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

A Merrie Yuletide to You All

the north pole air control!

Hello Bloggerfolk! And a Merry Christmastide to you!

Although it pains me to have missed the hallowed, two-years-strong tradition of a post precisely on Christmas Eve night, I have my reasons... For one, this year's Christmas illustration wasn't ready until 1 AM Christmas Day, despite sneaking in some drawing during every holiday movie marathon. But sometimes you just got to risk Santa's wrath if it gives you extra time to trial-and-error your way through adding highlights (curse you material rendering!!!!) Additionally, I always struggle to find the right balance of pleasant work (this blog, the above illustration, Bearpuncher) and the decidedly non-work (spending time with family, looking at sunsets, The Office reruns) while on breaks. And this year, I have struck out a little more on the non-work side. 

But excuses aside, Merry Christmas! For this year's illustration I bring you Ivan and Holly, two (mostly) tireless workers at the North Pole Air Control. Since they do work at the Christmas HQ, I dabbled in some self-indulgent research of vintage outfits and a warm Christmas palette - (have you guys ever realized HOW GOOD Christmas colors are? if you doubt me, watch Robin Robin.)

Oh, and while you're here... I thought this might be a good time to talk a little about process, particularly the sketching phase! One of my favorite Twitter trends from earlier this year was the #sketchvsfinal, where people would post an artsy "before and after" - first sketch alongside the finished images. While some sketches were suspiciously excellent, many looked like mine, which is to say, unimpressive. Here's what mine look like:

When I drew this, I had just gotten the idea and was trying to record it before it left my head. There's no detail, and only the loosest indications of anatomy or perspective. Heck, he doesn't even have a left arm! But what is beginning to appear is shape and force (the energy "flow" of the drawing). Those are usually the two most exciting parts of the image for me, and I'm willing to bend anything else to suit those factors. Shape and force are how I show the emotion of the character, and the appeal of the drawing itself. It may be different for you, but that's where I personally like to start! For this character, I knew he would be a burned-out, over-tired, call-center kind of guy, so he'd be defined by a big slouch and in a very casual pose.

Once I had this basic idea on the page, the rest of the process becomes sculpting that sketch into something that makes better sense anatomically, has more specific details, and more thoughtfully exaggerated shapes. Justin Oaksford talks about in this tweet the importance of redrawing and refining on top of your sketch, and I totally agree! Although I sometimes get impatient and just do it all on one layer. But for me, drawing is mostly a long process of pushing around the rough, uncarved "clay" of the initial sketch, finding opportunities to make it better through multiple small revisions. This keeps it from feeling overwhelming or that you have to nail it on the first try. (Which most artists CANNOT do! Which is a relief to all of us.) 

Go go draw boldly! And gently! And enjoy the "excess of Chronos" that is this strange, sluggish, reflective week between now and New Year's. I hope you may find friends, family, and/or eggnog close at hand.

merrily yours,

dh

Recommendations:

Nicola Saviori made this incredible reindeer drawing that inspired me to create mine (though his is much less of a desk-jockey)

The song of this Christmas season for me has been the classic version of It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year, I think due to the way it was expertly cut into the Hawkeye trailer (also a good show btw!)

Small Details Intimately Observed

“If a writer stops observing he is finished. Experience is communicated by small details intimately observed.” - Ernest Hemingway

I take a ton of photos on my phone. But if you ever scroll through my photo reel, you’ll find an odd assortment of items and locations: screenshots of internet finds, interiors of historic buildings, exteriors of abandoned buildings (for I am afraid to go in), plenty of flowers and leaves, and lots and LOTS of clouds. Most of these pictures were taken with the hope of circling back to draw them someday, or reference in a future project. This rarely happens, as there’s a decent chance the photo will get lost in my unsorted archive and an even better chance that I’ll just be too busy to bother looking. But recently, I did draw one, and it made a world of difference.

this is that photo

This month’s Character Design Challenge prompt was “Mushroom Fighter,” which even if the idea wasn’t already exciting enough (it was), I ALSO had the perfect mushroom to use. I had snapped a picture of it while looking for birds at Radnor Lake, and this mushroom was the best thing I found that day. Something about the shapes, the chunky volumes, the way it softly exploded out from the tree just captivated my attention. This seemed like the perfect raw material to shape a design from. Immediately I saw this beautiful mushroom as the beard of a jovial, Bacchus-like dwarf. The rest of the design wasn’t really that important - I kept it all fairly simple so that I could better deliver on the recreation of the beautiful mushroom I had seen that day.

mushroom man

After posting the piece, I was surprised (pleasantly) by a Facebook comment that congratulated me for “finding a way not to make the mushroom the top of his head.” Yet despite the overwhelming abundance of mushroom-topped fighters in this month’s contest, I never saw this as a problem to be solved. Instead I was just following what experience had given me, and it ended up producing a different result.

