The Art Room

[Spamus]

Isn't it wonderful? Get a handle on coloring and suddenly you have this giant pile of resources to work with for practicing!

[Kimimi]

Mar 9, 2011 3:06:16 GMT -5 Lumi said:

I'll bust out with something like a tutorial sheet soon then! Just the basics, probably. You can decide from there if you want more to it.

And whee. I've been trying to get some very old pictures colored, now that I kindasorta know what I'm doing in Photoshop.

That's lovely work (again)! ^^~

I keep hearing people talk about Photoshop but I've never used it myself, is it really that much better than the alternatives?

[Lumi]

Mar 10, 2011 9:41:18 GMT -5 Kimimi said:

That's lovely work (again)! ^^~

I keep hearing people talk about Photoshop but I've never used it myself, is it really that much better than the alternatives?

Thank you! ^.^ The sketch is old and had icky pencil work on it since I wasn't drawing with blue pencil at that time, but I managed to salvage it.

As for photoshop? Yes, yes, yes, a thousand times yes. It's a little tricky to get into and learn the tools initially, but there are good tutorials all over the net for that. Photoshop makes color work and image manip stuff almost criminally simple once you take to it. You'd probably have a grand time with it on your photography, too.

I've been working in CS4 so far, but CS5 is out.

[Mutagene]

CS5 is out already? I feel like CS3 just came out, and I'm still using it...

[Kimimi]

Curses, time to get saving then ;_;

[Kimimi]

Two photos, and two scribbles -

[Nalacakes]

Those are lovely, Kimimi! I'm especially fond of the dewdrop photo, and the adorable Easter Bunny.

Felt like sharing something, so here's a little short story I wrote a couple of months ago. I hope anyone who bothers to read it will forgive my writing for being both not very good and more than a little on the sentimental side. :'D

SPOILER: Click to show

Shooting Star

It was Fiona's twenty-first birthday. Though one could have hardly guessed from the laughter, happy chatter and trance music that streamed out of the window of her top floor flat. Few would have connected such a lively scene with the small, mousey girl who stepped out onto the porch below. Her face was plump and undecorated, the dour clothes she wore appeared to have been chosen for purely practical purposes, and the small eyes that peered out from behind her round spectacles looked like the sort which had a long and storied relationship with the tops of people's shoes.

She appreciated the effort Anna had made organising the party. When Fiona had said it was her twenty-first, her flatmate's eyes had lit up, and she had spent the last week flying from shop to shop like some sort of demented worker bee. Slowly the guest list had grown, and their living room table had been piled high with a veritable banquet of party snacks. You only have one twenty-first birthday, kiddo. Can't let it slip away. Besides, nobody graduates uni without throwing at least one killer party.

The trouble was that Fiona was nobody. She was fond of the quiet things in life. Evenings that consisted of little more than a paperback novel, a warm bath, and a hot cup of cocoa. And she had always found herself enjoying parties more when they were still about who won at Pass the Parcel, and where people were only throwing up in the toilet because they had eaten too much cake. Yes, she appreciated the effort Anna had made. But as faces both familiar and strange appeared at the door, and spirits began to bubble forth and tinkle into glasses, she found herself feeling light headed. The faces of those around her seemed to lose their definition, and perfectly comprehensible chit-chat became foreign sequences of sound in her ears. Before she knew it she was excusing herself. Apologising to her guests, hurtling down the stairwell, and sighing with relief as she pushed open the door and the cold December air filled her lungs.

That was when she saw him. He was sitting on the steps of the porch, lazily plucking notes on a worn acoustic guitar. Snow had piled up on his messy, dirty-looking hair, and his frame looked thin and lithe under a leather jacket hung about his shoulders. She couldn't place him at first. Knew only that there was something familiar in his slouched posture and small, skinny arms. Yet as he heard the door click behind her and glanced round, her eyes met his, and shone with sudden recognition.

“Hey Sis.” He waved his hand. “Happy birthday. It's been a while.”

Time had not been kind to him. It wasn't simply the tone of his skin, the dark rings under his eyes, and the stubble on his chin. He seemed to have aged on a much more fundamental level. Age had taken root in him like a stubborn weed. It crept across the furrows in his brow, grew like ivy across the muscles in his body, and sighed in the steady rise and fall of his chest. The effect was such that she might not have recognised him at all had it not been for his eyes. They alone remained untouched by time, gleaming with a youth and vigour that was unmistakably his. They alone identified the stranger as her brother.

