SOGGY
STINKY
DROOPY
POOPY
LEAKY
FARTY
DIMPLY
PIMPLY
NAZI
COCKY
HERPY
CHUNKY
DUMPY
FRUMPY
LUMPY
FAT
Friday, April 22, 2011
Process post: face
I decided to take a few pictures while I draw my face. I intended to take a bunch, but I ended up getting too involved in the drawing. So, here are a few pictures. The first is just outlines of features. I always start with eyes, work down to the mouth, then decide what facial outline would fit those features.
The next picture is just facial detail. If I took more pictures, you would see that I start by adding detail to the eyes and nose, then the rest. I add facial hair after the face is shaded. It's usually an afterthought, and sometimes not included.
I save the hair for the end because it's a pain in the ass. The hair is what causes me to replace my pens so often.
The eyes I usually leave blank, but for the sake of having another photo to post, I added them. Better with or without eyes? Tough call.
The next picture is just facial detail. If I took more pictures, you would see that I start by adding detail to the eyes and nose, then the rest. I add facial hair after the face is shaded. It's usually an afterthought, and sometimes not included.
I save the hair for the end because it's a pain in the ass. The hair is what causes me to replace my pens so often.
The eyes I usually leave blank, but for the sake of having another photo to post, I added them. Better with or without eyes? Tough call.
I Love Lucy
Here I am, curled in a ball. Snot is in various places on my body and the bed. She is rubbing my back between my shoulder blades. She is saying "it's okay." My legs are jerking. One has a quick, stilted shudder. The other swirls, as if riding an invisible bike. I haven't thought about this in years. I feel like I am going to vomit.
He was my mother's boyfriend. His name was Bob. He taught me how to draw and introduced me to the Three Stooges. He once made my mom really angry, I remember, when he brought home a carton of mushrooms, of which my mom is allergic. He said, "You don't have to eat them." She didn't want them in her house, and she was very particular about this. They screamed at each other about this in the kitchen while I sat at the table. The big mushroom fight. Looking back, I wonder what they were fighting about.
She says, "Don't worry baby. I'm in my pajamas, so it's okay if you throw up."
I remember other things. Not many. I remember that my dog ran away. I remember a yellow upholstered stool that I used to climb onto so that I could achieve a higher vantage when the grown-ups were in the kitchen. I remember the royal blue shag carpet in my bedroom. I remember hiding in my toy chest. I would crouch down and stay there until someone noticed I was gone and started looking for me. I remember hiding in that toy chest for very long periods of time and eventually crawling out by myself. I would run into the living room, where my mom and Bob would be on the couch, and I would shout, "Here I am!" I don't say this to sound like I was a victim of neglect. I don't know why I say this. It's just a memory. One of a few from that age.
I am on the bed, in a ball, and I keep saying that I'm sorry. I don't know why. Neither does she. I just keep saying it. I flinch when she touches my shoulders. "It's okay," she says. I flinch.
I have one funny story from back then. I was five, or maybe four. I only remember bits of it, and it's one of those you-had-to-be-there stories, so you might not find it very funny at all. My mom was at work, and my brother must have been at school. I suppose I was too young for school yet, so I was probably four. I was sitting on Bob's lap and we were watching black and white TV. I remember that image, anyway. Sitting on his lap, black and white TV. I don't remember the whole setup. I remember that his face was always stubbly. I remember how that sandpaper skin felt on my cheek. I remember how that sandpaper skin felt on my neck. I remember that his hand was almost the size of my entire back. His breath was warm and stale and smoky. I remember trying to bury my body, head first, as deep into the couch as possible. I remember trying to sink and disappear between the couch cushions. His monster hand rubbed my back, and his breath was warm and stale and smoky. "It's okay," he said. The punchline. "It's okay."
I am sobbing on the bed. I am in my mid-twenties and I feel like I am five, maybe four. There is a distinct feeling of childhood. It can't be described. I am telling her to stop rubbing my back, but it is such a natural reflex when trying to comfort. She holds me tight, trying to stop the shaking. I am repeating my apologies. She says it's okay. I mostly believe her.
When I was seventeen, my mom confessed that Bob sold the dog. It never did run away. I like cats anyway.
He was my mother's boyfriend. His name was Bob. He taught me how to draw and introduced me to the Three Stooges. He once made my mom really angry, I remember, when he brought home a carton of mushrooms, of which my mom is allergic. He said, "You don't have to eat them." She didn't want them in her house, and she was very particular about this. They screamed at each other about this in the kitchen while I sat at the table. The big mushroom fight. Looking back, I wonder what they were fighting about.
She says, "Don't worry baby. I'm in my pajamas, so it's okay if you throw up."
