Moon pies.

Strung with the guts of a great-cat-grandfather,
There's a ghostlier note to that fiddle.



A spoon that's more rake took the dish and the cake,
And the sunrise was left with the riddle.

A post-vacation, post-baptism "halloo" to the little Rubaby.

Children of the Night.

I tried, I really did.

The enduring (and, to my mind, mistaken) image of the Beast has been that of a big cat. Ferocious, to be sure, but also powerful, sleek, attractive--watered down and prettied up to romance an audience of fourteen-year-olds. I always liked to think I'd resist the urge to, well, lionize him in the Disney sense. Rackham did, and Dulac--forgoing fashion and form and arriving at something resembling more Murnau's Nosferatu--something nearer the ugly truth. (The three were comtemporaries--did one inform the others? was there something in the postwar waters?). But has a grace been lost and are you plucked from the story because of it?

So maybe I didn't try at all. I clearly don't have the stomach for the unsettling, so here he is--curried and cleaned for easy viewing.

Tookish.

Sitting here amazed at how much work it took for an eh. It aspired toward Golden Age/Art Deco and instead fluttered to the windowsill of 1970's German b&w.

Sing wit me now.

New United Airlines commercials aired during the Olympics. The animation for this one is crazy.

Devil may care.

Faustus.

...sensitive about my shit.

Trying out some 'new' stuff. But I'd be lying if I said it doesn't feel real good to curl up in the spaces between a zillion tiny little lines.

Weak forces.

Came in from a dark and rainy run to a darker-still house. No reassuring tap-tap on a keyboard. No percussive thwock of japanese flash cards. Just vague rumblings of furniture moving around upstairs and this sound--clear as water--pouring from invisible rafters.




Simply the first few seconds of "Gravity" by Gorillaz on a Rhapsody left to run. But Albarn's ghostbaby voice just about sent me leaping from my soggy sneaks.

Greetings to thee, Zachiel.

Lord, but it feels like fall.

Parts per million.

Kidnapping of some knight. Though a distinction really must be made. The mythoscape is littered with so many maids a-wander, peering under every suspect toadstool for a handsome abductee, that how is one to know? How are they to know for that matter? One gent is like to the next when it comes to the tug of Faery. They are nothing but poor souls whose lot it is to be completely unmanned under the gaze of the Goddess--as Troll Princess, Titania, Venus herself. In that arena a Cupid looks much like a Beast, who looks much like a Bear, or a Frog Prince, or a Tam Lin. Under such circumstances, who would blame a girl for a slight blurring in discernment to make a quick end to her search? Keep in mind that half these women are trudging around with growing wombs.

But they do know and they stay the course--floating over the geography like pretty spores. White-gowned, white-crowned, with passive purpose. Until the time comes to get weedy and tenacious.

A crowd.

First attempt: handshake for skill.

Second attempt: pat on the head for industry and effort.

Third attempt: cautious retreat of one who sniffs madness in his own kind.

Quite the third piece done in triplicate this past month. My happy groove has wound itself into a yawning trench. Dotted with the ghosts of bloodless pens who signal each other in code and keep travelling the same sad arc of a reindeer's horn. They think there's a formula to be found, but the Queen's cold math doesn't yield much.

Bloody right.

currently on a loop:

link

"How long I have stayed!"

Never expect consolation from the nodding snow drop. Or take a turn with the curtseying hyacinth. The narcissus is subject to flattery and the tiger-lily is the great prevaricator. Though their petals may be bright, the daisies have long ago fallen to rot. The shining ranunculus will blind your eyes.

Grab the stalk and scar the hand and the rose will lead you to Lapland.

Parts

Scrap mettle.

Won't take no.

Third attempt at corsetting Andersen's arctic into an appealing package. Unfortunately, Lapland has proved to be a mess of bulges--all hips and desiccated breasts. Still more pitiable is my conviction that there exists out there some correct formula.

Lady Liberty.

Glancing-eyed, banner weilding. Feet in the corn, head in the clouds.

Gid-yup.

I've put them through their courses over the last few weeks, but The Snow Queen was the ultimate proving ground. Don't know why I didn't begin with her--she's such an exacting ruler.

Nosing its way into the lead over a cast of stout Staedtler pigment liners--THE FOUNTAIN PEN.

Rut.

Taking time to get--
re-souled
re-soled
re-sold
re-soldered
re-soldiered

Always too cold.

But I can see just right without aid.

Green-fuuurrr-n.

Hear ye.

In violet light.

Where the spectrum ends. From the earth, to the earth.

I'll lead you about a round.

Come, wait upon him; lead him to my bower.
The moon methinks looks with a watery eye;
And when she weeps, weeps every little flower,
Lamenting some enforced chastity.
Tie up my love's tongue bring him silently.

from A Midsummer's Night Dream

...you say?

