Wednesday, 17 January 2018
*Summative Statement*
I enjoyed the COP module a lot more this year. I
think having the freedom to plan my project around what I wanted to investigate
helped with the momentum and kept me
interested in the relationship between theory and practical work.
Overall, I have learned a lot during this module.
Not just in regards to the contextual background of images, but how this can
be applied and used to
enhance the effectiveness of my work. Before this year, I hadn't thought about my work in terms of composition
and scenes. This seems obvious now, as much of my work looks at an entire frame
and what could be outside of it. Especially in relation to the argument of
words vs images, finding a balance between the information provided by the text
on the page and the illustrations helped me to understand the power of subtlety
in regards to the use of symbols and a viewer’s association with a visual cue. I also enjoyed looking at tone and atmosphere in
more depth, which is an important aspect of my practice, as well as art forms
outside of illustration, such as film and photography. The way in which I
produce images has a direct correlation with the tone and impact of a
narrative. Researching a variety of examples helped me to define where my work
sits in the creative industries. As a result, I feel much more informed about my own practice. I am excited about how I can apply the things I
have learned during COP3 to future projects.
Friday, 12 January 2018
Final Book
The final book consists of the original 3 scene illustrations, each with a corresponding character design, and a short story based on the ideas put forward in the survey I put out.
The idea behind this was to demonstrate that words can come from images. Although in usual circumstances, an image is based upon an existing written narrative, this is not a rule that needs to be followed.
The idea behind this was to demonstrate that words can come from images. Although in usual circumstances, an image is based upon an existing written narrative, this is not a rule that needs to be followed.
The final printed book took me a while to put together. Although the double-sided printer always prints the colours slightly darker than I want, the quality is good. It took me a couple of attempts when binding, as the pages weren't lined up properly when they came out - so I had to measure them again, then fold and staple. Overall I am happy with the outcome, after the hand in I might print a few more copies in order to sell - when I have some time to spare.
Thursday, 11 January 2018
Scene 3 Character - Explorer
I particularly enjoyed making this character, the ideas kept flowing as I started drawing the final image. This one started out as a very rough sketch on a scrap bit of paper, following the answers for image 3 in the survey.
Because this image is a whole setting encompassing character as well, it will probably be the cover design of my book, as it links elements explored within the book.
Throughout, I want to put the character designs after the written stories, with the scene images put before the text - to round off.
The Lost Melody - Short Story 3
Page 1
The height of the hills are what intrigued her the most. She always had an inquisitive spirit, and was looking for a new adventure.
She prepared for her escapade well, taking a bindle full of useful items, including; a compass, climbing ropes, matches, and a hand drawn map, amongst other things. Wrapping up in a woolly scarf, and pulling on her red boots, she thought about what she would discover when climbing those hills. The night was drawing in, but the sky was bright, and the stars flickered through the rolling clouds. She left the house confidently, feeling the cold air hit her face and throwing her hood over her head, she followed the winding path towards the mountains, which were visible on the horizon.
Looking up at the walls of nature either side of her, with a rope thrown over her shoulder, she searched for an adequate climbing spot. After much deliberation, she decided on a particularly steep part of the hill, and started to climb, wondering what could be over the other side.
Reaching the top she looked over the moonlit landscape, swinging fearlessly from a rope in the air. The clouds continued to tumble gently across the night sky, now hiding the mountains from view. After jumping down, she was surprised to find a wood, with an aged wooden sign that read ‘no trespassing’. In her curiosity, she ignored the sign and carried on through the trees. Twigs snapped and leaves crunched beneath her feet, she quickly discovered how big the wood was.
Page 2
In what felt like the most secluded part of the forest, she began to hear a distance melody playing. The tune was eerie, and simple. She followed the sound, carefully weaving in and out of the trees. Just as she was beginning to doubt her decision to carry on exploring, she noticed a dim light shining through some leaves. Getting closer she realised where it was coming from. At the highest point of the hill stood a quaint little house with a red roof, about the size of a garden shed. There were no windows, just a door, which was ajar. This was where the music was coming from.
Stepping closer to the solitary house, she saw a long trail of smoke coming from the chimney. ‘Someone must be in’, she thought. Time had passed, the music grew louder, but the same tune continued to blare out of the house. Abruptly, it stopped, just as she reached the edge of the house. Her eyes were darting around the place where she stood, ‘how do they know I'm here?’, she whispered under her breath. She was so certain she hadn't made a sound.
