Triage Triptych

Triage 1:

This is the first in the triptych.  I spent about an hour on his face and then barfed up the rest of the sketch–his head’s a little disporportionate right now and I need to give more serious thought to the angle of the picture (looking down about forty degrees), and to the angle of his body–it’s supposed to look like he’s forcing himself into that contortion, as opposed to like I don’t understand the constrictions of human anatomy.  Anyway, the background idea for this one right now is a series of rooftops at twilight (or maybe dawn) with clouds and birds flying, lots of railings and glass reflections.  We’ll see.  I’m not set on that idea yet.

Triage 2:

The second features two people.  And my gasmask fetish.  Anyway.  Need to fix up his pose a little bit, supposed to be high, tense shoulders and hands in back pockets, about a milimeter of space between his arm and hers.  She’s holding the end filter of the gasmask to her heart to help him breathe.  Need to also make his expression more tense and awkward and less stoned and exasperated-looking.  They’re standing against a chain-link fence with a “danger, biohazard area no trespassing” sight (behind her head), and some silhouetted pre-apocalyptic-esque industrial goodness beyond that.

Triage 3:

This photo is craptasmagorical.  Anyway.  Third and final, two people as one.  They’re in an embrace laying down in a field of plants, haven’t decided if they’re going to be dead grass/dirt/rocks, or lush green grass/moss/clover yet, but in back of their head will be a spurt of (not blood) bright flowers (most likely will be red).  They’re both holding guns to their mouths and holding the other’s hand over their gun–an indirect kiss.  So the flowers will be like their brains blown out behind their heads, but life, not death.  Rebirth.  Whateverhaveyou.  Which makes me think I want the rest of the shit they’re laying in to be more industrial wasteland (dirt, dead grass, shards of detritus, etc.) as opposed to a lush green field, but at the same time, that might be overdoing it a bit.  Having them surrounded by life, by verdant green, might make the flowers less awkwardly contrived, more subtle, or beautiful, or something.  Or not.

Little duality going on, gonna reflect that in the coloring (contrasting colors, shades, empty/filled space, night/day, industrial/pastoral, human/machine, etc.), but not pure duality; the third variable comes into play in each piece.  Sturdiness of the tripod.  Hence why it’s a triptych.  Also play on words with ”triage,” jaja.  I need to find a way to pun “triage” and ”felix culpa” together, but it ain’t coming to me right.  M.  This series is really asymetrical and therefore trying my patience a bit.  There is no real cohesion in the angles of the pictures from one to the next, which bugs me.  The first is kind of top down, the second is straight foreward, the third is totally top down but looks like straight foreward.  I guess that kind of works.  Not tightly symmetrical enough for me.  I think they’ll be placed one on top of the other or something, because the asymmetry of the canvas sizes/orientations bugs the crap out of me as well.  Anyway.

I had another idea for the last one, which I might do as well.  A completely symmetrical painting of two lovers with guns to their heads, similar, but their positions will be relfections of one another, and around the edges will be reflected paint, like a Rorshach inkblot kind of, actually, but will be people.  I’ll research if any inkblots suicidal people identify as something of that irk, or love, or.  Really psychedellic colors to, methinks.  Maybe it’ll be a ghostly forth picture in a triptych… because… that works…

A Fucking Ode to My Laptop

fucking hp laptop piece of shit
why don’t you fucking suck my dick
instead of fucking melting down
i’ll smash you on the fucking ground
i inked some fucking comic pages
all the details fucking took me ages
all i fucking want is to add the text
so i can fucking get on to the next
chapter where the fucking story
begins to be less fucking boring
but nay–instead you fucking die
ima fucking gouge out your eye

(after all, computers thave but one screen)

about comic

from under the bridge

Water is 1300 times heavier than air, and that atmospheric pressure (1 atmosphere for each ten meters down) really does some damage.   At 500 feet elevation on land, you couldn’t feel the difference.  But:

“At the same depth underwater, however, your veins would collapse and your lungs would compress to the approximate dimensions of a Coke can…  even at the average ocean depth of two and a half miles the pressure is equivalent to being squashed beneath a stack of fourteen loaded cement trucks.”

However:

“Because we are made largely of water ourselves, and water is ‘virtually incompressible’ the body remains at the same pressure as the surrounding water, and is not crushed at depth.”

It’s the gasses that fuck you up.  Or get you fucked up:

“For reasons that are still poorly understood, beneath depths of about a hundred feet nitrogen becomes a powerful intoxicant. Under its influence divers had been known to offer their air hoses to passing fish or decide to try and have a smoke break.  It also produced wild mood swings.”

