but I can’t right now.”

     “I know. Go finish up your work shift.”

     “I have about two hours left to go on my shift. How can I contact you to tell you I’m done?”

     “Don’t worry, I’ll contact you.”

Tracked Vehicle

Front 3/4 view.


Back 3/4 view.

The Swimmer Part 2 (draft)

A beeping from Tracy’s station interrupted the command crew’s staring at the new ship on screen. She began, a hint of disbelief in her voice, “We’re getting a message from it skipper, text only. It’s offering to render assistance.”

Anton watched his father sit back down in his chair and mull over the information. A moment of silence passed before Anton spoke up, “It wants to help. Isn’t that a good thing?”

“We don’t know anything about that ship,” he replied. “It comes out of nowhere and happens to want to help? It can’t be that simple.” Anton’s father shook his head.

Anton offered, “We’d offer help if we came across a damaged ship, wouldn’t we?”

“It’s not the same.”

“We’re sitting ducks out here. You said so yourself, the raider ship is coming back. What have we got to lose?”

Anton’s father nodded slowly. “Alright. Send a reply. We’ll accept any aid it’s willing to give.”

Tracy relayed the message. As soon as she did, the massive ship began to draw towards The Indigo Virgo. As it came closer, the crew saw that the hull of the ship was not a smooth contiguous surface. Its surface was arrayed with spires and antennae, all seemingly reaching out from the ship. It soon dwarfed The Indigo Virgo and still it continued course.

“Skipper?” Tracy said nervously, her eyes affixed on the looming ship.

“Hold fast. We couldn’t outrun it at this point anyways.”

It passed over them and came to a halt. Along a section of its underside, a sliver of light emerged and began to widen. It continued to enlarge and the crew realized it was an opening hatch. The ship lowered, taking The Indigo Virgo aboard into a vast bay. The bay door closed beneath them and mechanical arms from overhead came down to securely clamp The Indigo Virgo into place.

“For a moment there I was almost expecting it to have artificial gravity,” Anton commented.

“Well,” said Anton’s father. “Shall we go meet our would-be savior?”

thumbnails

thumbnails...

Yoshi LV

acrylics on collage

The Swimmer Part 1 (draft)

     Anton Smith watched his father in his chair. His father was bent down with his elbows propped on his knees in concentration. Anton sat in the back of the ship’s command deck and out of the way of the rest of the crew. The lights were dim to save power. He knew they were in a jam, though not in so many words, Anton could pick up how anxious the crew was at the moment. He went through what he knew. His father was skipper to The Indigo Virgo, a private merchant vessel. Anton was currently along as a deck cadet to learn about commanding a trade ship, the family business. But there wasn’t much time for teaching about cargo capacity and trade routes now. Twenty minutes ago The Indigo Virgo had made a successful jump and was on stand down to bleed off excess heat from its drive. Fifteen minutes ago an alert was called. Radar had spotted a ship on an intercept course. From long-range photography they determined from its registry and silhouette that it was a known pirate vessel. Their options were to surrender, run, or try and fight the raiders off. His father gave the order to power the ship down to make them look like a derelict. The pirates, thinking they had found an easy mark, drove in towards them. Five minutes ago, at point-blank range The Indigo Virgo opened fire on the pirate vessel with its defensive guns, targeting weapons and cameras, hoping to blind and defang the pirates. The pirates returned fire before retreating. As for The Indigo Virgo, reports were finally coming in.

     “Damage report coming in, Skipper,” Chief Officer Tracy said from her seat. She was older than Anton, perhaps in her mid to late twenties, brown skinned and short haired.

     Anton’s father looked up from his seat. “Go ahead,” he said.

     “Jump drive is down. Seems that was the first thing they hit. Containers 4 and 6 are gone. We’ve got a smattering of structural damage and they knocked out two of our railguns.”

     Anton’s father pressed his lips in a thin line. “How long would it take to repair the jump drive?”

     “45 hours. Maybe less if we shoestring it.”

     “Tell the Chief to make it his top priority.” Tracy nodded and turned back to her station. As she did, Anton watched as his father’s shoulders slumped slightly.

     Anton got up from his seat and walked up next to his father. Anton nodded as his father looked up and they met eyes. In a low voice he asked, “Something wrong Skipper?”

     “I’ve watched the video feed as the pirate vessel limped away,” his father replied. “We scored some good hits, gave it a bloody nose. But nothing that was irreparable. Those pirates are going to be back. And likely on the inside of 45 hours.”

     Anton nodded. “Dad, why did you give the order to play possum with the pirates?”

     “It was the best chance we had. If we ran they would’ve pursued. Probably deploy drones if they had any and cut us up from long range. I thought if we hit them hard enough it would give us a chance to escape.” He sighed. “But they had to hit our jump drive.”

     Suddenly, Tracy’s called up from her station. “Radar contact skipper!”

     Anton’s father bolted up in his seat, they both looked at her in shock. “What? It’s way too soon!”

     “I don’t,” Tracy’s voice dropped off into silence before continuing, “I don’t think it’s the pirates.” She sent a video feed up to the monitors hanging from the ceiling of the command deck. A ship came into view, teardrop shaped. It was smoothly curved and a far cry from the boxy utilitarian designs of The Indigo Virgo and the pirate vessel. “It’s eight times larger than the pirate vessel. Ten times larger than us.”

     “I-I think I know what it is. If I’m right, there’s only one—” Anton’s father searched for the word, “one being aboard that whole thing. It’s a Swimmer.”

settings

Just an update: changed the html to be nice and fatty for all those art posts.

It's a Town!

Perspective Final.

Lego Shooter

A 3d model of my Lego Shooter

9.27.09

Character design for hero of Equatia. Took video of cousin walking with sword to animate later.


Upcoming SF4 tournament flier. Used motion of arms to make info box seem halfway natural. "Round II" is composite of thick marker lettering that I scanned.

Btw Eric--up my privilege to admin and get your sis to join.

Introduction

Welcome to 4 Things A Month. This is our communal effort to stay creative and active. Every week each of us promises to post a creative effort on our part. This blog is our bond. And whoever fails owes the rest of our group beer money (5 bucks in the jar). Our goal is onefold: to get our lazy asses up and to make something of ourselves. Be it with writing, art, or miscellaneous. The week starts Monday.

-ELK