Lightbox 2022

I'm back from Lightbox! 

And I only had three hours of sleep last night! (early flight) 

But at the risk of embarrassing myself, I thought I'd type something up before I get out of Pacific Time and back into Cozy Fall Tennessee time. Where to begin... 

Well, on this trip I called my first Lyft (surprisingly easier than I would have thought), had the best bubble tea in my life, and approached a particular art director with the careful grace of a crazed street urchin (should have probably warmed up my social skills first). I was able to talk to Cartoon Network when there wasn't a massive line (trust me, not easy), hear everyone's opinions on the Mario movie and Mario characters (@Marynia), and catch the Pasadena City Hall at golden hour. It was, by any summation, a good time.

Yet despite that, I've felt conflicted about writing this post for you. For one, Lightbox is the ultimate FOMO monger for animation people and that's the last thing I want to encourage. I also knew that to fully talk about my Lightbox experience, I'd have to venture into a potentially very braggy and privileged topic: that as of this month, I've been in "the industry" for a whole year. 

Wow. 

Not an artist in "the industry," but working in animation nonetheless. Through God's grace, my foot is bashing its way through the door. But since it's been a whole year, and since there's plenty of negatives to go with the positives, I think it's ok to talk about my experience so far. Reading over my old post from the first time I went to Lightbox (while a student), I'm struck by how nervous I was, but also how excited. I had made lists of the people who I wanted to talk to. I was desperate, but optimistic, getting tons of portfolio reviews that thrilled and discouraged and motivated me to do better. 

In contrast, I found Lightbox 2022 to be about as relaxing as a convention could be. I wasn't there to get a job, but just to talk with people. There wasn't a checklist or agenda, aside from cruising the convention floor and giving out Wingfeather merch. I ended up having so many warm and encouraging conversations that filled up my heart and made me much more excited to keep making art. Which was sorely needed, since it seems like the biggest curse that comes with actually working in animation is cynicism. 

After years of anticipation and rejection, a coveted studio position becomes just... your 9-to-5 (and frequently longer!) job. Especially in this current climate of surprise cancellations, quicker paces, and growing workloads, it's easy to forget how special it is to be there in the first place. Although I might have idolized the idea of an animation career as a student, I did have a certain amount of wonder, gratitude, and hunger that I'd like to recapture. If I'm already feeling this one year in... well, I better make some changes if I hope to stick around. 

That's where Lightbox comes in. Lightbox invites you to get excited. To see faces, not profiles. To walk through the hallowed halls of studio booths and wonder what they'll be making next. To become that fan again, sitting with your friend AJ in a Moon Girl and Devil Dinosaur panel, both of you getting chills while watching an animatic because the theme song is Just. That. Good. 

Ultimately, you realize that despite how terribly hard it is to get a job in animation, we're actually a pretty small community of weirdos who like a lot of the same stuff. 

And job or no, it's our responsibility to be kind, to make good works, and say what's true. THAT'S the way I want to approach Lightbox. And, like, life. Maybe things don't have to be so complicated, or conventions so stressful. Maybe we can just make stuff. And make friends. I'm grateful to have at least one Lightbox where I got to try this idea out. 

I'm also thankful for Wingfeather for sending me to Lightbox, and for giving me a job. I'm thankful for all the artists I got to meet, and for those who remembered me from the last LBX. I'm especially thankful for conversations with Bill and AJ, who encouraged me greatly in my design work. I feel closer than ever to doing something big. And I'm thankful for the cornerstone of the trip, all my Nashville friends who provided a friendly face in the crowd and who made every evening into a fun adventure. I was sad to leave Lightbox this year, but glad to know I won't have to leave you behind. 

And thanks to you, bloggerfolk, for going with me on this verbal journey and letting me sort all these feelings out in a rather public way :P I appreciate your readership, and I hope to see you in the next post.

peace!

-dh

Harvest

My houseplants are in a horrible state. The ginger has grown far beyond my wildest dreams and put up dozens of stalks and flowers, all of which are in some stage of browning. A pot which used to hold thyme sits empty like a memorial to the plant it bore last summer. I've even come close to dehydrating my succulents. Plants, surprisingly, won't sit still like they do on my interior design Pinterest board. They shed leaves, twist upward, get moldy, and do all sorts of other things which require your care and attention. Care and attention that I'm much more tempted to spend on making art (or hanging out with friends, if we're being totally honest.)