A lot of the time, we design for - we have a visual problem to be solved, so we thumbnail, fail a bunch, and find reference to fill this void. Yet my mushroom experiment showed the surprising richness of designing FROM - taking something known and loved and exaggerating it into something new. While this kind of design is inherently more spontaneous, it feels like a quicker way to a successful result. Real Life has already done most of the work, so as artists all we need to do is add perhaps a couple more ingredients and some packaging.

Why does this work? That Hemingway quote from four paragraphs ago has the answers. Art is about communicating experiences, most effectively done by “small details intimately observed.” I think as artists, it’s easy to get so caught up in trying to impress people that we forget that art is about communicating something real. We can also fixate on originality, not realizing that we have troves of unique observations ready to be developed further. The most widely appealing part of any artistic work is the reality at its heart. After years of drawing for a portfolio, I think I’m finally realizing that a successful drawing is that which communicates a specific idea well, no matter whether it’s loose or tight, colored or 2-tone. It’s about making drawings that tell the truth (to borrow from a favorite C.S. Lewis quote). 

Currently I have painted 1 out of the 2,000+ photos in my phone. But I hope that at least some of these “small details intimately observed” will help me plant experience at the heart of my future stories.


One more Hemingway to close us out:

"I never had to choose a subject — my subject rather chose me."

-dh

Music Reccomendation:

While editing a spot for my voice over class this semester (which features my halfway-decent Fox McCloud impression) I found this amazing orchestration of some of the best themes from Star Fox 64. I've never played the game, but the end credits theme that begins around 3:55 is just incredible. ESPECIALLY the motif that's first heard at 4:45 - if my life had a theme, I think I would want that to be it.

Richard Williams' First Lesson - An Essay

For years, Richard Williams' Animator’s Survival Kit has been the most popular reference for animators of all skill levels. Yet amongst all the charts and principles it's easy to overlook its first (and perhaps most controversial) lesson. In it, Williams recounts a particularly memorable interaction he had with the Disney star animator Milt Kahl. Williams approached the animator at his desk and asked a simple question: “Milt, do you ever listen to classical music as you’re working?” This query prompts an oversized response from Kahl, who swings from an enraged arrogance into a subtly humble “I’m not SMART enough to think of more than one thing at a time!!” In other words, “no.” If Milt Kahl, one of the greatest animators in history, was unable to listen to music while he worked, could any of the rest of us expect to accomplish this feat? Williams takes this lesson to heart, and is later shown sitting at his desk with a embroidered jacket reading “Animation is Concentration.”

animation of williams' drawings from the book

However, most artists I know don’t take this advice so readily, one such artist being myself. Whenever I’m drawing, I usually have something playing in the background: news and comedy podcasts, video game soundtracks, funk and 80s pop. I’ve heard of several Disney artists even playing TV episodes on a second monitor as they paint. If Kahl thought classical music was distracting, he would be blown away by the type of content we regularly listen to while drawing. And on some level, the music is helpful. For me, music while drawing serves the same purpose as music while running - it keeps me going when I’d otherwise slow down. When I’m scared to begin a sketch, I’ll put on something really fast to build up my courage. While I’m slogging through rendering in the 9th hour of working on a piece, it helps to have a podcast providing something else to think about. I’m still able to focus on the drawing, and if anything, it helps me to draw for longer amounts of time.

However, as I started recording my time usage during an at-home workday, I quickly realized I was lucky to get in 2 hours of actual work a day. Some of this was due to starting late and other factors, but one major cause was the time spent queuing up the next song or podcast. And since I listen to a lot of music on YouTube, I’d also get distracted by queuing up regular videos which would totally stop my productivity. As a result of these findings and a greater desire for effective work times, I gave up multitasking, and with it, listening to music while I draw (in most circumstances).

Kahl really was right when he implied that you think differently while drawing with music. Music, and especially podcasts, aren’t just background noise but demand some amount of my conscious attention. Attention that is being taken away from my art-making. Animation in particular requires a lot of thought and I can really feel the difference when I’m not also thinking about the music. My thoughts are oriented in one direction towards one goal, and I think the art is better for it. At the very least, I’m investing all the time that I would be spending queuing music towards working on the art, which prevents further distractions from popping up. Sometimes I do get tired from drawing without music, but I’m able to pack more work into a shorter time which ends up being more satisfying.

Some tasks can still be done fine with music. If I’m in a good mood while cleaning up animation, it’s fun to sing along with a favorite song (or perhaps a sea shanty) as I go. But I do realize now that music does demand an amount of attention that I may not have to spare while doing creative work. And it’s often an easy way to procrastinate even while I’m “working.” In those cases, it’s best to admit that I’m not smart enough, unplug, and put the all the attention where it needs to go.