“Max...” Such was her surprise that for a moment, all she could get out was his name. Eventually more words came. “What are you doing here?”
A shrug of the shoulders. “Was in the area and thought I'd swing by for your birthday.” He smiled. “Sounds like you've got quite a party going up there.”
“I guess so. My flatmate organised it. It's my twenty-first and all.”
“And yet the birthday girl comes outside to sit in the snow? Somehow I'm not sensing a lot of enthusiasm here.”
“I was never one for parties.” She shrugged. “I mean it's nice and all, but...”
“It just feels like it's not really a party for you so much as one that's using you as an excuse?”
She laughed sheepishly. “Yeah. That.”
He grinned. “What're you up to these days? Heard you're studying psychology, or...”
“Sociology. Have my finals coming up soon.”
“Are you still playing the piano?”
“Sometimes. We don't have one here, but there are music rooms on campus.”
“That's good.”

An awkward silence fell, and for a moment things were so quiet that Fiona could almost hear the snowdrops hit the ground. Then, turning back to his guitar, Max began to sing. His voice was soft and tentative, like he was feeling out the lyrics as he went along.
“Lifetimes in the...” He paused. “Lifetime on the road to...” He sighed, and his guitar yelped like a frightened animal as he slapped his hand on the strings.
“Lifetimes tick away,” Fiona sang softly, “within your ivory spire.”
He turned to her. “Hey, that's not bad.” He nodded, and sung it back himself. “So what comes next?”
“I thought that was your speciality,” she laughed, “or am I going to get paid royalties for this?”
“Humour me.” He grinned. “Let's write a song. You can do the lyrics. We'll call it a birthday present.” He nodded his head toward the bag at his feet. “To go with that.”
She glanced into the bag. Inside was a card and a small, lovingly crafted porcelain model of a faerie. She smiled slightly, and shook her head. “Thanks. But you know, I haven't collected faeries for years now...”
“I thought so.” He nodded, and for just a moment looked very vulnerable. “I just...”

He tailed off, but she knew what he wanted to say. He just didn't know what he ought to buy her. What she liked, what she hated... Even who she was now. For they hadn't spoken in nearly seven years.

Lifetimes tick away within your ivory spire.
Full bloom fields of chance ignite like funeral pyres.
Locked inside yourself. No keys, or no resolve?
Past's silken tendrils tied. No way to be absolved.

But look up! A clear sky shines azure.
It's alright. You don't need to be sure.

The last time she saw him he was in high school. Just a precocious lad of sixteen or seventeen with a mop of greasy hair, a guitar slung across his back and a head full of wild dreams. It seemed ridiculous to her now how quickly things had changed. The night before he left, there had been a clash of heads with their parents. It was all the usual stuff. Poor grades, no job prospects, lack of direction... So she didn't think much of it at the time. Yet the next day he was gone, taking nothing with him but his guitar, and leaving only a letter addressed to her apologising for everything. The words of that letter were to be all she heard of her brother until four or five years later, when he exploded onto the American music scene, and she found his face plastered over magazine racks and CD shelves. And she had hardly had time to adjust to that before he hit the news for different reasons. The centre of celebrity scandals: sex, drugs, rock and roll, and all the sordid inbetweens. In the space of hardly seven years, her brother had transformed from her dearest friend and closest confidante to a virtual stranger who she knew only through interviews and gossip columns.

“So how's life in America?”
“It is and it isn't.”
She glared at him. “What kind of a reply is that?”
“Take it as you will.” He shrugged. “Life is sort of like a play. The stage is always the same. It's just the backgrounds and the props that change.”
She sighed. “Did you go and see Mum and Dad?”
He shook his head. “No. Got your address from Aunt Matilda. I guess she'll let them know I swung by.”
“I heard you're doing better now. That you've got a new album in the works.”
“I have and I haven't.” He chuckled a little. “Kind of on holiday right now. A quest for inspiration.” He looked at her curiously. “So you've been reading about me?”

Of course she had. There was a time when it had been difficult not to. Praise for his debut album had been almost unanimous. Critics hailed him as a Bob Dylan for the modern age. A singer-songwriter without equal in the current music scene, who sang every syllable with the raw emotion and experience of someone twice his age, but whose lyrics cut straight to the heart of his generation's trials and tribulations. The album had been up for all the usual awards, and had won none of them – only further proof, people said, that it was destined for cult classic status.