More "doin" than "devil", but it's a work in progress. I'd really like to explore the realm of toy manufacture/marketing in an environment dealing with legitimate monster problems.

Well, I never.

The Dandy.

Go green.

Another Greenfern logo.

And another.

Have cradle, will rock.

I've had infants on the mind, what with the arrival of the vandebaby, so more Zeus.

There's the familiar legend of Amalthea, the she-goat who nursed Zeus (holding off on all Last Unicorn references), but there were two lesser-known attendants--completing the naiad triad of maiden/mother/crone. I forget their names, of course. The mythology places them all in a cave, but a tree also figures prominently, and because branches are easier than caves, here you have it. Plus, I like the idea of the little Thunderer dangling over all--a "zeus" ex machina, if you will--it works better, artistically.

Anyway, I think it's been proven that a god hanging from a tree is the lasting image.

Ai!

The Curetes. Stationed under Zeus' crib (hung in the branches of a tree so Mad Pappy Cronus could find him neither in heaven nor on earth), they would clash their weapons and shout to mask the baby's cries, foiling the Search and Destroy. Thus the king-elect was weaned from his surrogate goatmam: amidst the clatter of acorns, spearpoints, and warcry lullabyes. Pretty badass.

Also the new (first?) ex libris for the Livingston household.

Spreeee.

Early design for the Greenferners. Doing a couple more fer ther perusal.

Recently watched The Unbearable Lightness of Being (aka The Incredible Likeness of Bean --you can almost taste the green of those sprouts!). It was alright, I guess--dark and thought-ish. Had to turn it off midway because it had neither magic, superpowers, spaceships, or a makeover scene. Know your limits. Work within them.

Pop!

(With the littlest vdv in mind.)

Zeus came to the lovely Alkmene in the guise of her husband and made the night last three days--thus Hercules was conceived. Unwilling to sit spectator to the grooming of yet another of the Thunderer's lordly by-blows, Hera did what she does best--vowed vengeance. When the human queen went into labor, Hera and her Lovely Arms bade Eiliethyia go to the palace of Alkmene. Once there, the goddess of childbirth sat at the doorstep with her hands wrapped about her knees, preventing delivery. Only the quick thinking of the queen's handmaid Galinthias saved the day. She rushed out crying the birth of a boy, causing the goddess to unclasp her hands in surprise and allow the birth. Accordingly, the angry Eiliethyia rewarded the girl's wits by turning her into a weasel.*

*a creature that was thought to give birth to its young through the mouth.

Lunar jodhpurs--

--what a time to be alive.

...same as the first.

Revolucion Rodentia.

Characters:

Marcus--the inflamed intellectual (good ideas, bad science)

Katrina--his adoring lady love (matching patches)

Potts--professor of political science/local lecher

Mrs. Pelt--wealthy patron; set of nice rooms at the Ritz

Mr. Pelt--her not-so-blind husband

Mama--mama (respiratory infection)

Nic--jealous best friend (she was my girl!)

Luc--ex-partner (these schematics look really familiar)

Louie the Pen--reporter/spy/transvestite/drunk

Stan Baggs--moneyed rat

The best laid plans...

"But who's going to bell the cat?"

Not that they would have got far with even the staunchest hero, for Puss was watchful and informed. The floorboards were ribboned with his termite army--devoted and groomed by milk-fed years. Long-eared crickets were stationed at their doorposts, fiddling with their alarms. And a season ago, the cat, with a canny eye to the future, had captured and tormented the family of one Gouda Silkwhisker. Broken by grief and widowhood, the old mouse was left free to roam, whispering to himself and the walls and to less benign audiences--all unknowing informant. He would have wept at the comparison, and the others would have turned up their noses at the suggestion, but there was no doubt a mole among the mouses.

Right outside of your front door.

Product of abundant porching and scarce imagination.
Safe as houses.

I do, I do, I do, I do, I do--

A Lion once fell in love with a farmer's daughter and proposed marriage. The old man did not know what to say. He did not like to give his daughter to the Lion, yet did not wish to enrage the King of Beasts. At last the father said: "I feel highly honoured by your Majesty's proposal, but you see my daughter is a tender young thing, and I fear that in the vehemence of your affection you might possibly do her some injury. Might I venture to suggest that your Majesty should have your claws removed, and your teeth extracted, then I would gladly consider your proposal again." The Lion was so much in love that he had his claws trimmed and his big teeth taken out. But when he came again, the father simply laughed in his face, and bade him do his worst.
Love can tame the wildest.

Aesop

You are unwise to lower your defenses.

Where did you dig up that old fossil?

Finding some moral parallels between Aesop and Star Wars that I just can't shake. Or is it that Lucas is simply my filter for everything? Either way, a vague collaboration may be just the thing.

Let me get my hat.

For those who haven't caught, and for those who wish to catch again, an encore of Mad Men begins on AMC this Sunday night at 12. Miss it twice, shame on you.