What’s been your experience working with/without music? I find that every artist has a different take on it and some are more affected than others. I’d be interested to hear what works for you!

much love,

-dh

Specificity

great blue heron

Over the past year I've noticed a certain theme emerge in all the art advice I've been given. It's been hinted at by story artists, visdev painters, and recruiters. But I've never heard it talked about at art school, or any formal setting. It's incredibly central to storytelling, and something you can start using right now. You've read the title, so you know what it is, but for the sake of making this a tidy little essay I'll say it again: specificity! Be specific in your art!

I found it really strange that I kept hearing hints of this over and over from all kinds of different people. I first heard it during a Zoom presentation where Michael Herrera was discussing his path to Disney. He kept getting rejected over and over, but it was only when he relaxed, and drew stories that were personal and specific to his interests that he got accepted. While giving advice on what made good storyboards he kept repeating the importance of being specific over and over. Make sure the acting beats aren't generic symbols for an emotion, but the way this specific character would express their feelings through gestures and body language.

I also picked up threads of specificity in my study (and thorough enjoyment) of Ludo Studio's Bluey and Cartoon Saloon's Wolfwalkers. Both of these stories are deeply rooted in the locations the studios call home, both of which are places we typically don't seen in animation. Bluey is washed in the sunny palettes of Brisbane, with the characters often traveling to real places you can visit (which fans have since tracked). Cartoon Saloon has built the success of their entire studio on a willingness to be specific to the mythology and artwork of the Irish countryside, and in Wolfwalkers, characters walk along the same cobblestone streets that the animators themselves take to work. It saddens me (for more than a few reasons) that the entertainment industry is so centralized in only a few cities because we're likely missing out on so many unique locations for stories. Just think how many stories are set in California or LA simply because that's where the studios are! 

It's easy to see this advice as simply "write what you know" or "be yourself." But "be specific" encompasses so much more. For example - consider a period piece. I'm pretty sure Tracy Butler (creator of Lackadaisy) didn't grow up in the 1920s, but careful research and a uncommon (but specific!) choice to set the story in St. Louis rather than a northeastern city created a specific and memorable story. Of course, it's easier to add specificity to a project by including something that you are familiar with (Tracy did move to St. Louis prior to writing Lackadaisy.) But specificity has more to do with a willingness to ask questions than a previous knowledge of the answers. 

That's how you add specificity to your art - asking questions along the way. Everything starts out generic, but by adding thought and care, we can sculpt something specific out of it. Say you're drawing a pirate. You could just include the visual hallmarks: parrot, vaguely 1700s fashion, eyepatch, sword. This is generic and has been seen dozens of times before - but what if we began asking questions? What sea does he sail upon? Where is he from? How often do his raids succeed or fail? Is he concerned with impressing people? Or terrifying them? Actors are encouraged to ask these kind of questions all the time, yet visual artists commonly are not. If you can use your own experiences and observations to provide some of these answers, all the better.  For example, I'd probably gravitate towards a pirate story based on the Carolina coast, since I'm familiar with the area and could bring even more specificity to the setting and attitude. 

I also may find that I'm simply unequipped to tell certain kinds of stories. For example, I'd love to make a story set in the Australian outback, but since I've never been there, I will struggle to create something that doesn't feel like a generalized version of the culture and setting. I could do a ton of research, but I'm fighting against the grain here. Many of my favorite stories are made about the places and people that their creators already know and care about. They may be draped in a level of fantasy and unreality, but the direction of that fantasy, and the heart of the characters, will be something taken from real experience. David Petersen's Mouse Guard may seem like another forest-animal-medieval-fantasy, but it's specific because the main cast are based on his college friends. Not saying that you can't make stories about things you don't already know, but it will take much more work to be specific and honest to those subjects. 

If specificity so so tough, why bother? Well, the practical reason is that specificity implies story. Say you're drawing a kitchen counter in your scene. Even adding something as simple as dirty coffee mugs left about implies multiple past events and something about the person who used them. Being specific allows you to cram in as much story as possible into your project, which as a storyteller, is kinda a big deal. 

But even bigger on the scale of Big Deals is that it allows you to cover your story in love. And since that sounds heckin' cheesy, I'll back up and explain. If we're honest with ourselves, we won't make the time to do the research to be specific about something we don't already know and/or love. So if we have the ability to be specific about something, it's probably because we've noticed it, appreciated it, and on some level understood it. In other words, we love it. And when we're faithfully incarnating that thing/person/place in our stories, perhaps even exaggerating it for a clearer message, we're inviting the viewer to step into the story and love that thing too. We all have different loves, and the world will be a poorer place if we don't share the unique bits of beauty we see with people who may otherwise pass them by. And this applies to everyone - writers, nurses, waiters all. Our life experiences have given us the skills to see beauty in things others cannot, and I think it would be pretty cool if we shared those specific experiences with others. As a Christian, I'd say we all have a unique way to express God's love for the world, that happens to be mirrored in our own little collections of loves. I love Carolina summers, Nashville afternoons, and mice with swords because God loved them first.  

