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

Delight

In that light, it is a delight...a wonder to study and to learn to love some small part of what God must have loved when he made a lizard. To delight with him in its scales, color, spines and forms. And to me, God is saying "you like that? me too!" 

- Nicholas Kole

One of my favorite memes is the German Cola Kid. As attempting to explain any meme is a fools errand, you should probably watch this animated version to see what it's about. But in the event you don't have time for that, I will now attempt to explain the meme. In the video, the aforementioned "Cola Kid" excitedly relates how his mom has just allowed him to drink cola and play Fortnite, the combination of which is enough to send him in a joyous YIPEEE!!

Kids, exemplified by the Cola Kid, are able to find joy and excitement in the most mundane of things. For me, it wasn't cola and Fortnite, but it was frozen pizza, being old enough to stay home alone, and watching Cartoon Network. As a kid, it didn't take much to have a good day, or to be obsessed with trains, dinosaurs, and sea creatures. (Isn't it crazy how deeply kids fall in love with things most adults never care about?) I think this open wonder and delight towards the world is one of the first things to go as we grow older. It was for me, at least. As we see more things, even incredible things become normal, and we forget that they were ever unexpected in the first place. As we see more broken and sorrowful things, our open delight in pockets of beauty and brilliance is replaced with a defensive cynicism.

As I've recently been thinking about What I Want to Say With My Art, I keep coming back to this idea of delight.  I think about the way God delights in us, His children. And the way He looked at His creation and said that it was good. Because God didn't have to make the world so dang beautiful. He didn't have to make a world with jellyfish, and sandstone arches, and the color blue, and good pizza. But He did. And I think that gives us the permission to get excited. Childishly, foolishly excited. In our art (our writing, drawing, cooking, all of it) we can lash out in unbridled admiration for this flower or that person or this cola and say yes. this is good. taste and see! That, at least, is what I want to do. To, in the words of artistic theologian Robert Capon, "look the world back to grace."

For me, the aquarium is one of the best places to practice this habit. Here is gathered, at great cost and human effort, the strangest and most majestic forms of life on earth. And our whole mission is simply to look at them. But the looking, we find, is difficult. We're anxious to move on to the next exhibit, so we delegate our looking to a quick photo and keep walking. 

I think the designers of Georgia Aquarium particularly understood this tension. For all its beautiful theming and chaotic, lawless atrium, the building's most impressive feature is a simple dark room facing a massive wall of water. Rays and sharks more than twice my height effortlessly sail across its cerulean surface and back into the murky distance. To me, it's the brontosaurus scene of Jurassic Park, only real. Finally, as an adult, I'm confronted with things I haven't seen, on a scale I cannot understand.  In response, the Georgia Aquarium offers me a large, carpeted step. I sit down, pull out my Ipad, and begin drawing. Drawing convinces my adult brain that I'm not wasting my time, so that my kid brain can say again, "cool shark. big shark." More than making a "good drawing," I now want to capture what's delightful about "shark." I wonder if what you find delightful may be entirely different. But regardless, I think we have a lot to learn from each other. 

So get painting, dancing, writing, and let me know!

Thanks for your readership :)

-dh

24

animation drawing from bearpuncher

It was one of those perfect summer nights in Nashville. We were smoking pipes on a friend's porch, the first time in a while our group of little Inkling-wannabes had convened to discuss our day jobs, personal projects, and of course, girl troubles. 

As I was smoking my pipe, the taste reminded me of who I was as a newly-minted 23 year old. Last summer, I was a house-sitting indie artist living on the cheap, nurturing a burgeoning interest in cooking, hiking, and travel. I was working on personal projects every day, in what was (in retrospect) a luxurious time to indulge the furthest extent of my child-like, artsy side. But now as a 24 year old, that self, and his goals, felt foreign. 

In the months that followed my 23rd birthday, I would accept my first, though rather non-artistic, job in animation. I would settle into my first apartment, though given the amount of boxes I still have in my bedroom, I can't say that I've totally unpacked. In order to create the amount of art I wanted in the margins of my social and work life, I would accept a motto of "minimize lifestyle, maximize output." I reduced the time I spent on hobbies such as hiking, cooking, and sleeping - but it worked. After a brief late fall slump, I was making art again, waking up early in the mornings with a cup of tea and yet another Bearpuncher shot on the table (technically the Cintiq, but that too was on the table.) Things were getting done. Bearpuncher was getting done. 

And as of just a few weeks ago, Bearpuncher is fully animated. 

It's weird to speculate, or even celebrate, about the light at the end of that tunnel. One of the many things I've learned on this project is that any task will take about three times longer than I expect, and with animation coloring and a few more background paintings left to go it could just take two more months to complete... or it could take the whole year. It's been hard not to compare the film to others in its field, like this stunner from Emily Xu. I've been so deep in the project it's hard to tell how it actually measures up. I think it's good. I know it's entertaining. But at the very least it's given me a reason to keep drawing something that's truly my own, which I really needed. 

Because despite literally working in animation, I don't feel much like an artist anymore. Not only do I have significantly less time to work on art nowadays, but I've also been wracked with serious doubts about the righteousness of the artistic quest I idolized in college. Was it selfish to want to spend a life tinkering on my own stories? Would the expense and foreignness of living in California outweigh the fun of studio life? As a Christian from Tennessee, would I even be welcomed into a established studio communities to begin with? Or perhaps most importantly, was creating better, more important, and more expensive stories worth what it would cost to have that opportunity? Now, I wasn't so sure. 

As the sun set and the pipes burned low, I missed that 23-year-old version of me who knew exactly what he wanted, who was filled with so much wonder and potential and zeal for the work. There's a lot I think I have to learn from him. But 23-year-old me had a very narrow vision of success, and even his own identity. He didn't expect to change. But he did. 

And my mission as 24-year-old Daniel is to make sure that was for the better. 

What Brad Bird Got Wrong about Art

(This essay is about Ash Wednesday and is thus a few weeks late, but as it's still Lent I thought it was fit to edit up and print.)