She had listened to his album too. But she had heard something very different. No jaded tales of romance gone sour, nor bittersweet commentary on the ups and downs of modern life. Simply her twelve year old brother sitting on the sofa in the living room, strumming chords on a guitar that was far too big for him while she sat at the piano and sang tuneless lyrics about princesses and talking animals. To her they were songs of joy. Celebrations of years passed to the tune of warm laughter, and the beat of four hearts in unison.

She nodded at him. “A little. Read a piece on you in No Rock No Life the other day.”
“Oh god, not that one.” He cringed. “A bright young talent borne into stardom all too soon, Maxwell Michaels stands as a monument to the hundreds who have been chewed up and spat out by the celebrity machine, and a cautionary tale for anyone who dares to dream too grandly.”
“Yep. Sounded about right to me.”
“Maybe. But I don't want to be some tragic victim.” His voice was laced with resentment. “I'm just a fuckup. There's nothing sad or romantic about that. There's been hundreds like me, and there'll be hundreds more after me.”
“My favourite article was one where they compared you to Jeff Cohen.”
“Jeff?” He raised an eyebrow. “Don't you mean Leonard?”
“No, Jeff.” She smiled. “The chubby kid from The Goonies. I think it was meant to be some sort of obscure comment on your short-lived fame.” She paused a moment. “Which I suppose makes your debut album the truffle shuffle.”
“Jeez,” he laughed, “I'm honoured. That guy's a legend. If I leave half as big a mark on the world as him I'll die happy.”
She clicked her tongue playfully. “Be serious.”
“I'm being serious, though.” He sounded it, too. “Playing an iconic character in a movie that shaped tons of kids' childhoods? That's heroic stuff right there, man. My songs just make people want to cry and wallow in self-pity over how messed up they think their lives are.”
“You mean they're not supposed to make people feel like that?”
“Doesn't matter what they're supposed to be.” He smiled ruefully. “People will hear what they want to hear. If you don't fit into one of their boxes, they'll cut you up until you do. That's the sort of business this is.”
“So now it's the industry's fault for forcing you down the wrong path?” she asked, smiling slyly. “I thought you said you didn't want to be some sort of pity case?”
“A bad workman blames his tools,” he replied, carefully choosing his words, “but sometimes it's possible that both are as bad as each other. I'm a fool for letting people use me. But that doesn't mean they're not rotten as hell for doing so.”
“So why not get out? Do something else?”
He shook his head. “Haven't got anything else to do,” he laughed. “I'm not as smart as you, Fee. I realised that when you started helping me with my homework at five years old. Pretty much all I've ever been good at is strumming a couple of chords on the guitar and writing down words that feel like they mean something to me.” He grinned. “Luckily they seem to mean something to other people too.”

Full of prior selves too proud to ever fade,
dreaming of a future with foundations you never laid.
Once upon a maybes bound to never be.
So many roads you never took, so many scenes you've never seen.

But have heart! 'cause up above this fragile earth
are shining the same old stars that saw your birth.

Sighing slightly, he lay his head down on top of his guitar and looked at her. “You know, there's something I've been wondering this whole time.”
“What?”
“You knew where I was.” His voice sounded sleepy, but his gaze was piercing and unflinching. “Why didn't you get in touch?”
“Mum and Dad were pretty pissed off.” She paused. “Or maybe just afraid. They didn't know if you'd want to see them. You didn't leave them a letter or anything.”
“I don't mean them. I mean you.”
“What do you want me to say?” she asked, somewhat indignantly. “You're the one who stormed out seven years ago.” She glared at him. “It's not exactly reasonable to expect that I'd just come traipsing halfway around the globe after you.”
“Naturally,” he replied. “But like I said, I'm a fuckup. I'm cowardly, self-centred, and probably every other thing the tabloids have said I am. I already know why I didn't get in touch with you. Thing is, you're not a fuckup, Fee. You're a wonderful, kind, caring person. You always have been, and you always will be.” He paused. “I'm just curious why you never got in touch with me.”

She was about to snap at him. To lose her temper and yell all the things she had wanted to yell at him when he walked out seven years ago. Yet something in his voice and the look in his eyes stopped her. There was no resentment in the way he looked at her, and no accusatory barbs in his words. It was more like he had realised suddenly that their last seven years as brother and sister had gone missing, and was simply trying to puzzle out where they might have gotten to.