So perhaps being specific isn't about drawing what you know, but drawing what you love. 

Let's make those kind of drawings. Those kind of shows. Those kind of conversations. And make the world more like a stained glass mosaic of all the little bits of light we see. 

Grateful for your readership and your amazing-ness-ship -

Much love on this Valentines Day :)

-dh

PS:

I will not let myself sink to the academic level of adding a Works Cited section to a Roost post but here's another article on a similar subject that helped me find the thesis of this essay. It would be unfair to not include it, or miss another possible reference to the Happy Rock ;)

Events Concerning a Horse, a Pig, and Near-Total Lack of Self-Confidence

 Hi all! 

I have been putting off this post for much too long, but as I don't want to be talking about January's news in February, I figured it was time to type a little something up. Even if it ends up being on the shorter side. (Edit: It doesn't.)

I want to talk about this sucker of an image.

his name is CheckMate

He's my entry for December's CDC. You may have seen this image on my Instagram, where it actually became one of my more popular posts, and was even featured by the Challenge on their Insta (which hasn't happened since June). For all intents and purposes, this is a good piece of art, and one of my more recognized pieces. 

Yet this piece really did a number on me.

For starters, the theme for December's CDC was "Robot Arena Deathmatch," which was about as far from my usual subject matter as possible. But I resolved to stick it out, combed through a ton of reference, and even came up with a concept that I was excited to draw - a semi-haunted, goofily-proportioned chess knight robot. I also was planning on returning to a more dimensionally rendered style a la Nicholas Kole. It's a style I used to work in a bunch, and one I used in some of my earlier CDC entries. 

Yet when I reached the rendering stage, everything just kind of fell apart. I struggled to figure out where to place shadows. I couldn't figure out how to add tight details without using linework. A technique that I thought I had a handle on now seemed impossible to grasp, and what seemed to be a routine character design now promised to be a battle to the end. So I tried to adjust, adding back in some lineart to clarify the image a bit, but the shadows still felt wrong. After messing with the design a bit, and showing it to my Discord art group, I realized I had a choice. I could struggle to stay the course, ditching the linework and really trying to figure out the shadows, or I could retreat into a comfortable style of stylized, angular shadows. 

As you can see, I decided to go for the easier route. I just couldn't figure out how to make accurate shadows, and I wasn't having any fun with the image trying to do so. It just seemed to make more sense to do something I knew would work, even if it meant abandoning my grander original plans. And although I finished the image and made something satisfactory, I still felt defeated, and even ashamed since I opted for the easy way rather than striving for something tough and new. As a result of making this image I lost a ton of confidence in my ability to draw. I worried if I had hit a wall, or if I could even make a good drawing again.

gross early attempt at less angular shadows

Of course, these negative self-thoughts were not true. But I figured I would share them with you in case you are feeling (or have felt) something similar. I think this kind of self-doubt is something many artists feel, even if we don't talk about it openly. I for one fear that I'm getting worse at art, or that my next project won't be any better than my previous one, or I just can't make anything good in general. And after making this particular character design I felt those fears very acutely. I was almost afraid to see what would come out of my pencil the next time I started drawing. 

If you're feeling this way I've got two tools that often help me out of such a place. First, I'll look back at my library of work. Usually there's something in there I'm proud of. I'll look at that piece(s) as proof that I can make good things, and that I'm not a failure as an artist. I may have made a particular piece that felt like a failure, but the journey that I'm on is not a failure and has been in fact full of breakthroughs and good art. 

Or (as in the case of this particular bout of art-doubt), I'll make a new piece simply to prove to myself that I still got it in me. I had been reading The Chronicles of Prydain over Christmas break and wanted to do my own version of the the pig Hen Wen. I was afraid to start, but I knew I had to make something to remind myself that I was still a good artist, and that my work was not done. So to rid myself of doubt I drew a pig. And unlike the horse, I was really pleased with the result. The shapes felt strong. The lines looked good. And I felt like I could do (and had done) good art again. 

hen wen, pig of the future

This piece did not do as well on Instagram, but it really doesn't matter. Its primary purpose was to be an encouragement and ebenezer (stone of remembrance) for a time when I thought I didn't have it in me anymore. Art is a struggle, but God is faithful. And here on the Roost I want to be candid about that. It's a fact disguised by social media, which perhaps isn't really the best place to discuss it anyways. But as they say, the struggle is real. I've been rewatching this four-part documentary on Miyazaki which is a timely reminder that even geniuses like him can feel despondent, wracked by frustration and doubt. He says "I can feel it every day, the limit of my ability," which is just how I feel while working on my thesis film. Sure, he's talking about the limits of his 70-year-old physical ability, but as a new artist I feel my limits of my artistic ability - particularly in animation, drawing on model, and rendering. Part of the frustration/joy of pursuing an art is that there's always more to learn and improve. Which means that if you're honestly seeking to grow, you may often find yourself bumping up against your limits. I've definitely been encountering my own recently, and I'm hoping for that breakthrough moment when I can move beyond them into something better. But for now, all we can do is show up each day ready to work, and ready to fight. 