I had a couple existential crises last month, one was career related and so I don't think it's smart to reprint here, but the other, and perhaps deeper one had to do with the onset of Ash Wednesday and the beginning of Lent. In the Christian tradition, Ash Wednesday is a time to remember our own mortality. For a man in his early 20's it's especially easy to forget the reality of death. It's a terrible, nasty thing - so terrible, in fact, that it's hard to believe it will happen. And yet, surely, it will. 

The natural implication of this somber Ash Wednesday truth is that all human glory will die as well. The things humans make do not escape our own cycles of birth, growth, and decay. There will come a point when every great work - civilizations, governments, families - will have passed away, and eventually be forgotten entirely. That includes the art we make.

Brad Bird, director of the perfect animated movie, once said

"Film is forever, pain is temporary."

But Ash Wednesday says he's wrong. Sure, the films we make may linger a little longer than the pain, but both are destined for the same end. Some art, like Homer's works, have lingered an exceptionally long time, but even The Odyssey has an expiration date. The burning of the Alexandrian library proves that even the most cherished pieces of art can be reduced to dust in seconds. 

Thus pain is temporary, and art is temporary. 

So perhaps now you see where my crisis was coming from. I'm breaking my butt to make art - working a draining studio job, and instead of resting when I return home, I put more hours in on Bearpuncher, attempting to make something beautiful that's truly my own. But one day, the world will forget about both Bearpuncher and the Wingfeather Saga. So why bother? Why not just go and watch TV, and spare yourself the trouble? 

I wasn't able to answer this question right away, but I think I found the beginnings of an answer in the essay On Charon's Wharf, an annual lenten read for me. The whole essay is about the importance of encounters in time being the things that will ultimately survive the decay of time. Using a poignant example from the movie The Seventh Seal, the author, Andre Dubus, calls attention to a moment when the protagonist, a knight told by Death that he must die, shares a meal with a lady. Although Death will later take both that knight and the lady, it can't erase that moment of shared connection and kindness. Dubus writes, "In the face of time, the act is completed. Death cannot touch it now, can only finally stop the hearts that were united in it."

What if sharing art is like that meal? What if art's value is found not about its technical prowess, its enshrinement in a Criterion Collection, or its ability to spark discussion among film students 200 years from now? Maybe art's value is found in its ability to create encounters in those who view it. Encounters that spur them to be a better person, empathize with another, or noticed an overlooked beauty. Perhaps Brad Bird was missing a step: our pain is temporary, our films are temporary, but our audience is eternal.

Because while Ash Wednesday says that we will return to dust, it also promises our resurrection from the dirt. I believe that we will follow in Christ's resurrection.  And maybe in the same way, our artistic works will come along for the ride. I can't say for certain whether Toy Story will be in eternity, I do know that people affected by Toy Story will be. To sum up all this armchair aesthetic theology: in art we create encounters between us and our audiences, and those encounters will be what lasts, even once every canvas is burned, and every .mp3 deleted. They'll last as unalterable moments in time, and imprints on our audiences, who, CS Lewis argues, are no mere mortals. 

I think this stuff really hit me because I mostly create art for the good of the art - to make something really beautiful and good and true. I hope that an audience will get something from it, but that concern is secondary. However, if I animate with skill of Glen Keane and James Baxter and have not love, perhaps the work is just a clanging cymbal (even if it is a pretty one). 

Therefore, it's even more important that we love thy audience, and make work that respects them, challenges them, and opens for them a broader delight in God's Kingdom. Ash Wednesday forces us to reckon with our work, it changes our focus from achieving glory to conversing with our audience. Perhaps the eternal worth of art is not in the artifact itself, but in the powerful encounter between the artifact and audience. It's not the movie that is sacred, but the watch party. 

Happy Lent, everybody.

-dh

I Done Been Interviewed! (and made some unrelated fanart)

Hey everyone! 

Long time no blog! I can't say this year has been an especially prolific one for the Roost (although my main resolution for this year was to "be prolific," I've applied that more to my drawing than my writing.) But to fill the gap between this and the next post, I am happy to share that I did a recent interview for the Nashville Voyager which you can read here! - https://nashvillevoyager.com/interview/check-out-daniel-haycoxs-story/

It's a fun little summary of my journey in animation (familiar territory for this blog) but now that I'm almost a year out of college (wowie) I'm able to look back with some perspective on my time there and how it shaped me as an artist. The main thing I wanted to convey is that as long as you have a genuine love for the product AND the process I think it's really just a matter of time spent practicing before you gain proficiency, and maybe even a career making what you love. Talking about that did make me a little homesick for the days when my primary work was drawing - I now have to cram art in around the edges between working my job and sleeping. But I'm still trying to make it work, building momentum back on Bearpuncher (only 12 shots left to animate!) and even doing some fanart yesterday!

say cheese, 4townies!

I've been looking forward to Pixar's new movie, Turning Red, for a while - can't say I was initially wowed by the first announcement, but once I saw more trailers and learned that Domee Shi was directing I was totally on board. It also just happened to coincide VERY NICELY with a 2000s nostalgia phase I've been experiencing for the past couple months. Not that I actually remember a lot of the 2000s, but I do enjoy the music of the time and an era where the internet wasn't so invasive... In the movie the kids were taking pictures with the panda and I thought "how is that not going to end up on social media???" Then I realized they didn't HAVE social media. What a concept. 

Anyways, I think the movie nailed a lot of very specific niche interests of mine - animal movies, 2000s jams, hip-hop/asian fusion music, cartoony expressions in feature films, movies set in uncommon locales - and so I was never not gonna like it. And I haven't seen a movie really tackle puberty the way they did (usually movies stick to portraying "coming of age" as only a mental and emotional transition, something much more marketable...) But I'm glad they risked it here, as it reminded me of how confusing and even panic-inducing that age was for me, which I've never seen represented in a movie before. 

Turning Red is one of my first reviews on my new Letterboxd account - anybody else using that site? I was a begrudging convert at first, but my reviews have steadily been getting longer and longer... If you read this blog you probably can guess I like sharing my opinions, so it's no surprise that I have become an avid user of a site that lets you pretend to be a movie critic. Hah! 