Anyone down? Anyway, on a more poetic note:

“The proportions of these salts and minerals in our tissues is uncannily similar to seawater–we sweat and cry seawater.”

spectacle of death – guy jumping off bridge

water preview

This might be the last real post with full panel shots, because now I’m actually making viable progress on Water and will soon put it up online on it’s own site for real web-comic action. I’m just proud of the pages I finished yesterday, so Ima compile the first four in a nice little hand (almost enough nails for a hand)…

preview of first three pages and cover

* Need to finish the top panel of page one–the bridge is still just a barebones-sketch, and the crosshatching on the sky in the last panel is pure ass.

* Need to finish the bottom of page two (the dark street under the car… I copped out and just inked it all in, but there will be some sort of sidewalk/street action going down

* Need to change the dark dialogue-only panel top right on page three–don’t like the way it flows, so gonna add a pannel with the dialogue all intruding over it.

Looky decent?

water page 2

I have this feeling, like when you’re heating up some hookah coals on the stove and they’re glistening red at the edges but not yet lit, mere seconds away from bursting with tides and waves of quick-light sparks, that once I get these first few pages done, the rest of the comic is going to come easy as steaming quinoa (which, admittedly, took me far too many tries before I realized how fool-proof it really is–but what isn’t fool-proof once you know the process?). Something about beginning a project with ambitiously out-of-my-artistic-comfort-zone large panel-spanning scenery shots. In an inking style and drawing medium I’ve never really but dabbled in before. Something like that. It’s paying off–I’m learning and bettering my abilities, and I’m actually looking back on the work I’ve been doing with something other than disgust (like the past versions). The computer medium works quite well for me–I can zoom in as close as possible to get all my detailing done, and meticulously rework shadows and perspectives and faces and styles and drawings until they’re “good enough” without having to worry about fucking ripping or smudging the fucking paper. Seriously, what is that all about?

page two is almost done

That being said, I’m still not wholly down with the shading on the trees in the background of the second panel. I’m not satisfied with how it all looks yet, but I think that it’s decent enough to leave for now and continue on with. I’ll learn something later that’ll help me improve to something more aesthetically-pleasing, hopefully without destroying any semblance of continuity in the art-style.

Can’t wait to draw more people and less cars and San Francisco. Sorry material possessions, sorry world–people are really all that I care about. Luckily, this story from about page 6 onwards takes place in the dark under the fucking ocean; all Ima have to draw from there on out would be the twisting hallways of the station, and a million and a half jelly fish with a hit to give me carple-tunnel. Fun times ahead, mateys.

Tangentially, I just finally got to read Paul Pope’s Heavy Liquid, which had the strangest afterword on the creation of the story. Strange because of its uncanny resemblance to the creation of this story:

This summer, my two siblings and I drove from home-base Eugene, OR to Chicago(, IL, for all those Californians to whom the rest of the states is an nebulous cesspool of middle-American degenerates) to trade some old Jews a box-load of home-made pickles (curry, kimchi, dill and mustard) for a car-load of accordions. The last day was some insane attempt to make it from Green River, CO to Eugene in one go, and around that time, just after sunset when the glory is gone but the sky still has the facsimile of a rainbow blush around the corners of its mouth, traversing the barren, Nevada desert at 100mph, alone on the road, alone in the car (everyone else, asleep) and unable to find my brother’s iPod to even change the trajectory of the playlist, a certain, incredibly evocative CD came on: Tales of the Inexpressible by Shpongle. Something that someone ineffably-important to me gave me in sixth grade, that I’d listened to religiously throughout middle school and discarded until another ineffable figure in my life unearthed King Tut’s tomb anew senior year of high school under the context of psilocybin experimentation, something that I hadn’t really listened to since then.

The never-ending expanse of clay-red desert and looming rocky crags and darkening sky and awakening stars–already as many as you can see in the amphitheatre on campus, and counting–the beat of the guitars and pulsing of fractured breathing and moaning of Sphongle’s oraganic music…

I saw it, projected from the headlights of the car against the dark screen of road and rocks and earth and sky; each scene, each expression, each movement of the hand and the body and the lips, each scream for sanity and shudder at the deep, dark, unknown, all choreographed immaculately to the chreode of that album, amalgamating into two climaxes–one emotional, mental, spiritual, to the penultimate, sensual vocal track “Once Upon the Sea of Blissful Awareness” (hence the title of the painting a few posts back); one physical, tangible, “real” to the insane finale of the album “Around the World in a Tea Daze.” Everything played out right there, the focus of the lens, the panning of the camera, the angle of the shot, the post-production cross-processing of the film…

Only a graphic novel could, in my power, attempt to even paint that portrait, and even that would not satisfy. Full color, painted, like Ealdwood attempted–but no, it would always be two steps away from realism, never satisfied with itself because of its inherent inability to transcend the shackles of its medium and just fucking be a movie. No. It needed a style as evocative of the story as the medium would allow, something stark, bleak, yet verdant. Not until some time into fall quarter back at school did I discover India ink, brushes and wash, and not until now did I delve into the realm of computer tablets to discover what I feel is an appropriate style.

