#Pencil
The frustrating thing about deadlines is that sometimes you have to hand in what you've got when the gong strikes. I would've preferred to still work more on this.
Illustration•Comics•Graphic Design
Wednesday, 28 April 2010
Ahead (for IF)
#Pencil
The frustrating thing about deadlines is that sometimes you have to hand in what you've got when the gong strikes. I would've preferred to still work more on this.
Tuesday, 20 April 2010
Protection
(This might be surprising to some, but this was painted not with inks but food colouring.)
Monday, 12 April 2010
Tuesday, 30 March 2010
Wednesday, 17 March 2010
Thursday, 4 March 2010
How it all began
"I pray also that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which He has called you... and his incomparably great power for us who believe. - Excerpt from Paul's letter to the Ephesians
A story:
It started out as a feeling, which then grew into a hope. The hope germinated in an unspoken place. The place she could not speak of became too small for this hope that grew and grew in the darkness. She was afraid that it might reach the surface of the conscious & she wouldn’t know if she was strong enough to carry it... So, without a word, one lonely night she dug out the hope & buried it among the sacred things she tried to forget. All these sacred things were kept buried in a chest at the foot of the only tree in her unkept garden.
She hoped it would die & she hoped it wouldn’t. Can hope grow in a cold (human) chest?
The only problem with lonely nights, are that they’re never lonely. You might think it lonely ‘cause you cannot see through the cloak of night, but there is always someone watching you from behind a rustling leaf. Someone who might hear you cry, because you are scared, confused or blind, someone who might see you trying to hide a gift instead of using it. This night was no different. The girl did not see the owl who silently watced her dig out the chest containing the sacred treasures & bury it again.
Owls see better at night than we do. (During the day we don’t fare much better either.) Luckily this owl had the clarity to know that hope doesn’t belong buried for long, it’s not like gold or silver, it needs air. He knew the value of hope on the black market - he might be able to sell it for 5 mice & a hope as strong as the one which had to be contained might be valued twice that much!
The only problem was that owls don’t have hands. Opening buried chests with claws can be quite tricky. He would have to find a fool who would open the chest for him without knowing the value of the hope himself. But where would he find such a fool?
Luckily for owls claws can grasp chests very easily & without much effort the owl flew away with the chest.
Humans are strange beings. We bury things to forget them, but we’ll frequently visit the grave to make sure it is still buried. The girl without the hope did exactly that the first chance she got. To her shock she came upon the scene as the owl left it.
Then the strangest thing happened. Her world crumbled like a cake & tiny mice from everywhere came running to nibble on a crumb. The world is very far below when you don’t have a world to stand on. It was then that the girl without the hope realised the value of the thing she tried to bury & she began to weep, uncontrollably.
Mice are very sensitive beings. They prefer violin sonatas playing when they feast & even though crumbling world’s crumbs are very sweet to eat it tastes even better without the interruption of someone weeping.
So they halted the feast to ask the crying girl what was wrong.
“Someone stole my hope.” she said. “ I kept it buried in a chest & the chest is now gone! And now I don’t know what to do because my whole world came crumbling & you are eating away at all the crumbs & very soon the world I know will all be gone.”
As if they rehearsed it, in unison, the mice burst out in laughter.
“Make yourself a new world. No one can steal your hope & use it as their own,” they said.
“But how do I get it back? And how does one even begin to make a new world?” she asked.
“Oh, that’s easy."
"Easier said than done," one mouse interrupted.
"Pick a star on the dark horizon & follow it during your crimson night. Whilst you walk, take a pen & draw on the ground as you go. Very soon the star will come for you & illuminate the world you drew. Just keep on drawing, even though you cannot see what you are doing. The ink will make your new world & the magic of the star will bring it to light.”
“And the hope? Will I find it again?”
“Hope is a funny thing," said one mouse "...it chooses you.”
(What about the owl? What happened to him is another story altogether...)
A story:
It started out as a feeling, which then grew into a hope. The hope germinated in an unspoken place. The place she could not speak of became too small for this hope that grew and grew in the darkness. She was afraid that it might reach the surface of the conscious & she wouldn’t know if she was strong enough to carry it... So, without a word, one lonely night she dug out the hope & buried it among the sacred things she tried to forget. All these sacred things were kept buried in a chest at the foot of the only tree in her unkept garden.
She hoped it would die & she hoped it wouldn’t. Can hope grow in a cold (human) chest?
The only problem with lonely nights, are that they’re never lonely. You might think it lonely ‘cause you cannot see through the cloak of night, but there is always someone watching you from behind a rustling leaf. Someone who might hear you cry, because you are scared, confused or blind, someone who might see you trying to hide a gift instead of using it. This night was no different. The girl did not see the owl who silently watced her dig out the chest containing the sacred treasures & bury it again.
Owls see better at night than we do. (During the day we don’t fare much better either.) Luckily this owl had the clarity to know that hope doesn’t belong buried for long, it’s not like gold or silver, it needs air. He knew the value of hope on the black market - he might be able to sell it for 5 mice & a hope as strong as the one which had to be contained might be valued twice that much!
The only problem was that owls don’t have hands. Opening buried chests with claws can be quite tricky. He would have to find a fool who would open the chest for him without knowing the value of the hope himself. But where would he find such a fool?
Luckily for owls claws can grasp chests very easily & without much effort the owl flew away with the chest.
Humans are strange beings. We bury things to forget them, but we’ll frequently visit the grave to make sure it is still buried. The girl without the hope did exactly that the first chance she got. To her shock she came upon the scene as the owl left it.