I remember other things. Not many. I remember that my dog ran away. I remember a yellow upholstered stool that I used to climb onto so that I could achieve a higher vantage when the grown-ups were in the kitchen. I remember the royal blue shag carpet in my bedroom. I remember hiding in my toy chest. I would crouch down and stay there until someone noticed I was gone and started looking for me. I remember hiding in that toy chest for very long periods of time and eventually crawling out by myself. I would run into the living room, where my mom and Bob would be on the couch, and I would shout, "Here I am!" I don't say this to sound like I was a victim of neglect. I don't know why I say this. It's just a memory. One of a few from that age.
I am on the bed, in a ball, and I keep saying that I'm sorry. I don't know why. Neither does she. I just keep saying it. I flinch when she touches my shoulders. "It's okay," she says. I flinch.
I have one funny story from back then. I was five, or maybe four. I only remember bits of it, and it's one of those you-had-to-be-there stories, so you might not find it very funny at all. My mom was at work, and my brother must have been at school. I suppose I was too young for school yet, so I was probably four. I was sitting on Bob's lap and we were watching black and white TV. I remember that image, anyway. Sitting on his lap, black and white TV. I don't remember the whole setup. I remember that his face was always stubbly. I remember how that sandpaper skin felt on my cheek. I remember how that sandpaper skin felt on my neck. I remember that his hand was almost the size of my entire back. His breath was warm and stale and smoky. I remember trying to bury my body, head first, as deep into the couch as possible. I remember trying to sink and disappear between the couch cushions. His monster hand rubbed my back, and his breath was warm and stale and smoky. "It's okay," he said. The punchline. "It's okay."
I am sobbing on the bed. I am in my mid-twenties and I feel like I am five, maybe four. There is a distinct feeling of childhood. It can't be described. I am telling her to stop rubbing my back, but it is such a natural reflex when trying to comfort. She holds me tight, trying to stop the shaking. I am repeating my apologies. She says it's okay. I mostly believe her.
When I was seventeen, my mom confessed that Bob sold the dog. It never did run away. I like cats anyway.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
An Open Letter to Nicolas Cage
Dear Nicolas Cage,
Do you remember young Nic Cage, Nic Cage? Remember that movie where you thought you were a vampire? That was awesome. Remember 90s Nic Cage? Remember your where-the-fuck-are-you-from accent that dipped in and out in Con-Air? Remember friggin Face-Off? The Rock? Do you remember when your hairline stayed in the same spot on your head? Remember pre-weave Nic Cage?
Do you remember when you didn't make terrible movie after terrible movie to get out of debt? Do you remember that, Nicolas Cage? Do you remember when you didn't beat your wife, get arrested, and get bailed out by Dog the Bounty Hunter? I remember that Nic Cage.
The you I remember was H.I. McDunnough, baby-thief. You had a receding hairline. In the 80s. Your hair wasn't jet-black. Your face wasn't freakishly pulled back. You won a fucking Academy Award! I even liked your marble-mouthed, sad-sack performance in City of Angels. I liked that move, Nicolas. I liked you!
And I trusted you, God damn it! I saw Lord of War in the theater!
Now, I just don't know what to do with you. I miss you. I miss the days where I could call you ugly because of your dumb cow eyes, not your wigs and plastic surgery disasters. I miss your stoic performances sprinkled with bouts of batshit flailing. I miss Castor fucking Troy! Where the hell did he go?
What happened, Nicolas Cage? Where did things go wrong? You were such a good actor in a couple of your movies. You picked decent scripts. You worked with Martin Scorsese. You certainly did not star in 3-D knockoffs of shitty movies you made ten years ago. And you didn't beat your wife. You used to go to jail for defending your wife's honor. Remember? Yeah, that was in the movie Con-Air, not your real life, but I had no idea what was going on in your real life back then. This is probably because you weren't fucking insane back then.
Maybe you were, I don't know. But if you were insane even back then, in the 90s, I had no idea. You know why? Because all I paid attention to was your movies, which were good enough to overshadow your possible insanity. Now, I have the choice between watching Bankok Dangerous or watching your face melt like a nazi at the opening of the Ark of the Covenant.
Thanks, Nic Cage. You are such an asshole.
Sincerely,
Kevin Lester
P.S. You suck.
Do you remember young Nic Cage, Nic Cage? Remember that movie where you thought you were a vampire? That was awesome. Remember 90s Nic Cage? Remember your where-the-fuck-are-you-from accent that dipped in and out in Con-Air? Remember friggin Face-Off? The Rock? Do you remember when your hairline stayed in the same spot on your head? Remember pre-weave Nic Cage?