Inks will be incorporated later, as I wrote previously.

Anyway, this all boils down to the lame-sauce that is Paul Pope stealing the same muse as gave me my comic for his, down almost to the time and place of revelation.

Fucking A, is nothing original any more?

Fucking A(rt)…

Trivia Time–who said this nugget of knowledge:

“Art is either revolutionary, or plagiarism.”

comicing comicing comicing…

Working on it, man.  I’m more down with using the tablet for the comic now that it’s looking less “Flash” and more sketchy, yet still cleaner than the original ink version (seen here).  When this is done, it’ll look better than that version.  The top (bridge) panel is really key, and so far I’ve been too scared of lines to really draw it on the tablet.

getting a little better

There’s still mondo unfinished crap.  The lighter lines are the sketches, but the color differentiation is not quite as overt as it should be.  Basically, anything that looks like shit isn’t finished.  I mean, the shittier parts are unfinished.  Cos the whole thing is basically a pile.  Needs much work.  But I’m kinda growing fond of it…  looks better than the previous version, no?

comicing

So if I do the whole comic with my tablet, it takes a fuck of a lot less time.  Not sure if I’m completely down, though.  Something about doing it all by hand that just makes it feel so much more… real (really, though?).  But this way eliminates all the problems with consistency in color (i.e. black washes), bleeding and size/straight lines.   I do like the texture of brushed inks, though, so I foresee some pages being printed out and then hand-inked, re-scanned and fixed up on the computer (which will be a total mess)…  We’ll see.  Spring Break came and ate my time, but I’m back and hopefully going to be working more consistently on this project now.  Here’s the tester for the first page.  Not finished at all; the light lines are the sketch, incase that wasn’t clear enough.  I’m liking it, I think.  Maybe.  Ugh.  We’ll see.

tablet-done first page

fuck, though.  Anji’s psychotic/depressive narrative is really getting me in a funk.  Can’t wait till the more “positive” characters come into play so their difference will lend a new perspective onto Anji’s dyspepticism.  Which is not a word.  Anyway, yeah… don’t lose faith.  The whole story will not be this disgustingly drenched in angst.   Speaking of which, here’s an overview of the characters.  Somehow, their descriptions all made them sound like tortured souls, but I promise to not be that disgustingly cliche.  Just trying to get some thoughts down on “paper.”

character bios

I like how you can tell that I don’t give a flying fuck about Asher.  His character is still really rough and in need of much thought.  I want to like him, but right now I don’t.. . . .  . . .  .

Water – page 1 alterations

The sun sets in the sky, one smoldering coal of red and orange, a lonely comet with a sparkling tail of fire burning out to oblivion as it plummets deeper into the dark void, suffocating its ardency into a swirling plume of smoke, fractal replications in the house of mirrors.  An entire universe burns out into oblivion, deep vermillion suns swallowed whole and dancing about in the sea of digested juices, the dot of love (ek chutki sindur!) paling and washing away with the monsoon rain upon her forehead, dripping down her brow and across the planes of her cheeks in callous mockery of her selfish tears.  Head back upon the cool glass, glow from the lights illuminate your neck and your back and your chest without the sun’s gift of warmth and life.  It doesn’t even matter if your eyes are open, but are they?  Open those flood-gates once more just in case, but even with the levies broken and the city flooded it all looks the same: darkness.
“I just wish the first dive wasn’t us,” that same wretched voice, ex-killbot, it must be–somethings pierce even the darkest black with their pitch, “that quake yesterday could have done some damage, luckily it was inland.  If controls go out when we’re out there…”
“Better out there than stuck in here!” she replies, but she is completely obscured–or are your eyes just closed?
“–so you could drown slowly all alone?”
“…”

Page nine (I think?)

—

I’ve gotten over my moral dillemma of whether or not to add narration, arriving at the conclusion that it is direly necessary for the coherence and potency of the story.  Will redo all previous pages.

Blissful Awarness – Update 3

Shitty photo of face progress...

