It's been one week of pretend school, and I'm already loosing my wawvj db mind.
Those aren't words, they're just key-pressing.
The irony, that creative school pulls me away from creative work is not lost on me. I barely know what the course is like yet, because this first week we've just been having info and playing a few illustrative games. It still leaves me tired and wanting to relax when I get home, not immediately get back to work on ZnZ, not to mention all the other practices I want to get into. I had a nightmare the other day where five dogs were dying and in order to keep an eye on them while trying to get them help I was going to try tying them up but as soon as I turned my back to get the leashes they'd all run away. Dream interpretation and subconsciousness telling us things through our dreams is not a trust-worthy science, but it does sum up the way I feel about it. We're having a three day journey to museums and sculpture parks tomorrow! I don't need that shit!
I will try a new approach to it - relax while at school and just do what I'm told to do without trying to squeeze my own work into it, and then be up to it when I get home again. See if that helps. I don't think it will though and to be honest I don't think this is a problem. It's the first layer of difficulty I've had, and it's something I need to overcome. I've been thrown another weight on my bench press, and it's hard and I want to start crying when I think about it, but I'm going to embrace the pain. I've been paining myself with work all of summer, if I can retain enough energy and motivation I should be able to make it work. As for the journey I'll bring the ZnZ work with me in my little art bag and write on my laptop. It'll be good training for when I have a job and will need to do all my creative work this way. Further on I need to retain focus on the sweet rewards of accomplishing all I set out for.
The dream did end with my fetching a bucket of food and they all willingly came back to me. Then I woke up.
It has been a good long while since I actually applied any of my know-how. I think it's been something like three weeks since my last drawing that was not ZnZ work, and I miss that. I know whatever I do I need to start working on drawings or paintings outside of ZnZ, and pull my thumb out of my ass about the ones I am working on. You may be interested to know I am making tentative steps in Photoshop, working on the latest one. It's an interesting experience but I miss brushes and oil paint or watercolours. Still, I am intrigued by the possibilities it presents. I'm being ambitious, but at the very least I could recreate the colour scheme from the movie, closely enough. I am still on area colour and cell-shading though. What I do know is if I am still working on that one thing by next week I will put it aside. I can't keep spilling time on something I need to think about for every line I draw.
That would not work, much as I liked the expressions.
Needed to redesign them.
Lots of redesign them. May have lead to trying to learn how to draw them free-handedly and forgetting why I was doing it. I think it was good
for me though and need to do it more.
Will look much better by next week I think. Especially Erik's eyes.
As for the story, I know I said I was going to focus on Erik, because I'd given too much focus to Katrina, but I found myself inspired by suddenly realising I'd lost much of my base for Katrina and needed to remind myself of what she was, and after spending thirty minutes writing down my growing up I was struck with inspiration and capitalised on it. So this is a brief draft of a quick glance into Katrina's past. I hope you like it.
There is something proud in a righteous living. Interwoven with its threads that carry nostalgia, playing hide and seek beneath its beautiful patterns of good behaviour and fulfilled duty. It's the pride of accomplishment and success, and good moral conduct. Civil General Pius Spinnings was not a thinking man but he still knew this was true. He'd experienced the satisfation of maintaining a just living and it was as true as the quench of water or the warmth of a fire.
He dressed his offices to reflect it, with walls covered by cared for wooden book shelves that still had shine through a hundred years of history, bearing leather-bound paper books on subjects such as empathy towards those without means, the purpose of civilisation to care for and improve lives in society, the establishment of farming in Mesopotamia, hygiene and risk reduction in the face of epidemic, the rights and duties of citizens living under martial law, ethical triage for the survival of the majority, religious texts, the folk tales of Jacob and Willhelm Grimm, the forgotten lives of everymen through-out the ages, and conservative collections of poetry and stories that spoke of a milder, less complicated time he hoped would come again some day.
Green walls looked inside the room between the bulging testaments to the worth of a human being, like inverted pillars to uphold it's romantic construction. On them hung recognitions of the man's service and good character. Black opal picture frames set beneath shaded light fixtures boasted about his fine work as an administrator of civilian relief aid and care. A diploma for domestic allegiance in the face of danger, recognition for diplomatic actions to protect innocents against bandit insurgents. There was a photograph of the portly greying man next to a bandaged man in a gurney he was feeding supplements, a capture of the time he had been in the voluntary relief corps. Another was the opening ceremony of a state-run orphanage, school and food preparatory he had instigated to give the children a real chance to build a future that was not hopeless, to teach them the value of compassion and show them how a good society really worked.
Pious Spinnings would often let his eyes rest on these old memories of worthwhile triumphs and good virtues when he was unsure about his present. In this moment he was inspecting the image of a family of four. Between himself, his wife and first daughter, his interest was turned to the image of a young girl with long, curling blonde hair, dressed in his old brown military trench coat. It was twice as long as she was and hung from her shoulders like a bathrobe, and she was smiling like exploring the huge mantle-like cloth was a great big adventure in itself. He could remember her running on the sofa, jumping on the floor and take another sprint from the couch, trying to take off and fly. She was laughing so much and then she'd crawl up into his lap and fall asleep as he told the stories of the tiger mouse and the cat who loved a blanket before dinner. She was barely five back then and he could will himself to tearing up when he looked into her eyes and it seemed to him like he was looking up into a whole universe, full of adventures and innocence he could only remember from his own youth. There was something beautiful, where nothing wasn't allowed and bad things were nowhere to be seen.
He looked on the young girl to remember the days when she would still tell him about how her day had been, and when she'd come knocking on his door with tears in her eyes in the middle of the night and crawl up next to him for comfort when she'd had a nightmare.