(no subject)

Trying to get better at doing quick sketches, so here's Bernard and Manny from Black Books:

(no subject)

Trying to get better at doing quick sketches, so here's Bernard and Manny from Black Books:

(no subject)

Sketching characters has always been an iterative process for me. I start with a line, and I listen. The lines hint to me about who they are, who they might be. I listen for that, and collaborate with them. Eventually someone new springs onto the page. Usually it's not the person I expected it to be, if I expected anyone at all. But it's the person they needed to be, with the stories they needed to tell, and it's so much more rewarding if I just step out of the way and let that happen. So I listen, and watch. I wonder if I could see an entire life, from beginning to end, if I just spent enough time gazing at a single line.

Later, I head out into the world, and see people whose own faces speak of so much more than the lines of which they are composed. And I wonder: If I were to gaze long enough, would I see their stories as well? Not just their history, but their vast potential, their myriad twisting fates traced through lines only hinted at through negative space?

But in the end it's creepy and rude to stare, and that's not the story I want to hear. So I sigh, and steal a brief glance, and savor the echoes I hear in my mind.

(no subject)

Sketching characters has always been an iterative process for me. I start with a line, and I listen. The lines hint to me about who they are, who they might be. I listen for that, and collaborate with them. Eventually someone new springs onto the page. Usually it's not the person I expected it to be, if I expected anyone at all. But it's the person they needed to be, with the stories they needed to tell, and it's so much more rewarding if I just step out of the way and let that happen. So I listen, and watch. I wonder if I could see an entire life, from beginning to end, if I just spent enough time gazing at a single line.

Later, I head out into the world, and see people whose own faces speak of so much more than the lines of which they are composed. And I wonder: If I were to gaze long enough, would I see their stories as well? Not just their history, but their vast potential, their myriad twisting fates traced through lines only hinted at through negative space?

But in the end it's creepy and rude to stare, and that's not the story I want to hear. So I sigh, and steal a brief glance, and savor the echoes I hear in my mind.