Into the breach!

-dh

Music Recommendation: I've been listening to Think About You a bunch recently - it's perfect for biking across campus, thinking about that special someone, or any other time you're feeling really happy.

Art Fear - and conversely, Art Courage

Hi all! 

I've been away for a while working on art and reflecting upon world events - it's no short order to say that a lot has happened since my last post! I've been trying to do my due diligence and educate myself as much as possible - but in the meantime, I hope you feel welcome at the Roost, no matter who you are! I want to do my very best to show love to all y'all with my words and art, but if/when I make mistakes, whether here or on Insta, send me an email and let's talk about it! Although I have been cooking up a longer post that gets deeper into art philosophy and/or the state of the world, while I was drawing yesterday I encountered something that I thought would make for a good little post on a topic that's important to me: art fear.

I'm scared pretty much every time I set out to do a new piece. As an artist, I always have a platonic ideal of the artwork I'm about to begin in my head and the entire process seems to be an attempt to not fumble that sportsball. Are the shapes as pushed as they could be? Is this pose as dynamic as possible? Is that line in the just right spot? Working digitally with nearly unlimited edit-ability helps me get closer to that image in my head, but it also fuels these tendencies because few marks are truly definite. For me, drawing frequently becomes an attempt to not mess up, rather than a joyful and haphazard exploration. I imagine that as I get better at drawing and I can nail the right lines more intuitively then I will be able to draw like that, but right now I almost feel like I'm working damage control or handling a very fragile art package through the art process. And with the pressure to make something "post-able" by the end, I'm even more cautious knowing that my art will be subject to the (brief, though important) scrutiny of what could be hundreds of people. 

I also find fascinating that a person's identity is often reflected in this part of their art making process. My friends who are typically less methodical and more spontaneous in life tend to go free-wheelin'-cowboy style when it comes to slinging paint. I'm a much more routine-oriented and obsessive-compulsive person, so I tend to like coloring inside the lines, a careful placement of elements, and rigorous double-checking throughout the process. Sometimes, this approach leads to carefully constructed pieces with high attention to detail, but sometimes it just leads to something that feels insincere, or even fearful. 

As such, I'm fascinated by artists whose work leans heavily to the spontaneous side - work that's based on gesture, almost unfinished at times. Work that exudes confidence even if it doesn't always stick the landing. Art that takes risks - for better or worse. James Woods is a good example - his lines are as loose as silk BUT (and this is a big one) there are very few of them. Usually you'll see loose lines in packs (evidence of the artist searching for the form) but James defines his characters with apparent quickness and boldness. This level of confidence takes practice, but almost on an equal level, guts. 

james woods

Louie Zong makes art that's at times uber simple and childlike - yet it still looks good. Louie's draftsmanship is pretty rudimentary, but his use of texture and color elevates what at first glance could seem simple, or even wrong. 

you knew i would use the wind in the willows piece, didn't you?

And I spent the better part of yesterday pouring over Anastasiia Platoshyna's art - which although most of her work is filled with meticulous patterns, she does have the guts to post something like this:

You can see that it's shot through with these loose ink lines that don't always line up with the coloring or fully enclose elements of the figure. And the left hand is barely even colored in! This image is clear, it seems finished, and yet... it's not! And I'm pretty sure that Stacy had the time to color that hand in. But instead, she left in these numerous imperfections to create this mixed-media feeling piece that's just so cool.

Even my friend Naomi Bethel does this. I loved her recent Velma art because of the shapes, but also because of how you can clearly tell that the sweater was scribbled in - no fill bucket tool required.

I guess what I'm really seeing in all these artists is a willingness to be wrong, make mistakes, AND still put those pieces of art out for public view. And even though they all have the power of digital editing, they choose to leave mistakes and gaps and wrong marks in their pieces. To me this kind of art feels like a last second basketball shot or a hail mary football pass - and it's amazing when an artist can consistently thread the line between an unfinished kind of bad and a messy kind of good. As I mentioned before, I suspect some of this is due to the artist already being pretty skilled at what they do. If you're great at basketball, you're gonna be at least a little better at buzzer-beaters than the next guy. But there's always a chance for failure, especially when you act quickly and take risks. There's reason to fear. Yet to still try, and to share this kind of stuff online is to me an example of art-courage. 

I applaud them. But all this does make it really difficult for me to study these artists. Cause although I can try to replicate what I see on the page, it takes that sense of courage to make an accurate study. It also begs the question of if you can analytically study and reproduce something that's intuitive and spontaneous... but I want to learn, so I guess I'm going to try. I almost laugh at myself as I slowly and carefully try to recreate a stroke that I knew took half a second to paint by the original artist. Maybe I'm doing it wrong? And trying to incorporate the principles and recklessness of these artists in my own work isn't just hard, it's kinda scary. But I think it's still worthwhile. 