Why didn't she get in touch with him? The album had been his way of reaching out to her. Of letting her know that he was still alive. She knew that. That he was calling out to her the only way he knew how. So why didn't she get in touch? She had been angry, of course, but what anger she had had for him had long since died down to a flicker at the back of her mind. Perhaps she simply doubted her ability to traverse the distance that had opened between them. Planes, trains and automobiles had made the world small, allowing people to travel to the ends of the earth in a matter of hours. Yet not even the fastest jumbo jet could diminish the vast roads that time wrought between people. Perhaps she feared looking into the eyes of Maxwell Michaels and finding no trace of Max. Of learning that the brother she had known and loved had long since given way to the wild, unpredictable creature of so many tabloid journalists' wet dreams.

She looked at him. “I kind of hate you, you know.”
He nodded and smiled. “I know. I figured you might.”
“But it's good to see you again.”
“That it is.”

Take flight across the sky! Don't go looking back!
Let what has gone go by! Blaze out a bright new track!
Follow your shooting star into the future's shroud.
Don't let the past obscure the ever-present now.

She thought she'd have more questions for him. Whenever her mind had fallen upon the possibility of one day seeing him again, she imagined an endless torrent of questions about the years he had been gone. The sights he had seen, the places he had been, the things he had done... Yet as she sat there, it dawned on her that none of those things really mattered. They were as ephemeral as snow, and even if they piled as high as mountains they were bound to one day melt to nothing. No, all that really mattered was where they went from here. What was most important was what was left after the snow melted.

“I think I want to call it 'Shooting Star',” she said suddenly.
He cringed playfully. “That's pretty corny.”
“Sorry Mr. Dylan,” she laughed, “but not all of us are born with silver tongues. Some of us have to make do with one like Winnie the Pooh's – generally well-meaning, but more often than not covered in sticky honey.”
“Blasphemy,” he chuckled, “Pooh Bear is one of history's greatest poets. 'I used to believe in forever, but forever is too good to be true'? I'd kill for a line like that.”
“To be fair, he also thought he could disguise himself as a cloud using a balloon and some mud.”
He shrugged. “They can't all be gems.”

“Fee?” A shrill voice cut through the winter air, and Fiona glanced up to find Anna's face peering out of the window at her. “It's freezing out there. Come back inside!”
“Sorry,” she called, waving her hand apologetically, “I'll be right up.”
Anna's gaze moved to Max, and a curious expression appeared on her face. “Who's your boyfriend? Invite him too!” Laughing, she turned away from the window.
Fiona shot him an embarrassed look, and smiled. “You want to go to a party? We've got good people, good food, and 'choonz' which my flatmate assures me are both 'happy' and 'hardcore'.”
He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Nah. An old has-been like me would just drag everything down.” He grinned. “It's times like these you want Jeff Cohen's number.”

Shivering slightly, he shook the snow from his hair and pulled his jacket tightly around his shoulders. Standing up, he put his guitar back into its case. “You really should get back inside. I've got to head now, and I don't think pneumonia is really a gift you want to get on your birthday.” He ruffled her hair, and smiled. “Happy birthday, Sis.” Staring at her for a moment, he shook his head, swung his guitar bag over his shoulder, and turned away into the snowy night.

She had never seen him leave. When she awoke on the day he left, he was already gone. So she had often wondered what she might have decided to do had the click of the front door roused her from her sleep on that night seven years ago. Whether she would cry, or plead, or shout. Or whether she would simply stand there silently and watch him wander off to chase his dreams, feeling that he would be happier for it.

Now, though, as she was presented with the very situation she had imagined so many times in the past, she realised that there was nothing to think about. All rationality was drowned in emotion, and there could be no careful, considered process of thought. In an instant, years of experience and amassed knowledge dropped away, and she was little more than a child again; a young girl chasing at her older brother's heels. And for just that instant, her heart sang louder than her head.

“Hey!” She blurted the word out so automatically that at first she thought someone else had said it. “Come upstairs...” She was surprised to find that her voice was waterlogged with barely-suppressed tears, and it had become so heavy that it stuck in her throat. “I... I really want you to be there.”
He turned back to her and looked like he wanted to say something, but though his lips moved, no sound came forth. She waited there for a few seconds, and then, wiping the tears from the corners of her eyes, waltzed over to him and grabbed his hand. He looked surprised, but didn't resist as she tugged him back toward the door.
“Come on,” she said, “I can't promise it'll be one of those fancy Hollywood parties with people snorting cocaine off of glass tables, but I'm pretty sure I can score you a big slice of birthday cake so chocolatey it's banned in thirteen countries.”