Anyways, I hope all y'all are well. We got a freak snow here in Nashville a couple days ago but the cherry blossoms have been blooming nonetheless. I'm looking forward to watching some Ghibli movies and dreaming about summer! (Trying not to do that too much until Lent is over, but still...) 

You guys have any spring plans? Or thoughts on Turning Red? I've found people have a wide range of opinions on that movie so I'd be interested to hear 'em.

Your fellow wayfarer,

dh

Whoops: I Had Too Much Root Beer and Forgot that 2021 Ended

some favorite pieces from 2021

Well, not exactly. 

But I am pushing the bounds of when it's appropriate to post a "2021 wrap-up!" 

For some reason, it's been really hard for me to summarize my experience of 2021. The year had several distinct stages, each with their own joys and disappointments. It was a very mixed bag of a year for me - one where many goals were achieved, but many dreams left unfulfilled. Although it's only a month distant, the year already feels fairly foreign to me. I was in school only a year ago! Hah. Weird to think about. 

But before I go and get too introspective, I wanted to share my favorite things I discovered in 2021. So in case you happen to be looking for something to direct your eyes (or industry awards) towards, here are my recommendations. As always, I'm not limiting this list to things that debuted in 2021, just things I watch/read/played for the first time last year. 

Movie of the Year: The Mitchells vs the Machines

This film continues the innovation and heart first shown in Spiderverse, establishing Sony's position at the forefront of the American feature animation scene. It's probably the funniest movie I've seen in a decade, with absurdly dumb, smartly utilized jokes that hearken to the directors' days on Gravity Falls. I was worried that I liked the movie only for artsy reasons (art-school protagonist, innovative use of CG reminiscent of watercolor mixed-media) but its multi-week tenure on Netflix's top ten speaks to its widespread appeal. In addition, my mom was recommending this movie to everyone she talked to, a rare and sacred honor. This movie knows how to flip between being as zany as possible during action-comedy sequences, and as real as possible during the family scenes. If it doesn't win the Oscar, I will flip. 

Show of the Year: Centaurworld

This may be because I don't watch a ton of TV any more, but I felt like this was a weak year for animated TV. Many good shows (Hilda, Bluey, Mao Mao:HoPH) were in their between-season hiatuses, with only Amphibia holding down the fort with its killer season finales. However, Centaurworld's first season stood out with an incredibly satisfying story set in an incredibly weird and song-filled world. Kimiko Glenn and Megan Hilty are just fantastic as the show's leads, providing such life to the character dynamics and the show's soundtrack. It's with great regret that I say that Season 2 falls vastly short of its predecessor and instead plays out like an awkward fanfiction dotted with decidedly un-catchy songs. I don't really know what happened there, but Season 1 is good enough, and self contained enough, to establish Centaurworld as a great offering from Netflix Animation and my pick of the year. 

Note 2: Aquaman, King of Atlantis is a STRONG runner up and since I don't think it got enough love, I'm plugging it here. 

Book of the Year: Watership Down

You can find my full review here, but this was easily my favorite book I read this year. It has such a well-balanced sense of scale - both in the physical setting and worldbuilding. Nothing feels too sprawling or extraneous, so the author gives you permission to care about each detail he provides. And these are details you're gonna want to care about - daring escapes, bunny politics, prophecies of doom(!?!) The adventure is grand, the in-world fables are highly enjoyable, and the characters are rabbits. What more can you want from a book?

Game of the Year: Villainous

Whaaaaat??? A Board game as a game of the year??? Luckily for me, I wrote this category vague enough that I can do this. Try and stop me. You can't. 

Vindictive arguments with incredulous (and imaginary) readers aside, I got so much enjoyment out of this well-illustrated game based on Disney's more nefarious cast. This game succeeds due to its balance of story and complexity. Each character/player has a different win condition based on the villain's cinematic plot. As Cruella, you'll have to search out and capture puppies across various locations. As Scar, you'll knock off Mufasa (and then enough of his allies) to secure your rule over the realm. As Prince John, you simply need to collect enough "beautiful, lovely taxes! Ah ha." All these various systems are housed within a streamlined core ruleset - uncommon for an asymmetrical game like this. Learning the different villain plots is the most complicated part, but there's enough similarities between them to make this game easy to pick up without losing any replayability. 

Newsletter of the Year: Animation Obsessive

(2021 BONUS CATEGORY!!!)

This year, as part of a general move towards the analog, I got really into newsletters as a preferred social media. (I even tried my own! Sorry for putting it on hiatus, guys) If you have an email, and are interested in animation at all, I recommend subscribing to Animation Obsessive. They provide some of the most well researched dives into the craft of animation (weekly!) This is some intelligently written stuff, nearly academic and yet instantly approachable. They cover animation of all types, from all places, and dang do you feel cultured after reading it. At times when I don't feel like an artist or I lose my faith in animation, I read AO, and instantly I'm back in art school - informed on what's new, a bit snobby, and ready to make something.

***

For me personally, last year pivoted around my graduation from college, and all the rippling effects and changes and responsibilities that come with it. And boy did I complain and fumble my way through it. Complaining and fumbling, people. After a leisurely summer of working on personal projects while housesitting, I got a major case of lifestyle whiplash in October, when I got my first fulltime job, first apartment, and the very, very minimal amount of free time that accompanies such responsibilities. There's a lot of college luxuries that I found myself wistfully gazing back upon: free time during the sunlit hours, a focus on creating personal art, and the ability to travel to name a few. I've now gained a great respect for grown-ups (especially those with kids??? how??), a great nostalgia for the easy days of college life (wow, that was early), and a great case of sleep deprivation (uh oh). 