Over the past few months I've been doing the Character Design Challenge, as you probably know. And although I didn't set out to do it this way, each challenge piece has been a pretty significant experiment into a new style or technique I wanted to try out. I've been testing a lot of things for the first time while making these pieces. I've been creating new Procreate brushes. Establishing whole new workflows. And I have been so surprised by the results of these pieces. Each one, regardless of its objective artistic merit, has felt like a big step forward my artistic process. Perhaps I've been showing more art courage. Or maybe it's just the result of careful study. It's probably both. However, yesterday I forgot all this and had a faceplant when trying to make a little piece inspired by Stacy's art. 

I wanted to do a little portrait about my new haircut, using a lion character since I don't particularly like drawing my face and I've been re-reading Blacksad's Amarillo recently. I wanted to see if I could take at least a little bit of that Stacy style and flair. But when I finished my first attempt, I couldn't help but be unimpressed. It seemed like something I'd made before. I'm only showing it here to make a point - I don't like this piece. Although this piece is using the right brushes and superficially has the same techniques as Stacy's piece above, it has lost a lot of the charm.

But after finishing it, I realized that it was probably more important to capture the sense of courage and life that's in Stacy's art, not the exact line patterns. I put on fast music, and tried to draw all the linework over the course of one song, and finish the piece after two or three. I used the lasso tool to border in the colors and was off to the races. Although I restart a few times (old habit), one sprint eventually finished here:

A marked improvement. A courageous attempt, I daresay. The shapes could be a little better. But I still really like this piece. 

. . .

Art-fear is something I've struggled with for a while and this struggle will likely continue - part of me thinks it's just in my personality. One of my friends once described my art style as "tightly controlled looseness" which coincidentally (or not) is pretty much how I live my life. While I think there's still totally a place for tightly controlled art (and I will likely continue making it) maybe I'll work up to the confidence where I can also be a paint slingin' cowboy someday. That could be cool. 

If you're also working though some art-fear I can't help but recommend Nick Kole's post on the subject. If anything, this post is hopefully a chapter 2 to the great things he started talking about back in 2013. 

Hope this has helped you, and maybe this look into my head has assured you that you aren't alone in feeling this kind of way! Making good art is hard (and that's an understatement).

May you continue to weather these times with grace, courage, and creativity!

-dh



P.S.
A quote that I really wanted to stick in here but couldn't find the place is from Peterson's Adorning the Dark where he says "intention trumps execution." This was a real breakthrough for me to hear, and perhaps a proverbial reason why messy and unfinished art can still look good and inspire me to such a high degree. It also gives me confidence to go out and make my thesis film!

P.S. (Level 2)
Music Rec. for the week: I've just been LOVING Sammy Rae's The Good Life and have been listening to it repeatedly since the beginning of this whole quarantine business. I'm pretty sure it's going to be my Spotify album of the year. Aside from it just being an amazing EP, I can't really explain exactly why I like it so much except for that it has a kinda vintage sound that complements the rest of my music taste. And the chorus of "The Feeling" is about as close to euphoria as you can get in a song. If you don't believe me, try listening to it while running on a sunny day, or driving if you really don't like running. 

P.S. (Level 3 TOP SECRET)
What was with all the sports metaphors in this post? Has quarantine awakened my long dormant, if not extinct, interest in sport?

Onward, but Upward?

zoo sketch, 2018 

zoo sketches, 2019

It's fall!

Well, from a technical-calendar point of view. We're still hitting highs in the 90s here in Nashville. (Global warming? Curse of a summer witch? Regardless, it still sucks). I'm ready for fall to arrive this year, and there have been a couple days when the wind hit the hills just right, and autumn began to sing in the air... But those days have sadly been all too few for a late September. I'm ready for the seasons to change, and I'm hoping to summon up some holiday spirit this year. As faithful Roost-ers may know, last year I couldn't really catch any holiday excitement until Easter. I even didn't have a costume ready for Halloween (one of my recurring childhood nightmares, believe it or not). I expect things may be different this year. I've already started to dip into my fall playlist and listen to old-timey tunes. Cause for me, fall is a time for old things. Old farmhouses draped in decaying leaves. Dusty antiques of a nostalgic era. Ragtime and folk music.

Fall also feels like a good time to read (perhaps old books) and reconsider my modern assumptions about the world, one of which I wanted to talk about today. The idea of the onward and upward, specifically when it comes to practicing art or honing any type of craft. That the two are invariably linked. (Disclaimer: most of what I'm about to say is inspired by and an artsy paraphrase of this Joshua Gibbs article. Didn't want you to get any ideas that I'm smarter than I actually am.)

