A couple of posts ago I mentioned The Paper Project, which is a collaborative comic book that has the running theme, paper. It’s very cool. (Well I think so anyways.) I was in the middle of developing a story about paper cranes and origami, when I came across the story of Helmuth Hubener.
Helmuth, who was 16, lived in Hamburg during WWII and listened to the BBC German broadcast, which was forbidden. The BBC told the news of the war that the Wehrmachtsbericht (German Armed Forces News) did not. Helmuth realized that the government was lying to them. Helmuth and his two friends, Rudi Wobbe and Karl-Heinz Schnibbe, refused to stand by. For nine months after curfew they hid papers all over Hamburg with the real news of the war. It’s a great story and I became even more excited when I discovered that the papers they spread were bright red. Awesome! Shameless colorpicking with a WWII poster gave me the color scheme, and Bryan Beach helped me get over the fear of using “acid” colors. Jim (little bro) also helped me a lot with the German words and places, since he’s lived in Hamburg & he knows.
This was a fun project and I feel very lucky to be a part of it.
I am pretty lucky. I signed up for a digital painting class at SLCC this semester, and am getting taught by the very talented Sebastian Gallego. Wow I am lucky! It is not a sissy class. It is a man’s class.
This was the first assignment. I’m learning a ton.
“After Anne Boleyn was executed in 1536, her heart was stolen. It was discovered exactly three hundred years later, buried under a church organ in Suffolk.”
What the–what the heck?? What were they doing digging around an old church organ? Why was the heart left there? Why was it stolen? And how in the world did they know it was hers? And why hadn’t it decomposed by then? Was it, like, pickled or something? “Oh, gosh, what’s that smell? It’s coming from under the church organ! Holy moly it’s Anne Boleyn’s heart! So that’s where it went! We were wondering! Oh and look, someone also left canned peaches!”
Weird. I’m really curious about this, but not curious enough to actually do some research. That’s work. So I drawed instead. :)
In other news…”Barbie and the Diamond Castle” comes out Sept. 9th. It looks awful. I’m still gonna see it. Barbie movies are so much like abusive boyfriends. They’re terrible, but I keep going back to them.
This week I wanted to see if I could create a piece using Painter, Illustrator, and Photoshop. I’m really getting to like Illustrator & the pen tool, thanks to Bryan, who’s always so patient with my dumb questions.
So’s digging through my stuff, I found an old screenwriting assignment from a couple years ago. Screenwriting was an interesting class. We had an assignment every week to analyze and philosophize on the theme of a certain story. I got bad marks on that. Mostly because I’d write something impatient and sarcastic.
One week, the teacher deviated from the regular assignment. She wanted us to come up with a “black humor” piece. Yippee! I was pretty zippy about it. I looked through some of my favorite black humor authors–Roald Dahl, Gary Larsen, Shel Silverstein–and using that inspiration, came up with the crazy poem, “Trisha McNair.” It’s told from the viewpoint of a 2nd chair flutist. My only assignment that got full marks. :D Enjoy!
Trisha McNair was our flutist, first chair,
and made sure that everyone knew it.
She’d whine and she’d rage at the turn of each page
and always made second chair do it.
She’d pout and she’d fume if you played out of tune
or if you squeeked out a wrong note
If you messed up her song ‘coz you play a sharp wrong
expect Trisha to lunge at your throat.
“You’d better not slip or mess up on this trip!”
she said, as we packed stuff away.
“I want to hear the crowd holler and cheer
when I reach my cadenza’s high A!”
Trisha McNair said that she didn’t care,
grabbing my window seat on the plane!
“Flutists,” she said, “gotta keep a clear head.”
And she pressed her nose, hard, on the pane.
Moscow was grand, agreed the whole band!
Except, of course, Trisha McNair.
She hated the food, she’d bellow and brood
’bout the weather, hotel, and her hair.
On concert night, the stage shiny and bright,
Trish began her “Concerto for Flute.”
…When through the door burst a Bolshevic Horde!
screaming “DON’T YOU DARE MOVE OR VE’LL SHOOT!”
Blam! Blam! Hard and loud! They surrounded the crowd!
Big guns at the ceiling a-shootin’!
And when the dust cleared, and old man with a beard
emerged, grinning. “‘Allo! It’s Rasputin!“
“I’m back!” he delared. The band huddled down, scared.
“And I’m going to make you all pay!
Now, girls and boys, don’t you dare make a noise!”
…And then Trisha hit hard her high A.
Most famous musicians have lofty ambitions.
High goals! For a stars they’re a-shootin’!
But I got first chair ‘coz of Trisha McNair;
who staunchly refused to stop flutin’.