Then the strangest thing happened. Her world crumbled like a cake & tiny mice from everywhere came running to nibble on a crumb. The world is very far below when you don’t have a world to stand on. It was then that the girl without the hope realised the value of the thing she tried to bury & she began to weep, uncontrollably.
Mice are very sensitive beings. They prefer violin sonatas playing when they feast & even though crumbling world’s crumbs are very sweet to eat it tastes even better without the interruption of someone weeping.
So they halted the feast to ask the crying girl what was wrong.
“Someone stole my hope.” she said. “ I kept it buried in a chest & the chest is now gone! And now I don’t know what to do because my whole world came crumbling & you are eating away at all the crumbs & very soon the world I know will all be gone.”
As if they rehearsed it, in unison, the mice burst out in laughter.
“Make yourself a new world. No one can steal your hope & use it as their own,” they said.
“But how do I get it back? And how does one even begin to make a new world?” she asked.
“Oh, that’s easy."
"Easier said than done," one mouse interrupted.
"Pick a star on the dark horizon & follow it during your crimson night. Whilst you walk, take a pen & draw on the ground as you go. Very soon the star will come for you & illuminate the world you drew. Just keep on drawing, even though you cannot see what you are doing. The ink will make your new world & the magic of the star will bring it to light.”
“And the hope? Will I find it again?”
“Hope is a funny thing," said one mouse "...it chooses you.”
(What about the owl? What happened to him is another story altogether...)
Thursday, 18 February 2010
"Slagyster"
“Slagyster” is the Afrikaans word for being entrapped; to be caught in a trap. Poachers set traps in the veld for the unsuspecting buck, lurking in the bushes. The word “slag” also refers to slaughter as in the slaughtering of animals.
It is said the first design of the bra as we know it was designed by a woman, Caresse Crosby, during the First World War. She made it for herself & her friends soon requested a similar design. Women felt this innovative design gave them the freedom of movement, whilst still providing enough support. It was in revolt to the restrictive corset women were forced to wear during the preceding Victorian era.
Even though it can be seen as a small accomplishment, the bra as we know it today still battles with its dual identity as revolution & entrapment. For it still made them subject to the male perspective precisely for what it conceals, what they wish to see & own. It is simultaneously the symbol of feminity & vulnerability.
Women fall prey to the trap – to allow themself to become the observed. To give away their power to see in order to be adorned.
They allowed themself to be seen, to be looked at, to be the object - in a misguided belief that that would be the only way to attain affection: to conceal (& re-create her identity); to appear more placid, less intimidating, less intelligent in an attempt to appear more edible, more approachable. Women are fed the subtle lie that it is impossible to be loved for what they are. In wanting to be seen, we lost our power to see; to be the observed, we lose our perspective to be the observer. The only power women have left is in how much they choose to reveal when & how much is still kept hidden.
I wonder if it's possible… could one be both? Object & voyeur?
Tuesday, 9 February 2010
Thursday, 28 January 2010
Snakeskin stains
A collection of textures
#StainOne
#StainTwo
#StainThree
This doesn't belong to the triptych.
It's included 'cause I love it's ethereal quality. It was a beautiful find.
#StainOne
#StainTwo
#StainThree
This doesn't belong to the triptych.
It's included 'cause I love it's ethereal quality. It was a beautiful find.
Monday, 18 January 2010
Journey in
I have finally uploaded & sorted through the images from the trip - just in time before the year jump starts away with me. We don’t remember just by seeing, but seeing with your eyes closed helps.
Instantaneously I’m transported to a mild-to-cloudy morning. The weatherforecast hasn’t spoken anything of rain so we head out to find the Paradys. Locals tell us of a manmade cave along the rough coast where the beachgoers don’t venture & we decide to seek this treasure. I’m glad I’m not alone. After a few kilometers of hiking along this beach The Abscence becomes tangible. I’m also glad I remembered my camera - the shield. It’s the courage that lets me see where I would’nt have dared to look.
Diane Arbus’ famous quote comes to mind whilst a vicious wind is circling around us: “A photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells you, the less you know.” I believe she was right I think as I’m walking, observing & photographing this untold landscape. The more I see, the more questions I have. The more I realise how little I know.
This wind develops a personality of its own, isolating me from my own thoughts. I’m enveloped by this howl; sand is gnawing at my legs. Luckily I’m wearing glasses to shield off the worst, so I’m still able to see in front of me, like a race horse.
We reach the cave. It can only be reached during low tide. The tide is coming in. I rush to take a few pictures, before the ocean swallows the exit. It feels haunting to know it used to be inhabited. No one can tell us the origin of the cave or what happened to the owner. It’s empty now, that’s all we know & the sea is claiming it back. Not far from it, there’s a cross without a name. More questions.
We decide it’s time to head back. The only other beachgoer we see is a sea lion taking an afternoon siesta on the sand - the terrible wind doesn’t faze him. I take a picture and we startle eachother. The wind is getting stronger. My companion has turned into a bedouin - desperately attempting to ward off the sand with a pashmina. How beautiful she is to me, wrapped up like a sarcophagus... and I think, how similar some people are to landscapes. The more I see, the more I wonder, the more I realise how little I know of them, how little I understand.
She’s my sister & I love her, but do I know her? I don’t know. She keeps on surprising me, the more I look at her the more she reveals shards of her complexity. These are the landscapes that intrigue me most. I feel so privileged to be invited... & asked to stay.
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