I think there's always this expectation that as long as you practice, things will get better. In vague metaphorical terms - If you are going onward, then you are inherently going upward too. And while this may be true in the extremely long term, on a daily, weekly, or even yearly basis it doesn't seem so convincing. Any of us who make something (art, homes, artisan cat food) know the feeling. No matter how much you practice, sometimes nothing (or everything) comes out right. Often this is accompanied by other events. You get art block. Your dog dies. You fall in love. You watch 24 straight hours of Ghibli movies. All of these will directly affect your art, yet none of them are practice-related. What gives? You have may already guessed, dear reader, the trick: art doesn't just flow from skill, but also inspiration, joy, loss, wisdom, luck - in other words, from life. To quote Gibbs more directly here, "If [art] has anything to do with life, the quality of an [artist's] work will be a bit uneven - just like life itself is uneven."

If you look an artist's entire body of work, you're not going to see a steady rise, where each piece is better than the last. Rather, the line on the Graph of Goodness is going to be all over the place - sporadic masterpieces, periods of drought, times of learning and breakthroughs. This pattern can be found in other areas of life - I know this process has been particularly true in my faith. Despite my efforts, my relationship with God goes through periods of stagnation, passion, instruction, growth, and stagnation again. The amount of Scripture reading, church visiting, and other disciplines do not always have a direct correlation to the quality of the finished work, my relationship with God. Here's an example from the art zone: each school year I do an illustration of me and our school mascot, a bison. But I haven't made one for this year. To be honest, the real reason why I haven't is that I don't know how to top last year's drawing. I'm worried that this year's will not be much better (or perhaps worse!) than the one I did last year. Yet I have a desire to show everyone that I'm making significant progress. Cause if I don't know how to draw a better bison after a whole year of schooling, what am I doing with my life??

Enough about me. Let's look at the example of Brad Bird. He starts incredibly strong with The Iron Giant (1999), following that up with The Incredibles (2004), which may just be the most perfect animated film ever made.  Ratatouille (2007) is good, but not Incredibles level, and I don't know much about Ghost Protocol (2011).  But Tomorrowland (2015) was a forgettable flop and Incredibles 2 (2018) an underwhelming sequel. Brad Bird, an animation wizard, still makes mistakes, even later in his career.

The point is that anything that involves some level of artistry is going to involve your life in some way. So unless your life is quickly and methodically progressing towards perfection, don't expect your art to either. Sometimes, life and art just suck. And in this fallen world, that's natural. I think that's one of the most important things for me to remember. When you see someone doing KILLER work - the kind of stuff that hits you with a double-punch of inspiration and jealousy (Saira Vargas for me recently) - that is unnatural (or perhaps super-natural). The paint and the artist's hand didn't naturally want to do that, but through mastery of nature, the artist has made it so. Although Instagram does a good job of hiding this, that art was born of struggle, perhaps years of accumulated struggle. Babies can't draw well, or make coffee well, or love well, because they haven't fought for it yet. It's a process that takes time and heartache - the combination of dutiful practice, and the experience of life. And plenty of mistakes and bad drawings. 

One of my biggest fears is that I'll slip backwards and get worse at art. But the important thing to remember is that me sucking at art is natural. My hand wants to make awful, jagged lines. My brain wants to draw everything all stiff and out of perspective. Therefore, it's a supernatural feat of will to make something truly beautiful. The real danger creeps in when you think you are above error - a straight A artist. There's a saying in the art community that your hand has 1,000 or 10,000 or so bad drawings in it that you got to get out. Which implies that you'll reach a point where the bad drawings stop. When every drawing will be golden. But as Rebecca Sugar says in this panel, it's always a struggle. No matter how much you draw, those bad drawings are never truly over. It's like running - if you're not having trouble, you're probably walking. Wow. Doesn't that just make you want to be an artist?! 

No really - Isn't that great? We're not expected to be perfect, and our art shouldn't be either. All we can do is show up every day, and try to grow in righteousness and skill. It's the showing up that's important - the practice in the midst of the hard times, independent of the final results. I think we can be more proud of a decent drawing born on a bad day than a fantastic drawing created on a great one. Cause although Instagram and studio recruiters will judge them equally, we know that it took buckets more motivation to make the former. And it's the building of good habits, of good person-age, that will likely serve us better in the days to come.

Can I get an amen, bloggerfolk?

Hope this post finds you well, wherever in life you may be. Let me know what's up in the comments.
-dh

How to Use Your Last Moments of Freedom Before Submitting to the Animation Overlords: Preparing for Art School

Hey Roost-ers,

I was talking with a group of prospective students at Lipscomb today and someone asked what they should be doing during the summer to prepare to study animation in the fall. In the moment, I stumbled something out about making sure to practice your drawing so that you can focus on caricature more once you come to school, but my inadequate answer has been haunting me for the rest of the day and I felt like I needed to tell someone a more complete answer to this query. And if you're reading this, I guess it happens to be you. I hope it's applicable, or if you know someone who's preparing to go to art school, feel free to send this post to them. Of course, I'm perhaps not the best person to ask, but this is the Internet and I can SAY THINGS I'M NOT QUALIFIED TO TALK ABOUT GERSH DERN IT! This is also directed primarily at people who have already been accepted to a college or are applying to a school like Lipscomb which doesn't require portfolio reviews (though that may be changing soon). You're probably already doing most of these if you have a portfolio good enough for major art schools, and portfolio building is a whole 'nother topic, which I can discuss if you're interested.