Placing her bindle on the ground, she stood up against the wall, feeling the rough texture of the bricks beneath her fingers. She peered around the corner. The door swung open and light poured out on to the patchy turf. Building up the courage and thinking she could reason with whoever lived there, she peered inside. It was just one room, which was
empty. Aside from a large oil lamp burning in the corner. There was nothing to suggest that music had been playing at all. No one was there. Just the sense that she was being
watched.
The height of the hills are what intrigued her the most. She always had an inquisitive spirit, and was looking for a new adventure.
She prepared for her escapade well, taking a bindle full of useful items, including; a compass, climbing ropes, matches, and a hand drawn map, amongst other things. Wrapping up in a woolly scarf, and pulling on her red boots, she thought about what she would discover when climbing those hills. The night was drawing in, but the sky was bright, and the stars flickered through the rolling clouds. She left the house confidently, feeling the cold air hit her face and throwing her hood over her head, she followed the winding path towards the mountains, which were visible on the horizon.
Looking up at the walls of nature either side of her, with a rope thrown over her shoulder, she searched for an adequate climbing spot. After much deliberation, she decided on a particularly steep part of the hill, and started to climb, wondering what could be over the other side.
Reaching the top she looked over the moonlit landscape, swinging fearlessly from a rope in the air. The clouds continued to tumble gently across the night sky, now hiding the mountains from view. After jumping down, she was surprised to find a wood, with an aged wooden sign that read ‘no trespassing’. In her curiosity, she ignored the sign and carried on through the trees. Twigs snapped and leaves crunched beneath her feet, she quickly discovered how big the wood was.
Page 2
In what felt like the most secluded part of the forest, she began to hear a distance melody playing. The tune was eerie, and simple. She followed the sound, carefully weaving in and out of the trees. Just as she was beginning to doubt her decision to carry on exploring, she noticed a dim light shining through some leaves. Getting closer she realised where it was coming from. At the highest point of the hill stood a quaint little house with a red roof, about the size of a garden shed. There were no windows, just a door, which was ajar. This was where the music was coming from.
Stepping closer to the solitary house, she saw a long trail of smoke coming from the chimney. ‘Someone must be in’, she thought. Time had passed, the music grew louder, but the same tune continued to blare out of the house. Abruptly, it stopped, just as she reached the edge of the house. Her eyes were darting around the place where she stood, ‘how do they know I'm here?’, she whispered under her breath. She was so certain she hadn't made a sound.
Placing her bindle on the ground, she stood up against the wall, feeling the rough texture of the bricks beneath her fingers. She peered around the corner. The door swung open and light poured out on to the patchy turf. Building up the courage and thinking she could reason with whoever lived there, she peered inside. It was just one room, which was
empty. Aside from a large oil lamp burning in the corner. There was nothing to suggest that music had been playing at all. No one was there. Just the sense that she was being
watched.
Haste - Short Story 2
Page 1
An electrical storm rolled through the countryside. Amongst the rumbling that echoed through the forest, a faint tapping of footsteps could be heard. Getting faster and faster, the taps resounded in time with the heavy patter of rain.
She was running. This was the place. Looking to her right she remembered the pointed tops of the fir trees in the distance, the familiar iron railings which spanned for miles. For a moment, she forgot why she was back there. The croaky voice in her ear made her jump, ‘You’re nearly there, carry on’, it commanded. She had been dreading this mission since the very start. ‘Why is it always me?’, she thought to herself, when the case was put forward. Her stealthiness was her best quality and the reason for her new position, but so far this had been nothing but a hindrance.
The deluge continued to fall, dripping off of the rim of her black trilby hat. A stream of murky water ran down the hill beside her. As much as she tried to avoid it, every third step she would feel it seeping into her shoe. Still running, even beneath the red gloves she wore, she could feel her palms sweating. ‘How much longer?’, she muttered to herself, obviously disgruntled with the situation. To her surprise, the croaky voice replied, this time much louder, frantically shouting ‘LEFT! LEFT! NOW’.
She spun on her heel and there she saw it, although she could just make out a figure in the distance, she knew it was him. If she was quiet, she would be able to catch him. He didn't seem to realise he was being followed.