I spent the beginning part of 2021 preparing to leave Nashville, and the second half coming to terms with staying here. This spring I said a lot of goodbyes. I was saying goodbye to the people who I had walked with for the past four years - professors who built me as an artist and the friends who'd built me as a person. I had a lot of lasts. Last Caricature Show. Last Five Minute Film Festival. Last college class. Yet the despite the sadness that accompanied this departure, I felt like it was time. Like the Elves, Frodo, and Gandalf, my time in my old world had come and gone. I didn't recognize most faces on campus anymore. My skills were ready to be tested out there at An Animation Studio, where I would begin the next phase of my education. I was ready to drift into campus legend as "that weird guy who always had long hair and sandals" and go tread those sandals elsewhere. During all of the covid-time I had been building up a mighty thirst for adventure, and no place seemed too far away. I'd go to LA, Brisbane, Kilkenny - whatever it took. I was going to "make it," and hopefully draw some new coastlines, pay with new currencies, and create some new stories along the way.

But just like an awkward partygoer, I found I had said my goodbyes a tad too early. As the year went on, I struggled to leave town. A few key things were holding me back. One was my commitment to finish Bearpuncher, my thesis film. While in school I had bitten off way more than I could chew and had prioritized lifestyle rather than making art, which left me with plenty still to do. However, I had made a commitment to finishing it, which felt like something I could do given that I had no job offers coming in (second reason to stay). Although I got really far in the interview process at DreamWorks, my applications remained fruitless. This barren ground would later blossom into a position working at Shining Isle, which has been an incredible experience. Less than six months out of school, I now find myself working in animation, which is incredibly uncommon. Even more uncommon is the studio's location - just south of Nashville. This has left me free to stay in touch with all my good friends, and to continue being blessed by the community we've been building here (third reason to stay). I'm writing this now in my first apartment, nary two blocks away from campus. I can even hear the Lipscomb bells ringing out on the hour (which I do not begrudge, I'd always like to live in a place with bells.) Despite all the obvious goods of this familiar location, I remained haunted by the fact that it felt decidedly un-adventurous. What was I to do with the courage I had been building, an appetite that called out for the strange and new?

I guess what I learned this year is that for as much as I idolized the idea of the adventure of life, I don't get to be the person who draws the maps. Instead, my role is to chart the best course within them. For as much as I admired the Fellowship, courageously carrying the ring to Mordor, I had forgotten that Frodo never asked for such a quest. Sure, I wanted an adventure, one with excitement and challenge and risk, but ultimately one that built the skills I already wanted to learn, took me to places I already wanted to go, and satisfied the ambitions I had already set in place. But I'm not sure adult life, or adventures work quite like that. 

Looking out a the beginning of 2021 I was unsure of the "terrain" of my life. Where would I be living? Who would I be working for? And my college friends - would we be able to stay in touch? And although I've now found the answers to those questions, they didn't all come from me. They came from covid restrictions, community blessings, application rejections, job offers, and ultimately, God's plan. 

Now looking out on 2022, I've scouted out the terrain, but now need to decide what route I'll be taking. I know what I'll be doing this year, but what do I want to do? Are the grand ambitions I coddled in college worth keeping around? What am I willing to give up to be an artist - and is it worth it? 

For despite the big, existential questions that usually resurface when writing for my blog (or watching tick, tick... BOOM!), my day-to-day life in 2021 was actually pretty fantastic:

• I practiced hospitality now that I had my own space
• I learned how to cook all kinds of new things
• I have several artists in my life who could make great mentors and help me learn
• I have a fantastic community of artists and non-artist peers who encourage me every day
• I learned what it takes to get hired in animation
• I joined in on the sea shanty trend, an ashamedly non-hipster move for me
• Also started listening to a lot of musical soundtracks
• I'm officially in the time of my life where I get to attend a bunch of weddings, and even co-best manned in one
• Had a big Italian phase this summer after watching Luca
• Had a big Lord of the Ring phase this fall because I want to live in the Shire
• I ran my best 5k ever, placing surprisingly well in my age group
• Went on big, adventurous trips to the Smoky Mountains and the Virgin Islands
• Spent months primarily working on personal work
• Polished my swing dancing skills alongside a live big band
• Got really into board games
• Ate tacos on Mondays
• Played trivia on Tuesdays
• Got to the final round of internship interviews for a LA studio
• And then actually got a job in animation, for a studio that admires the good and true and beautiful

It's tough to reconcile the everyday goods with the big-picture worries. It's going to be weird to pass from a year characterized by transition, potential, and instability into one that promises to be predictable, defined, and stable (at least in my personal life. The world at large is still pretty wack.) I'm still not used to it, still just as bad with commitment, but I'll keep on fumbling my through it. I'm thankful for where I'm at, excited to see what's next, and ready to keep on learning. I may have finished my formal education, but I have a sneaking suspicion that I still have more to learn than ever. 

To learning, to fumbling, to good cheer and the friends that walk with us.

To 2022!

-dh

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!)

New Sticker Design!

just a little fowl humor for ya

Hi all! 

Big news! I have set up my first online store with my first little product - a new sticker design! If you want to see it RIGHT NOW and don't need the lengthy backstory, you can jump right to it here :)

https://danielhaycox.gumroad.com/

BEGIN LENGTHY BACKSTORY: Last spring I took an ornithology class which changed my life in a lot of ways. It started an interest in birdwatching, told me more about the bird's digestive system than I EVER wanted to know, and perhaps most importantly, informed me that the scientific name for the Robin (and other thrushes) is "Turdus."

I think that's wonderful. I love any bird (except cowbirds), so I hesitate to call them a rude name. However, Robins really do seem to fit it. They're one of our most common birds, and aside from their huge migration in the spring, seem relatively unremarkable. They are a frequent cause for disappointment while birding, especially when you're expecting a rarer species. They are, in a word, Turdus. 

Anyways, I though the name had enough intellectual, juvenile, and incredibly specific humor to make a successful sticker, so I drew it up, got it printed... and waited several months to figure out how to sell it. But despite having the least amount of free time I have ever had, I say there's no time like the present. And I owe it to these old projects to actually get them out into the world. I even have a whole artbook in this awful limbo. Now that I have a storefront, maybe I can start getting these kind of things out there!