Because of this, I've learned that I'm not much of a gardener.

Which is kinda ironic, since for the past few months I've viewed my artistic work as another sort of "garden." In my morning drawing sessions I snip a few branches, pull a few weeds, pour on the water.  I "tend" to the story, checking back in on it, encouraging it this way and that, watching the slow accumulation of time and effort grow it into something bigger. Bearpuncher has been the first time I've invested major time into one project, and it's surprised me that as you sit with a project for longer, it becomes more of it's own... thing. Like a plant, it wants to move a certain way, budding outward from the choices you made earlier in the process. For example, Bearpuncher purposely ends in an ambiguous, happy/sad kind of way, but it always begged for some note of hope at the end. I'd heard this from friends, and as I watched the final cut I could feel its absence. At the storyboarding phase, I was confused on how to add hope back to the ending, but now with the film more mature it was easy to see how to do it. So I created one additional painting (now one of my favorites in the short), and the film grew in an organic and beautiful way. 

Speaking of Bearpuncher, and this extended gardening metaphor, it seems like the harvest is around the bend. Me and my friend Clay have 99.9% finished the final visuals, the actual artwork/animation has been done for weeks now, and the audio is currently being designed and placed. The merch(!) has been designed, and sent off for production. Last year's poster has been dusted off and greatly improved:

Ever made wary by this project's tendency to take 3 times longer than expected, I'm still bracing myself for delays, emergencies, etc. But I'm ALSO bracing myself for things to go ok and for this film to go out into the world SOON. For it to be seen by you! For the fruits of the labor (the lumpy, well-loved, Appalachian fruits) to actually be enjoyed by real people. It's Going To Be Cool.

But what comes after the comes after the harvest? For the smart farmer, the soil is left fallow - to rest, not growing anything, just recovering its strength. I'm wondering if I should let myself be fallow. When I was deep into making Bearpuncher, I dreamed about the post-Bearpuncher future when I would take few months off from drawing, travel some, and engage all the other hobbies I had de-prioritized. But after two years of doing this, I'm reluctant to put down the shovel. I like doing this. I like the fruits that come of being busy. I like seeing quantifiable progress, and an identifiable purpose for structuring my days. I'm good at doing, not so much at being. It's hard to stop without feeling a little bit guilty; it breaks my heart to say "not yet" to my next project. With a pivotal career moment approaching, shreds of art-school hopes and dreams still in limbo, and the state of the animation industry only getting worse, it seems riskier than ever to just REST. 

Or maybe, riskier than ever to trust. To trust that God sends rain on the busy and the un-busy. To trust that I can find success without kneeling to the idol of productivity. To trust that a life spent exploring, dabbling, and aimlessly wandering is a well spent one. I want to reinvent my artistic process, to care for my health, and to not answer "busy" when asked how I'm doing. But ultimately what I need most is to prune back the Miyazaki tendency to only feel purposeful and satisfied when putting effort into an artistic task. Our God loves the things we create, but he loves us more. 

I still think about Mako Fujimura's guiding question, "what do you want to make today?" But maybe in a fallow time I can realize again the dazzling breadth of possible answers. I think I'll try making apple cider bread, more time for prayer, and maybe start sowing the seeds of my next project. I don't think I'll be sowing any actual seeds though, since my East-facing apartment windows seem unsuitable for sustaining much plant life. 

Hope this piece finds you well and settling into autumnal coziness. I'm already feeling very nostalgic for old stop-motion movies and memories of past Novembers... and Bluey's gonna be in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade this year!??! So excited. 

Also I'm going to be at Lightbox again, like tomorrow??! My last experience at Lightbox was a high-excitement, high-stress time, but I'm hoping that this one can be more relaxing and fun. If you're there, let's do a big high five (and I'll slip you some Bearpuncher stuff ehehehehhehe)

see ya!

-dh

PS:

A song about the simple things, one of my recent favorites

The lovely art of Jestenia Southerland, for lineless art inspiration