She started climbing the stairs to the porch, and then stopped and turned back to him. “I heard your album, by the way. It was pretty nice.”
Finally he found his voice. “Thanks.” There was no roguish grin, and none of the playful bravado that had become his trademark in interviews and public appearances. For a moment, as he glanced awkwardly up at her, she found herself looking not at the music world's critical darling, but at her older brother. For a moment, he was the boy who had left rather than the man who had returned. “It was about us.”
Fiona nodded. “I thought so.” She paused. “Don't think this makes things okay between us.”
“I know.” The moment had passed, and the grin returned. “But things are okay between us, right?”
She sighed, and shook her head. “They might be if you'd stop being so damn smug about it.”

Take flight across the sky! Don't go looking back!
Let what has gone go by! Blaze out a bright new track!
Follow your shooting star into the future's shroud.
Don't let the past obscure the ever present now.

[AllenSmithee]

It was corny, but alright, Fai!

I really liked it! Can you check out my short story and the poem I wrote? Stigmatic Sevenscar is the poem, and Drumming Song is the short story.

[Yakra]

Wa~! I really liked it Fai! Really, really liked! Maybe I get too involved with the characters whenever I read anything, but by the time I reached the end I was pretty much totally stuck and hoping that... Fiona's brother would join her at the party.

*happy end like-r ^ ^;*
*also an idiot was gets runny noses at reading the slightest emotional thing~!*

I also loved some other bits, other than the amazingly well written characters, such as Max's line about the music industry and the critics wanting to fit one into a certain category box. X'D Somehow that totally made me grin and nod along. So.... I atleast found it super well written! Me loves!

Also, about Kimimi's stuffs, I love your drawings as always, but that waterdrop pic is SO pretty! <3 It looks like some magical crystal growing on a tree~! *___*

I think I also forgot to comment on Lumi's latest colouring attempt, ne? X'D I'm really enjoying finally seeing all your characters in full colour~! Before this I just kept imagining them in odd colours of me own. Me likes this loads! It feels like I'm seeing the characters finally fully materialize~

[Kimimi]

Thank you Yakra! In truth it's just a raindrop off a twig on our garden hedge ^^~

But! That's the great thing about photography - you can take something really normal and turn it into something special

[Nieca]

"Antarctica Snow Cave"

While escaping the clutches of the King and Zeddric, Janice and Erin go searching for the "Alpha Nova", a weapon of extraordinary power.

Enjoy!



Copyright 2011

[Spamus]

Starting a project to practice the refinement of my style I've been doodling and need ideas. Planning to draw a male and female of several different genres/stereotypes just for practice, so far I have:

Generically impractical futuristic (latex, random plates, general silliness)
Wild West (hats, vests, yeehaw cowboy)

I could go for a few more ideas to get the creative juices flowing.

[AllenSmithee]

Standard modern day
Dark Gothic High Fashion

[Raison D'etritus]

Dark Gothic High Fashion

Seconded.

[Spamus]

Mar 16, 2011 11:22:29 GMT -5 Raison D'etritus said:

Dark Gothic High Fashion

Seconded.

Can I get an example so I know exactly what that entails?

[Kimimi]

I have no idea either, but this is what I thought of when I saw it -



Neica - I'm so jealous! You're so good at drawing people ^^~

[Spamus]

So victorian gothic, or something like that. That could be fun. Still open to any other suggestions, outlandish or otherwise.

[Nieca]

Thanks Kimimi. I have spent a large amount of time learning how to draw the human figure over the years. If you master how to draw the human body, you will have no problem drawing everything else. ^_~

[Lumi]

Soon as I get extra time, I'm digging in to read Fai's short story. Because we need more writing on here.

And yes, CS5 is out. My school just upgraded to it this past quarter. It's not hugely changed from CS4 that I can tell. Not sure about earlier versions, as I hadn't so much as touched Adobe anything before that version...

Yakra - Awww, thanks. So nice to hear you like it, seeing as I've been a fan of your coloring since forever ago...

Spamus - Draw some of my characters! Try something set in a swashbuckling age. Think Regency/1700s fashion. Or perhaps some Arabian goodness!

Lastly-- I've been busy with final projects for school. I shared this on Facebook, so those of you hooked up to me there already saw this, but hey. We had to design a book cover in Illustrator, which would include an illustration of some kind.

Me being the nutcase I am- I drew an illustration all right... a cover for one of my would-be novels... and colored it up in Photoshop. I'll be importing it to Illustrator later for finishing text work and whatnot.

But here's the raw book cover illustration. Complete with story title, but no author- just my ugly watermark.

That's seriously the first time I've ever dared to do scenery in an image before.... @_@

[AllenSmithee]

I think I'll just link my writing onto here now.