“It’s just another Sunday, in a quiet old street…“–words cry out from an open metal maw, reverberating through the labyrinth of wires and girders of the bridge’s cochlea, bass-ear drum pounds up up and away to the blue caress of home’s familiarity.  No traffic, no clouds, no job, nothing but the promise of nothing–”Police have got the choke-hold, and we’ve just lost the–“
“–change the song and knock on wood, man.”
“If you’re going to San Francisco…“
“Cute, man.  Sentimental bullshit is the only thing I love more than hidden religious metaphors in colloquial sp–”
“Purely accidental, just listen to that great guitar riff.”
“…be sure to wear some flowers in your hair…”
“Bull-shit.”
“…you’re sure to meet some gentle people there…”
“Man, Kiddo, just shut the fuck up or I’ll dump your skinny ass out there for all those gentle fucking hippies to deal with.”
“Scared shitless.”
“And then sell this mo’fucking piece of shit for a QP.”
“Fuck.  Too far, man, you know this ride almost kept me grounded in this fucking hole.  Just shut up and keep driving–I’m trying to groove to this great guitar riff.”
“Sir, yes Sir–Fuck you think I am, Kid?  Your chauffer?  My car, my rules, brah.”
“Car’s yours the second I get out, no fucking sooner, Monsieur Chauffer, so just shut the fuck up or–”
“–your skinny ass’ll deck me?  Try it, Kid.”
Bump over the hill, skid around the corner, jerk at the light, zoom down the Embarcadero–neat little lines of palms down the median strangled by their own consistency, like the lines of blinds that out of the corner of your eye start to move and blur in some feeble attempt put on by your rods and cones to make the traffic blockage more interesting than just roadwork.  Palm, space, palm, space, palm, space, giraffe with banana-left-in-the-sun-on-the-counter neck reaching up to eat the nutritionally deficient leaves of mindless stagnancy of its dendroid mirror image, space, palm, space, universe, galaxy, planet, sun.  The sun is bright, too fucking bright overhead, to the right reflected in the glass walls of the city, to the left reflected in the glass wall of the sea.  Screech, stop.
“Get the fuck out.”
“No good-bye kiss?”
Engine revved, police dogs turn on their trainer right when set free at graduation, finally off their leash.  Everything you own, driving away down the line of traffic, too suddenly becoming indistinguishable from the herd of alienated possessions and stories and lives.  Everything but one bag, a duffle with those few noble standbys–toothbrush, notebook… there’s got to be something else.  What else did you pack last night?  Last night–a blur; last week–a blur; last four fucking years–all just a complete and utter floor-to-ceiling frosted glass window fogged up from too much heavy breathing, looking out at foggy nothingness blur.  Bag full of bags to deepen the bags under your eyes.  Hands getting a little sweaty, gripping the canvas handle, fingers shift, thumb over pointer, pointer over thumb, and flex, flex, now switch hands.  No, it’s the texture, the miniscule bumps of weave wearing heavily on palms, folded fabric punching skin–gotta be the texture.  Little bureaucrats queued up in the harbor atop the perpetual chaos of the undulating waves, reflecting and refracting that blinding sun ephemerally at myriad angles.  The metal railing wears less on tired hands, smooth and cold and tannic on your lips, you can taste it: blood–shit, bit your lip.  Thinking too hard, too much again–all that brain function alloted to body awareness funneled down your throat, cotton balls in your esophagus stifling your every breath and filtering your every word.  Exhale and choke, cough on all that gunk up in there, but that golden bridge stands tall and numb against the sickly soliloquy of the needy.  Nostrils flare with instinctual hunger, swallow that fuzzy sweater feeling.
“I’m not sure if I’m gonna fucking miss you or not.  City.  Bridge,”  mumbled out from across the railing to that monolith of modern connection.  “Home, where the heart is.  Right.  Not gonna miss this hole one bit.  Peace, Bay.”

Really dark bad photo of progress--look at the jelly sketches!

Blissful Awareness – update3

I had some time to kill before the city poetry slam (which rocked) last night, so I sat down and did some work on this painting.  Yay for blowing almost twenty bucks on new paint; I much prefer the way that digital painting costs me absolutely no money, except for the ridiculous fifty to get a print done.   But now I have some blue and black paint, so I can create that dark ambiance necessary for this painting/project/comic.  In that vein, I’m also considering writing out the comic as a script first, before continuing to draw it, because I noticed the pacing of the story is getting a little out of whack.  My brain almost works well enough to not have to write it first, but I know (from prior comicing experience) that it’ll turn out much better (and be a lot easier) if I have a script first.  Especially the dialogue.

some new shading on my painting

His face looks like fuck.  Bad fuck.  But I haven’t really worked on it at all.  The perspective looks a little shitty because this photo was taken on my phone from me standing up, looking down at the canvas propped up against a wall (the photo also cropps of the top few feet of canvas, so don’t be fooled).  That is also just an excuse for bad painting.  However.  The blue backlight is coming from the aquarium (what, you mean you can’t tell that weird shit in back of him is water with jellyfish in it?), and will be a lot more pronounced once the aquarium gets, you know, painted.  I’m debating how/where/if i’m going to put Arienette in this painting.  I want her back reflected in the aquarium, but I’m not sure if my skill allows for that.  Need to stare at reflective objects.  Need to not smoke cigarettes.