Ok, so maybe that backstory wasn't quite so lengthy. But I wanted to make sure you guys got the news first and were able to snag one if you're interested! 

your fellow wayfarer, and bird-merchandise hawker,

-dh

How Animation Taught Me to Love Musicals (and Centaurworld)

I used to be a musical hater. Okay, well maybe not a hater, but more of a reluctant tolerator.  Because whenever the music would swell and a character would bust into song, I couldn't help but find it jarringly unrealistic. If someone tried to do that in real life they would be given some stern stares, or worse, assumed to be a theater kid. 

However, now as a world-weary and jaded 23-year-old, I welcome the musical genre. I haven't watched all the classics, but I no longer roll my eyes at dance numbers, "I Want" songs, or operatic solos. I get especially excited when I find a musical TV show, because somehow the six to fourteen songs they can fit in a typical movie isn't enough for me anymore. I need multi-album soundtracks. Numerous songs by extras you will never see again. More duets. Sad, romantic, and battle duets. I'll take them all. 

You may chalk this sudden (and perhaps humiliating) change up to a general longing for anything hopeful and wholesome, an impulse I imagine to be pretty common among young adults growing up through these Covid-times. But as this change has been going on for a while, I think there was another reason, and it won't come as a surprise: my study of animation.  To explain, let's take a not-so-brief foray into some armchair aesthetic philosophy. 

At its core, animation is communication, just like any other form of art. The best animation captures a real person, idea, or experience and brings it to the viewer in a direct and interesting way. But as the majority of concert videos in my Instagram stories prove, just because a real experience is being recorded doesn't mean the viewer will actually experience what it was really like. I've generally found that when designing and animating, trying to exactly copy life won't actually produce results that look real, and never ones that look appealing. Something gets lost in translation. So to actually make something that feels believable, you have to overshoot reality - exaggerate. We have to actively work against the atrophy that comes along with the artificiality of animation. We stretch, saturate, and simplify. We're tightening our message down to what is most important, in a way that the audience can easily recognize. 

Animation doesn't have to be stylized. But I think it's most delightful when it is. In a post I will reference time and time again, Nicholas Kole describes why stylization is so important when designing for animation:

"We notice, and we point people's attention to the details we love most. That's what makes stylization so alluring- we are simplifying the visual statement to direct your attention to this-kind-of-arm or that-kind-of-smile. We create patterns from our love and attention."

Animation will always be to some extent, unreal. But if we lean even harder into that unreality through stylization, we can communicate something real in a striking and direct way. And even more exciting-ly, we can communicate a very specific view of something real. We stylize out of our own personal point of view. What we love will be large, contrasting, central. What we hate will be even more corrupted. What we're apathetic about may be omitted entirely. Good stylized designs tell you what to pay attention to, and the best ones even suggest how you should feel about it. 

And though I know much less about music than I do about drawing, I think songs in musicals serve the same purpose. In most musicals (but famously excepting Cats, a long rabbit trail I am happy to talk about later), song sequences are stylized ways of presenting narrative moments. And therefore, they are decidedly non-realistic and non-literal. For many people, that's enough to take them out of the narrative. So why risk a song? For the same reason we stylize. In art, we must fight to say things as clearly and as specifically as possible, and a song does just that. The limited lyrics confined in meter focuses our attention only where it needs to go. And it's impossible to beat music in its ability to inform how we should feel about something. Yip Harburg, lyricist for The Wizard of Oz, puts it this way: 

"Words make you think a thought. Music makes you feel a feeling. A song makes you feel a thought."

I think that's incredible - in musicals, we get the chance to feel a thought. To experience a character's feelings almost as if you were them. So now, I don't mind whenever a character bursts into song, because if it's done well, we're seeing an incredible metaphor that's putting us not just into a story moment, but the very mind of the character experiencing it. I love musicals for the same reason that I love stylized characters in animation - they are fantastical, entertaining, and highly effective ways to communicate something real. 

So it's maybe no surprise that a medium with a grounding in visual stylization is often paired with a genre known for its narrative stylization. That may be largely due to Disney's catalog, but I wanted to highlight a recent exceptional example since I've been obsessed with it for the past week: Netflix's Centaurworld.

some wammawink fanart because her songs are SO GOOD

I don't think Centaurworld would work without its rooting in musical theater. In fact, the show is inspired by the creator's accidental enrollment in show choir while in school. And when describing it to friends, I've said that whatever you don't like about musical theater you won't like about this show, but whatever you do like, you'll really enjoy. For example, the show is unabashedly weird and flamboyant, but the emotional moments hit much harder for all the musical reasons I spent several paragraphs just describing. The music pulls the story along on this very satisfying narrative arc. The songs grow more desperate and sad as our heroes near the end of their journey, while a chill-inducing lullaby pulls us ever closer to the final showdown with the Nowhere King. Overall, the show is one of the most cohesive and well-serialized animated shows I have ever seen, and if it wasn't so long I would easily enjoy watching it in a single sitting. It reminds me a lot of how Steven Universe transitioned into being pretty much a musical over the course of its lifespan, and how grand, serious stories aren't necessarily cheapened by the addition of songs at pivotal moments. 

And thankfully in a show where singing is this important, the voice performances are fantastic, with obvious Broadway experience. It definitely falls into the trope of "cute world with a dark underbelly" we've seen in shows like Adventure Time and Pibbi, but its insistence that the fragile, kind things would be what ultimately redeems it was refreshing. 

There's a lot of other things to like here too, from some of the best rigged horse animation I have ever seen (Mercury Filmworks continues to amaze in their rigs department), to a surreal and Undertale-esque sense of humor, but I always find myself coming back to the powerful (and delightfully lengthy!) soundtrack as the element that ties it all together. If you can manage to look past the giraffe man with nipples (which is difficult, I know), you'll be rewarded with a surprisingly emotional story and some new tracks to add to your showtunes playlist.

(yes, I know about that.) 

(and I now have one too.)

thanks for your readership -

-dh

A Happy Halloween from Your Favorite Variant

Happy Halloween everybody!!!!