Page 2
She would have to slow down, but the wailing of the storm would drown out some of the noise of her feet splashing in the puddles. Zig-zagging across the pathway, she hid behind the biggest tree trunks, planning her next move every time she stopped. Just once the figure turned around, but as she had hoped, he blamed the mysterious splashing noises on the roaring thunder, growling wind and barrage of rain that fell around him. She carried on, stalking him like a bird of prey.
Again, the voice hissed in her ear ‘Be careful’, it said, and at that point she realised. He was right there, next to her, with a hood covering his face. Still standing behind the trunk, she pulled her scarf over her face, just below her eyes, with the thought, ‘I don’t wan’t him to recognise me’.
She stood hesitantly for what seemed like an age, thinking about what the next stage of her plan could be. In the corner of her eye she could see a flash of headlights. ‘That must be his accomplice’, she thought. Fumbling with her gloves, she began to take one off, palms still sweaty. She thought she had more time. Suddenly, the figure turned, coming face-to-face with his pursuer. Despite her vague attempt at a disguise, he recognised her immediately. The glove dropped to the ground and ignoring the inaudible murmurs coming from her earpiece, she lowered her scarf.
Another low rumble gently erupted across the forest. In response, he pointed at the sky. ‘Just Mother Nature with a cold, she’ll get over it’. He knew why she was there.
An electrical storm rolled through the countryside. Amongst the rumbling that echoed through the forest, a faint tapping of footsteps could be heard. Getting faster and faster, the taps resounded in time with the heavy patter of rain.
She was running. This was the place. Looking to her right she remembered the pointed tops of the fir trees in the distance, the familiar iron railings which spanned for miles. For a moment, she forgot why she was back there. The croaky voice in her ear made her jump, ‘You’re nearly there, carry on’, it commanded. She had been dreading this mission since the very start. ‘Why is it always me?’, she thought to herself, when the case was put forward. Her stealthiness was her best quality and the reason for her new position, but so far this had been nothing but a hindrance.
The deluge continued to fall, dripping off of the rim of her black trilby hat. A stream of murky water ran down the hill beside her. As much as she tried to avoid it, every third step she would feel it seeping into her shoe. Still running, even beneath the red gloves she wore, she could feel her palms sweating. ‘How much longer?’, she muttered to herself, obviously disgruntled with the situation. To her surprise, the croaky voice replied, this time much louder, frantically shouting ‘LEFT! LEFT! NOW’.
She spun on her heel and there she saw it, although she could just make out a figure in the distance, she knew it was him. If she was quiet, she would be able to catch him. He didn't seem to realise he was being followed.
Page 2
She would have to slow down, but the wailing of the storm would drown out some of the noise of her feet splashing in the puddles. Zig-zagging across the pathway, she hid behind the biggest tree trunks, planning her next move every time she stopped. Just once the figure turned around, but as she had hoped, he blamed the mysterious splashing noises on the roaring thunder, growling wind and barrage of rain that fell around him. She carried on, stalking him like a bird of prey.
Again, the voice hissed in her ear ‘Be careful’, it said, and at that point she realised. He was right there, next to her, with a hood covering his face. Still standing behind the trunk, she pulled her scarf over her face, just below her eyes, with the thought, ‘I don’t wan’t him to recognise me’.
She stood hesitantly for what seemed like an age, thinking about what the next stage of her plan could be. In the corner of her eye she could see a flash of headlights. ‘That must be his accomplice’, she thought. Fumbling with her gloves, she began to take one off, palms still sweaty. She thought she had more time. Suddenly, the figure turned, coming face-to-face with his pursuer. Despite her vague attempt at a disguise, he recognised her immediately. The glove dropped to the ground and ignoring the inaudible murmurs coming from her earpiece, she lowered her scarf.
Another low rumble gently erupted across the forest. In response, he pointed at the sky. ‘Just Mother Nature with a cold, she’ll get over it’. He knew why she was there.
Wednesday, 10 January 2018
The Woodcutter's Wife - Short Story 1
Page 1
The stove kettle whistled as the woodcutter’s wife waited patiently by the window, watching her husband fell the tree outside their cottage. She was glad.