Hot-tempered.

Aesop as promised.

Farmer catches a fox that's been tearing up his crop. Vengefully ties a bundle of flaming sticks to the animal's tail; lets him loose. Fox runs directly back to the vineyards and sets everything afire.

Revenge is a Double-edged Sword. The formal Moral. But I feel something can also be said for a brand in the hand equalling two in the bush.

Out of the Woods

The last Grimm for a while--packing up the HBs and heading to warmer climes. And while I'm still bound to take the long route 'round Olympus, the olive groves of Aesop are looking tempting. And perfect opportunity to rub some yellows together in an attempt at some rank sulfurous pieces.

Tethered.

B&W draft for something still brewing.

Of the Golden Arrows

More Snow White. More botched Snow White, is more like. I was all set to launch into a shaky sermon setting her up as a "modern" day Artemis. Quite a few elements are there. She's got the looks (pale, virginal). She's got the color scheme (red, black, white and their corresponding moon-phases). There's the innocent mother (Leto), the hunt by a jealous step-mother (Hera), the absentee papa (Zeus). She roams the woods, has the adoration of beasts, the god-worship of huntsmen (don't tell me that dude didn't end served up on some cranky bitch's sacrificial plate, or cast to the metaphorical stars), sets up shop in some shady grot. Even her dwarves find themselves appropriate occupations as hoary little handmaidens. *

But it turns out strongwilled, haughty goddess types (even ones that "range...over hills and windy heights, rejoicing in the chase"*) don't play well with the fairy tale format. My tablet wants its heroines shrinking and cowed and it will buckle and warp to get its way. And this little lady, closer to reality, but falling wide of the creative mark*, goes unfinished under the blade.

*Homeric Hymn to Artemis

*I was even going to aim for an Atalanta as Artemis argument and drag in the famous Apple

*Archery-based punning completely intentional

< the sum of its parts

Spent the week tooling with various combinations of media. Just how many combinations of layered gunge can I devise? Seemingly limitless, but four to be precise. Each looking more bedraggled than the last. The result has been a massive repapering of the walls of every wastebasket in the house. In a thousand glorious shades of grey.

Creeps and Peeps

He is risen.

Back into your cupboard.

Sliced and diced.

What happens when you reach too fucking far.

Trapdoors that you can't come back from.

Gravid women at windows. It's a Grimm specialty. Rapunzel's mother. Rapunzel herself, if you want to get squeamishly literal. Snow White's mother. There's something in the image. Women being consumed from within, battered from without. Not technically indoors, not technically out-of. And not at all in possession of themselves while they stand between the two. Shades at doorways. Or doorways themselves.

The End.

Because Smokey's got nothing better to do than watch an empty coffin.

Not fair.

Brutal honesty is what you get when you don't feed your mirrorgod.

Do-ray-me-fa-so-la-Heigh-Ho.

Little known truth that dwarves are master singers. Of course, it would be silly romanticism to assume that the song is the product of joyous spirits--they're a stony-faced, hardhearted bunch and that is well documented. Fact is, it has everything to do with stones. Turns out that the rare gems have an affinity for music. A well-tuned song will work its way into the inner lattices of a stone and set its crystal structure to vibrating. A few taps on a surfaced vein to establish pitch and the worker can hum-hum his way along all the truest faultlines of the mineral--singing while hammering out the finest, most unblemished product. Harmonic mining. And dwarves--with their bellow lungs and their mobile mouths and their unmatched perfectionism--are the best. A practiced miner can winnow out his quarry--while aboveground--simply by emitting a series of sweet, high-pitched shrills*. A stone will practically dance from its mooring at the sound of dwarfsong. Which in actuality, is all very romantic, and the closest to a love affair that these small, grim men can get.

*Gives a whole new meaning to "whistle while you work".

Quick. Grab a beer and your DS.

The animal in his natural habitat.

Knew that, inevitably, things would devolve into ten-'til-midnight portrait sessions.

Bird Maiden

Locks of love...

...that clearly did not keep intruders out. Themely, if unseemly--especially if you've seen Alex's newly shorn pate.

Sacrificing quality for speed.

Not a swift wit, Snow White, but someone should have advised her to look down. The shoes make the man. No common peddlar woman would have the funds for Seven League Boots. And no sorceress worth her salt would travel without them.

Falling Short.

Oh, who the hell knows? I could fudge some things, but the number five doesn't really figure prominently anywhere that I know. Maybe I should check the Eastern logs.

Heartless.

Disney pretties things up, but it was actually the liver and lungs of Snow White that the witch demands, pickles, fries, and consumes. Provided instead by an obliging fawn.

There will be blood.

Really, this time.

A little Daniel for your Day. Maybe it's the rise of the mustachioed man that led me to it. Or maybe years later I'm still smarting over the gross miscast of a role that should have been Lewis's. Either way, it seems he's my hunter of choice.