In an exciting turn of events, I have assembled a legitimate costume for the first time in three years! I'll be honest, despite Halloween nights being some of my fondest memories from childhood, my Hallow's Eve spirit has significantly waned as I find myself in the awkward in-between of the trick-or-treat equation (neither the treater nor the treat-ee).  But after thoroughly enjoying the new Loki show this summer, I knew. I knew the answer to the biggest annual question from my childhood: who I want to be for Halloween. 

While it would have been fun to have be Mobius (as I'll take any excuse to rock a mustache for a few days), the "President" version of Loki made the most sense. I scoped out thrift stores on the weekends to find the suit pieces, but where was I going to find Loki's crown, the piece that would tie it all together? Thankfully, I have a talented brother who can sculpt armor, weapons, AND mask/crown/headband-things out of foam. Thanks Jonathan!

Here's what it looks like all together -

come on, what did you expect?

It was really fun to have a real costume to wear this year, and it helped the holiday to feel much more special. As my schedule gets more full (especially now with a full time job, woof) it gets easier and easier to let the special days be swallowed up in the busy-ness of the ordinary. Because holidays, feasts, and Halloween parties don't just happen. It takes a ton of work to cook the food, hang the decorations, and bring together the people. Mundane life will just keep rolling on - so it's our imperative to carve out the spaces for reflection and celebration. 

So I encourage myself and you - keep the feasts! Decorate the cupcakes! And on one of the rare nights when adults are allowed to pretend and dress up, go for it! It's the feasts, fasts, and festivals which bring rhythm to our lives. 

Happy Halloween everyone, and the spookiest of good cheer to you and yours. 

-dh

I Have a Job and a Place! Wow!

 So... things have been happening... and after a summer of wandering, unemployment, and a side of freelance, I am happy to announce that I have a job! In animation! And also an apartment! All in the same week! And if I'm using perhaps too many exclamation points it's because I'm fairly sleep deprived and probably the most busy and frazzled I've been in months! 

Some context: over the summer I'd been doing scattered temp work and test assignments for a new show called The Wingfeather Saga. It's a fantasy adventure show based on a series of books I loved as a kid, and crewed by a team full of familiar and friendly faces. And now many emails, several sketches, and brief stint PA-ing later, I'm a Production Associate for the design team! Still kinda figuring out exactly what that means, but right now it's been a bunch of meeting scheduling, asset organizing, and macaroon eating. I'm told this last task will not be a permanent part of the job :(

I'm not getting to do much art in this role (yet), but I'm hoping to be able to sneak in a few designs when our team gets overbooked. Wingfeather is made by a pretty small studio with a lot of artists in production/admin roles, so there's a chance that could happen (which would not be the case at a bigger studio.) Of course, my PA responsibilities come first, but it would be a delight to point at the screen, declaring loudly to the whole audience gathered in the theater: "I DESIGNED that MUG!!!" (To which, they would jubilantly respond, "SHHHHHH.") I guess after more than a week of having no time to draw I'm chomping at the bit to figure out how to bring that discipline back into my life. The really cool thing about being in production is that I am getting a really good sense of how people are hired and how to make yourself competitive as an artist. I also get to sit in on all the art review meetings and soak in all those notes and knowledge. Now I just need to figure out how to put all that into practice, in a schedule that now has drastically less free time.

This is my first ever 9-5 (8-5 in this case) job, and so it's been a huge adjustment to pivot away from the self-styled living of a freelance/mostly unemployed artist to a schedule that is largely already set each day. Adults, how do you do this? How do you accomplish all the many things you get done in the hours from 6PM-12AM? Because I have not figured that one out yet. So far, I've figured out how to hang out with friends and occasionally make dinner. But reading? Practicing music? Watching TV even? No idea. This maaay be because I also got an apartment the week before I started my job, and dang do you need a lot of things for an apartment to function. I thought you just need a table and sofa or something. But it turns out you need at least: silverware, wifi, a real mattress, floor lights, and a shower curtain (all of which I did not have upon moving in. I will not soon forget that first night...)

However, each day, my apartment is getting a little more livable, and I'm getting a little more capable at my job. This is a picture from my first day ever working in The Industry and it DEFINITELY captures the fact that despite having a job, you might still be just as clueless, awkward, and amateur as you were in school (or in my case, more so.)

boy does this guy look ready for an exciting career

I remember reading somewhere that as you advance through life you'll often go from the very top to the very bottom of the ladder. High school seniors go from ruling the school to being freshmen again in college. I had gotten really comfortable being a college senior, but this is my freshman year of studio work. Things aren't going to go perfectly, my ego will be crushed quickly, and my footing may be shaky. I definitely feel like the nerdy freshman I was four years ago, and four years before that. But through the process, I'm rediscovering a bit of that freshman zeal and eagerness that I had ashamedly forgotten as a jaded senior.

So here's to going back to school - I'm just glad my new classmates are the best (and that there are sometimes macaroons.)

-dh

Daniel vs. the Future

 

east nashville clouds

Hello Bloggerfolk!

After one of the longest breaks this blog has ever seen, I am back with your typically scheduled life-update-y kind of post that you've come to expect (and maybe dread? or cherish?) I promised myself that I wouldn't be one of those bloggers that leaves school, gets a job, and then never blogs again. (That's the very fate that befell this blog's spiritual ancestor, RIP) But now I see why that happens. Priorities get more intense, no one tells you how to manage your time, you decide to start watching Parks & Recreation on a more than regular basis... you know, all the usual things.

Also, while I've had my fair share of blog-worthy crises this summer, I've found that a lot of my post-college problems cannot be so easily discussed in such a public place. Therein lies the paradox of the personal blog. I want to be as honest as I can here so I can best represent and remember the reality of my journey through the arts. Yet I don't really want to do a career/social nosedive by putting everything out there. This is the third time I've rewrote this post, and I still don't know if it's really going to stick the landing. Which sucks, because I've had a lot to think about this summer. And I could have used some self-indulgent bloggy processing. 