‘Nothing but old wives tales’, was her typical response whenever anyone brought up the subject. This often happened when someone from the village came to visit the house. However, even on a summer’s day, she felt uncomfortable every time she her eyes fell on the tree for more than a couple of seconds. Not once did a leaf grow from its dark heavy branches, which would frequently fall to the ground with a thud, sending ripples through the floorboards. Too close, it towered intimidatingly over the house, casting a spidery shadow over the brickwork and through the window, blocking any natural light from entering the kitchen. On evenings like this, the log fire would be crackling, and the curtains drawn. They were used to the stormy weather in the valley.
Visibility outside wasn't always good and admittedly, she thought she was going mad every time she saw it, but every now and then she’d blink and for a split second, a red hat would appear, swinging gently on the lowest branch, then vanish.
Blowing off the steam from her hot tea, she thought about all the times people from the village had asked her about the monstrosity residing in her back garden, and all the times she had assured them that the stories didn't bother her. But in this moment, the realisation that it would no longer be a part of their lives gave her an overwhelming sense of relief.
Page 2
The hat, the hat. Every day she would dread seeing it, dread noticing. But once she had noticed, she couldn't stop thinking about it. Who did it belong to? Why was it there?
All the while the woodcutter, to his dismay, continued to swing his axe against the base of the tree trunk. He felt ashamed. ‘What will people say when they know I destroyed the tree? Surely they will think that I actually believe these ridiculous rumours’, he thought to himself. The wood shavings whipped across his face as the force of the gale became stronger. Through squinted eyes, he could still see the silhouette of his wife watching from the window. Secretly he hoped she would change her mind and invite him back in.
It was dark by the time he finished felling the tree. The woodcutter’s wife had been standing in the same place, waiting, watching, listening. Still holding the cup, her tea had been cold for a while. Although the fire burned low, the embers flickered in the shadows, illuminating the floor where she stood.
The hat, the hat. It was there, swaying back and forth on the branch of the fallen tree, but it was not a figment of her imagination, it did not disappear.
She blinked and blinked, and there it was. But where was he?
Where was the woodcutter?
The stove kettle whistled as the woodcutter’s wife waited patiently by the window, watching her husband fell the tree outside their cottage. She was glad.
‘Nothing but old wives tales’, was her typical response whenever anyone brought up the subject. This often happened when someone from the village came to visit the house. However, even on a summer’s day, she felt uncomfortable every time she her eyes fell on the tree for more than a couple of seconds. Not once did a leaf grow from its dark heavy branches, which would frequently fall to the ground with a thud, sending ripples through the floorboards. Too close, it towered intimidatingly over the house, casting a spidery shadow over the brickwork and through the window, blocking any natural light from entering the kitchen. On evenings like this, the log fire would be crackling, and the curtains drawn. They were used to the stormy weather in the valley.
Visibility outside wasn't always good and admittedly, she thought she was going mad every time she saw it, but every now and then she’d blink and for a split second, a red hat would appear, swinging gently on the lowest branch, then vanish.
Blowing off the steam from her hot tea, she thought about all the times people from the village had asked her about the monstrosity residing in her back garden, and all the times she had assured them that the stories didn't bother her. But in this moment, the realisation that it would no longer be a part of their lives gave her an overwhelming sense of relief.
Page 2
The hat, the hat. Every day she would dread seeing it, dread noticing. But once she had noticed, she couldn't stop thinking about it. Who did it belong to? Why was it there?
All the while the woodcutter, to his dismay, continued to swing his axe against the base of the tree trunk. He felt ashamed. ‘What will people say when they know I destroyed the tree? Surely they will think that I actually believe these ridiculous rumours’, he thought to himself. The wood shavings whipped across his face as the force of the gale became stronger. Through squinted eyes, he could still see the silhouette of his wife watching from the window. Secretly he hoped she would change her mind and invite him back in.
It was dark by the time he finished felling the tree. The woodcutter’s wife had been standing in the same place, waiting, watching, listening. Still holding the cup, her tea had been cold for a while. Although the fire burned low, the embers flickered in the shadows, illuminating the floor where she stood.
The hat, the hat. It was there, swaying back and forth on the branch of the fallen tree, but it was not a figment of her imagination, it did not disappear.
She blinked and blinked, and there it was. But where was he?
Where was the woodcutter?
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