I saw this homeless man one day on Princes Street. I was walking home after work in the evening, and he was reading a book. I glanced him as I walked by; it was an ornithology book. I'm sure that reality was far from romantic or even interesting, but I allowed myself to dramatise it a bit in my head: birds being free, beautiful creatures "above" us - ever trapped by gravity; you know a bit like this over-quoted Oscar Wilde about gutter and stars.
It also reminded me of all the ornithology books I've read when I was younger that I got from my granddad. He knew a lot about birds and he could tell them by their song. That impressed me, and I wanted him to teach me, but he died before that, and took this, and many other things, with him. I was left with many books, but none of them could tell me how to tell the birds by their song.
I never met anyone who could since then. Anyone would would care about such thing at all.
Sometimes it's like: you're upset, and because of that, you drop a cup, and it breaks, and you're more upset, and you try to clean up, but because you're upset and not careful, you cut yourself on the glass, and you drown in upset.
When one feels weak and small, tiny, tiny things bring us down.
Sometimes I used to feel like Thumbelina, the world was so big, and I was so small, and so many seemingly insignificant things could crush me just like that.
(that's really an old drawing from college times that I've just coloured now, and I'm fine, well as fine as ever, as fine as it gets, thanks)
Still no good: nothing carefree to chase away hopeless questions of the doomed existential kind. But hey, meet Hedgehog:
Hedgehog as a character has been with me since forever, since I was little, but he (*can't write 'he', he became 'it' in current project) has only been given a proper story recently. Hedgehog's big and strong and scary, made of metal, covered with sharp, deadly spikes.
There was a whole family of hedgehogs living under our terrace, under my window when I was little, and they used to scare the hell out of me in the evening when it was quiet. My dad told me to never look for their nest, because if they thought we knew about them, they'd move away (a bit like Borrowers). And I found them interesting and inspiring: armoured on the outside, but essentially shy and cute creatures.
Also, just being unproductive I looked at the old "Diving Bell" video I helped on back when I was still a student, and gosh, you know how you'd always think of old work like "hell that was rubbish, so long ago" (or maybe that's just me), this time I thought: oh, that looks nice. Especially this last shot I took a screen shot of:
(real life watercolour doodle, I know, what the hell is going on. I should go and do some stop-motion instead)
Like Brucey noticed on her blog, it's not much animation anymore, really.
Anyway, another thing with this relentless drawing attempts of mine: I kind of got into this set of mind then I have to make at least one presentable artistic output thing (namely: a drawing, but not always) a day (fellow 'art outputers' would know what that means - an equivalent of when someone takes up jogging or yoga or something ridiculously healthy like giving up smoking*, absolute opposite of the usual bohemian self-destruction). That obviously leads to producing heaps of what I'd like to believe to be meaningful and interesting, but may in fact be just a mediocre crap. Here, on willanimateforwine tumblr, I shall store that crap away. This blog still goes, and it's still THE blog, for all my dodgy revelations and such (selected 'artistic output things' of better quality), like it was before.
Besides, I can't comprehend tumblr. Makes me dizzy,like a a granny sitting to check BBC news online with her grandson. Like, I know how to post things cos that's simple, but anything else, dearee-me, I'm out of there.
*chill, I'm not doing any of those.