I've been thinking a lot about the idea of "liminal space" - the hallway between the doors, the muggy thunderstorms between summer and autumn (which have begun to roll in recently.) This summer has been a rather comfortable liminal space between what I expect to be two big seasons of my life. College is over, but at the same time, my career hasn't really yet begun. I'm in Nashville, so things are familiar, but my routine is different. Everything has been characterized by a vague sense of non-commitment. I've been housesitting, living at home, staying in Airbnbs, and moving places about every two weeks. I get to try new grocery stores, new neighborhoods, and new restaurants. Each place has its own unique delights: farmer's markets, trains rumbling past, thrift stores, pools, expensive grills. Grounding it all has been steady hangouts with consistent group of friends. These summer nights have been full of board games, swing dancing by the river, and jamming to "Come on Eileen" just one more time. I've been learning how to cook, hosting my first dinner parties, and making pies and smoked BBQ. And for weeks, the setting sun glowed a coral pink (brought on by the California wildfires.)

It's been a pretty great summer, but not one that can last. 

Because eventually one has to commit. And to be honest, the idea really spooks me. I've dreamed up all these big dreams that don't fit neatly into your usual 9-to-5 job, 12-month-lease kind of living - like biking across a state, finishing a much-too-ambitious short film, or staying for a few months in a totally new place. These are the kind of dreams that are easy to make while in school and/or unemployed, which has been the case for most of my life up to this point. Yet the reality of being an adult means that I need to provide myself with food, gas money, and some semblance of stability. 

In addition, I would, you know, like to work in animation which means committing to a season, crew, and studio. Despite there being an allure surrounding the infinite potentials that "Looking for Work" can bring in, I think "Now Making the Work" is the real stuff. Within the next few months, I'll need to decide where I'm going to live, and what work I'm going to do. Two choices that will shape the next year of my life, and possibly much, much longer. I don't think I've made a decision this big since deciding on a college in high school - and it's kind of freaky!

Huge, life-changing doors seem to open and close without my permission. I firmly believe that where there's a will there's a way, but as I look out on my post-college future, some of my biggest decisions appear to be deciding themselves for me. Some might find this to be a relief. Yet as a planner, prone to selfishness, and with a pretty definite (hypothetical) plan for how I thought post-grad was going to look, it's strange to find that I'm not the only author of my future. Covid restrictions, studio needs, pure luck, and ultimately God's hand are all coming together to shape what my story is going to look like. And they all don't seem to ask for my opinion very often. As a Yiddish proverb goes, if you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.

Some of my older and/or wiser readers may have already figured this out and have been smirkingly shaking their heads at my youthful pride. As you well should. But for me, this has been a summer of realizing that the future refuses to fit neatly into any of my own expectations. I do expect to look back later and find that it was in an unplanned way better that what I had envisioned, but right now I may just need to stop running from it. 

Summer is ending. School is starting. Not for me though, which is so weird. And for the past few weeks I have been paid to draw delightfully wicked animal characters for a show here in Nashville. It may not have been what I expected, but I won't deny that it's good. Or that God is good. Cause He is ;)

I've got a few art-tutorial type posts in the works, and then maybe another life update where I will have made more decisions, finally talk about this studio/job I keep hinting at, and have gone camping or something. Who knows! It's the future. 

Until then,

-dh

Father Thomas McKenzie: In Memoriam

something a little different, and more somber. remembering the life of  father thomas mckenzie, priest of my nashville church.

father mckenzie offering drive-thru communion during the pandemic, no matter the weather

In his Lenten devotional book, Father Thomas McKenzie described people who petitioned the Desert Fathers of the church for a "word" - a proverb, a piece of teaching, an insight. While I never got to know Father McKenzie personally (apart from a singular luncheon at his favorite restaurant, Baja Burrito), I've benefited from being a receiver of his word for nearly my entire college career. 

It was freshman year, and I was seeking a church home in my new town, perhaps the most surprisingly difficult part of college life. After a brief stint attending an Eastern Orthodox church, I returned to Church of the Redeemer, which I had visited a couple years before. Ashamedly, I had first visited in hopes of seeing a certain Nashville celebrity, but what drew me back this time was someone different. I had gone to church my whole life, but only one person had really made me listen. And that person was Father Thomas McKenzie. 

That's because Thomas was a master of sermon form. Every one began with a story from his personal experience. He had the double gift of both remembering large swaths of his life in great detail and pulling insights out of it years later. These stories ranged from wearing mildew-soaked t-shirts, finding a skeleton in a desert wash (at least, I think he did that), to blowing up a gas station (which he definitely did, though accidentally.) These stories were of course a not-so-subtle way of ushering us into his sermon, but as many times as he said "...and to do that, I'll need to tell you a story about..." it never got old. Buoyed by a single glass of water - and no notes - Thomas consistently called the hearts of his parish into God's kingdom every week. He spoke clearly and with conviction - never was it insincere, and his points were organized enough to be evident, yet natural enough to feel like a regular conversation. To me, his most memorable sermon was on Isaiah 42:3, in which he revealed the character of Christ and challenged me to extend more grace to others. I'm not alone in saying this, but he truly was my favorite person to hear the Gospel from. 

Because that was really what it was all about. His conversations, his sermons, his life. No matter whether he was speaking from Ezekiel or John, you could expect each sermon to end in the same place: the Gospel. As a storyteller himself, Father Thomas would trace each idea back to the story he most truly believed in. And by returning to Christ again and again each week, Father Thomas was steadily directing attention away from himself and to the Gospel. Despite writing a definitive book on Anglicanism, despite being the charismatic leader of a healthy church, he somehow kept his head and shunned his pride. 

And beyond that, he just made being a priest cool. He was all in - I think I only saw him once not wearing his white collar, and he could throw Christmas trees into the annual bonfire and make humorous quips with equal ease and charisma. He loved the vastness of the desert and the intricacies of popular movies. He was not a priest sacred and removed from his congregation, but instead one of the most understanding allies willing to go right through the messiness of ordinary life with anyone who asked.