Things that I Think Are Good Things to Do During the Summer Before Your Freshman Year at College if You're Pretty Sure You Will Be Studying Animation During Your Freshman Year

or 

Preparing for Animation School

• Work on your drawing and draftsmanship. Richard Williams recounts in The Animator's Survival Kit being told by Richard Kelsey: "First of all, kid, learn to draw. You can always do the animation stuff later." I live by this, and both Winsor McCay and Milt Kahl agree - you can only go so far in any kind of 2D production without having a solid grasp of drawing skills.  Unless you're planning on working mostly in CG, the most important thing I can tell you is draw all the stuff. As I've spent the past year animating, I've been more crippled by my inability to draw the figure from strange perspectives than my ignorance of animation techniques/principles. Even if you think you're good at drawing already (and if you got into CalArts, Sheridan, or Ringling you probably are), there's bound to be something you're not so great at drawing. Work on that. My first assignment at Lipscomb was to do several concepts of a 6 year old girl character, not at all my comfort zone. 
  

Why I did I decide to draw a sick girl? I do not know.

If you draw amazing girl characters, do some angular muscle men. What? You can draw humans of any age, physique, and gender perfectly? Then draw cars. Drawing cars humbles a man. Draw from life. Copy the masters. I started my drawing career only a year or two before coming to college, and if you're in that spot too, then pick up that pencil and get going!
• Give digital art a shot. On a related note, if you have access to a tablet or another way to draw digitally, give it a try. The animation world is heavily digital nowadays and there's a bit of a learning curve to the medium. If you're good with traditional media, this curve will be a little less. Digital art can be overwhelming, but at least get familiar with the idea of layers, clipping masks, and free textured brushes. There's so many different ways to do digital art, but chances are each tutorial will use 2 out of those 3. If you don't have access to digital, look those things up but don't buy a tablet - you'll be given access to one pretty soon when you get to school.
• Listen to animation podcasts. Hearing how other animators got their start will help inspire your own journey and show you that even the best industry artists still had to work hard and deal with rejection in order to get where they are today! It's easy to forget that. I recommend the Jorge Guitierrez or Glen Keane episodes of the Bancroft Brothers Animation Podcast or the first episode of the Three Point Perspective Podcast. And Three Point just released an episode specifically about being an art student! I haven't listened to it yet, but I'm pretty sure it's good.
• Buy at least one "art of" book and cherish it. If you want to study animation, chances are you like at least one animated movie. And if that movie was good and/or made within the past 30 years, there's a pretty good chance that the movie was accompanied by a whole book filled with the concept art that helped to make that movie possible. That is an "art of" book, and you should buy it. Art of books are awesome. They're basically my textbooks/bibles when it comes to designs. Need some storyboard reference? I look at Coco. Working on a fur.. I mean anthropomorphic project? I pull out my Zootopia and Madagascar books. Art of books show what is industry standard and what you should try to meet or exceed when it comes to your own work (but don't expect that kind of quality to appear freshman year or perhaps even in college - these guys are pros and they are old) If you need recommendations based on my highly refined personal taste, Zootopia and Over the Garden Wall have nice books. Look for volume of art, artists being credited next to their works, and text describing how they made the thing. 
• See if the school/animation department (or individual animators/artists) have a social media presence. It's a good way to get a vibe of the program and to start those friendships before you even get to school! For Lipscomb it's @lipscombanim. In my experience, most students will follow back if they know you will be coming to campus soon! Don't be a stalker, but you don't have to be a stranger either...
• Don't forget about Daniel Haycox when you're famous and working on cool projects in the animation industry. This step is a good idea! Probably. Just like I'll still be looking for jobs at that point. Probably. "cries"
• Go somewhere or do something new. You can't spend your whole summer doing animation stuff. That's what freshman year is for! If you have the budget to travel, go! I frequently reference specific places I've visited when researching new projects. It doesn't have to be a big or expensive trip, I referenced a neighborhood in my hometown for a recent project. Just something out of your normal path. Meet up with a teacher or mentor and get advice for college. College goes by fast, and you can expect to have only three more summers after this before you don't have summer break anymore!

On that happy note, enjoy graduation and summer. Freshman year can seem scary, but once you get to campus you'll get to meet a bunch of new people (potential friends??) and have a lot of fun. Hold on to that youthful optimism! And feel free to come to the Roost if you need some help. Good luck, and if this helped you, let me know!

-dh