Despite going to a Christian college, Father Thomas and his ministry were my main source of spiritual growth and pretty much the only thing keeping college from being the period of spiritual drought that it often threatened to be. I was always a little disappointed whenever Father Thomas would go on sabbatical since it meant I wouldn't get to hear from him for a while. And as he now enters his Sabbath Rest, it's hard to imagine not receiving more of his bold, witty, and insightful words for the rest of this earthly life. 

if you'd like to know more about father thomas, you can hear one of his best easter sermons here, and the gas station story here.

Skipping Art for Sea Turtles, and Other Nautical Tales

sailor dan in perhaps his truest form, with fellow wayfarer joe mulligan

Hello Bloggerfolk!

I'm back again, fresh from the airport, a bit more tan, a lot more tired, and very glad to be home, or at least some semblance of it. My nomadic summer continues, having spent the most recent stint of it in the bays around the island of St. John! Inspired by our previous trip to the southern seas, my dad and I decided again to go sailing. Only this time, the boat was significantly bigger, the bathrooms were slightly less scary, and the crew was made of old high school friends (both my dad's and one of my own!)  It was my big hurrah to celebrate having finished four years of college and being 99% graduated (I shake my fist angrily at my remaining summer credits). And before you get too jealous, I'll have you know that I was covered in sunscreen most of the time (icky), had a major case of sea legs (wobbly), and got stranded at least once (more on that below). But I'm not gonna lie - it was a great trip and a major blessing. Getting to swim in blue water under jungle hills dotted with pirate-era ruins is pretty much how I’d want to spend any summer ever. Sailing is a lot like camping, in that there's danger and uncomfort which is then traded to experience a beautiful place about as closely as you can. Unless you have a 5-mil+ yacht. But I don't think that will be happening for me anytime soon.

I promised art in my last post, and did my best to deliver. But it wasn't as straightforward as I had hoped. Drawing while on this trip was surprisingly difficult, as my drawing process typically includes two things: lots of reference, and lots of time. And I didn't have much of either on this trip. With limited cell service, I was cut off from the illustrations and art styles I often reference while drawing. All I was left with was the scenery, my natural instincts, and what I could remember. Which perhaps is a good look into where I'm actually at artistically, when I'm not borrowing tools from and measuring myself against other illustrators. But the perfectionist side of me was never really happy with how the pictures were turning out, which made me even more disappointed in the amount of time it was taking to draw them.

me and the pad

Drawing is fairly isolating - working on my iPad meant I was out of the sun and away from the fun for extended periods of time, and I began to feel like I was missing out on the trip in the same way that a tourist misses out on his when he's too focused on taking photos. In fact, drawing often fills that same desire for me as photos do for the tourist: the desire to take some part of the place you're visiting back with you. But in doing so, you miss out on actually experiencing the place firsthand. There was a distinct point on the trip when I was struggling to draw some dang shoreline because I didn't have the time or reference to really nail it, while my friends were out swimming with freaking sea turtles and I thought what am I doing??? is having a nice picture really worth missing out on that?  So I ditched art for the rest of the trip, swam with two sea turtles, and it was wonderful. 

Before I had that "screw it" moment, I did get in two pictures that I liked, both done in a polygonal style based on my memories of Laura Bifano's work, which I recently discovered and really like. It's a novel, very digital approach to landscape painting, but for some reason, it was the only style that really felt natural at the time. I'm also including the shoreline that caused the epiphany because if I can't feel comfortable sharing bad art here, then I won't anywhere. 

golden hour at leinster point and tortola

i just love clouds so. freaking. much.

ugh

Drawing issues aside, the trip was great. The main island we sailed around, St. John, is mostly national park, meaning that the views are relatively unspoiled and it truly felt more wild. I'm not the biggest fan of resort vacations or overdeveloped places... give me ancient ruins and trees any day! This trip had them in spades - we even discovered ruins of a resort house on this quiet beach! 

That tower up behind me is, you guessed it, MORE ruins (pirate-era dutch windmill tower). And while it wasn't on the itinerary, we also got to snorkel over a shipwreck (checks that one off the bucket list) Pardon me while I geek out about ruins for a moment... how have I never talked about this on the blog before??? 

We had a few close shaves, mostly due to the assumption that “we wouldn’t ever run out of gas for the dinghy boat.” (small boat that gets you from the bigger boat to the shore) And that assumption was put most strongly to the test one night when we decided to dinghy 20 minutes across the bay with a more than full passenger load just in the hopes of a seafood dinner. Instead of a seafood dinner, we were greeted with no easy place to park (and for some reason we settled on the smelliest part of the whole harbor to disembark), no seafood (the only place nearby was a hamburger place where we waited literally two hours for food), and barely any gas (as this was the only harbor that had no gas station). By the time we were leaving, the sun had more than set, we were pretty much out of gas, and we still had a 20 minute drive back, against current, in the dark. Dad and I were pounded by the oncoming swells as we pondered what to do in the very real possibility of running out of gas, wrecking on shore, or any number of unsavory outcomes. Thankfully, those outcomes remained hypothetical and were able to make it back. But when the dinghy ran out of gas the next day, stranding us on an entirely different island, we realized just how close we had been to a legitimately dangerous situation. (shoutout to the Alabama guys who got us off that other island). 

And while those dinghy trips made me never want to step foot off of the boat again (for fear of being stranded on yet another island), eventually we did and headed back to the states. It's quite nice to be on the mainland again, and I'm ready to settle into my new place where I'll spend the next couple weeks (this one has a pool! yay!) Hopefully it won't distract me too much from the mountain of Bearpuncher work that needs to be completed but... we'll see ;)

wishing you a great summer of ruin-exploring adventures!

-dh

Music Recommendation: The two songs that were pretty much always in my head the whole trip were Calypso by John Denver and the Pokemon Ruby and Sapphire dive theme. Which are very likely NOT the first two songs that come to most people's minds when it comes to seafaring, but are both incredibly nostalgic for me. (sorry not sorry, beach country music)