Do you remember when you didn't make terrible movie after terrible movie to get out of debt? Do you remember that, Nicolas Cage? Do you remember when you didn't beat your wife, get arrested, and get bailed out by Dog the Bounty Hunter? I remember that Nic Cage.
The you I remember was H.I. McDunnough, baby-thief. You had a receding hairline. In the 80s. Your hair wasn't jet-black. Your face wasn't freakishly pulled back. You won a fucking Academy Award! I even liked your marble-mouthed, sad-sack performance in City of Angels. I liked that move, Nicolas. I liked you!
And I trusted you, God damn it! I saw Lord of War in the theater!
Now, I just don't know what to do with you. I miss you. I miss the days where I could call you ugly because of your dumb cow eyes, not your wigs and plastic surgery disasters. I miss your stoic performances sprinkled with bouts of batshit flailing. I miss Castor fucking Troy! Where the hell did he go?
What happened, Nicolas Cage? Where did things go wrong? You were such a good actor in a couple of your movies. You picked decent scripts. You worked with Martin Scorsese. You certainly did not star in 3-D knockoffs of shitty movies you made ten years ago. And you didn't beat your wife. You used to go to jail for defending your wife's honor. Remember? Yeah, that was in the movie Con-Air, not your real life, but I had no idea what was going on in your real life back then. This is probably because you weren't fucking insane back then.
Maybe you were, I don't know. But if you were insane even back then, in the 90s, I had no idea. You know why? Because all I paid attention to was your movies, which were good enough to overshadow your possible insanity. Now, I have the choice between watching Bankok Dangerous or watching your face melt like a nazi at the opening of the Ark of the Covenant.
Thanks, Nic Cage. You are such an asshole.
Sincerely,
Kevin Lester
P.S. You suck.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Some old new thing.
Here is another drawing of my face. This time, it has a neck. I will be working all evening, and you will have the pleasure of looking at a picture of my face in the meanwhile. You're welcome.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
On my face.
I am off my game today with regard to drawing famous people. As usual, when I am having trouble with whatever it is I want to work on, I take a break and draw self-portraits. I don't know precisely why always do this, but I do. When I try to write and the words come out clunkily or not at all, I take a break and draw a picture ofmy face. Same with drawing and painting.
I used to just draw pictures of my face exclusively. It was at a time when I lacked any confidence, I realize as I now reflect. I wasn't brave enough to try things outside of my comfort zone. All shit stems from some fear of failure. It used to keep me wrapped in a ball, constantly anxious, muscles sore from nervous shaking. And somewhere in that ball I had a pen and some paper, and I compulsively scribbled pictures of my face, most of them ugly and distorted.
Nowadays, I suppose I use the self-portrait as some bizarre form of therapy. It's similar to masturbation releiving sexual frustration. A quick jerky sketch relieves the artistic flow that occasionally gets blocked.
So, here is today's ugly, distorted picture of my face:
I used to just draw pictures of my face exclusively. It was at a time when I lacked any confidence, I realize as I now reflect. I wasn't brave enough to try things outside of my comfort zone. All shit stems from some fear of failure. It used to keep me wrapped in a ball, constantly anxious, muscles sore from nervous shaking. And somewhere in that ball I had a pen and some paper, and I compulsively scribbled pictures of my face, most of them ugly and distorted.
Nowadays, I suppose I use the self-portrait as some bizarre form of therapy. It's similar to masturbation releiving sexual frustration. A quick jerky sketch relieves the artistic flow that occasionally gets blocked.
So, here is today's ugly, distorted picture of my face:
Haley Joel Osment
The first in my series of celebrities who look like Matt Rowan is Haley Joel Osment. It's hard to draw soft faces with ink. The gentle curves of Mr. Osment's cheeks and nose beg for the soft touch of a pencil. I have the exact same issue when trying to draw women. Ink does not work, especially not with my hand. I need more rugged faces with which to work.
Monday, April 11, 2011
The Des Plaines Theatre
I have not updated in a while. I am more busy lately, having a job and all, so the time I spend considering writing in this blog lasts just the moment it takes to say to myself, "I should post something." Today is a day off, so I have some time.
Last night, I was reminded of the benefit of actually having friends. I don't have many friends. What I do have is a charming, witty, affable wife. Consequently, I get the opportunity to hang out with her friends. Yesterday, a few of them went to see her play, and we had dinner after. Fortunately, one of the dinner guests was the infamous Brian Wolf.
For those who don't know, Brian Wolf is a fellow WMTH alumnus and a super-awesome historian. A great fringe benefit of being Brian Wolf's friend is that he has keys to the Des Plaines Theatre. If you grew up in Des Plaines, you remember the shit pile that was the Des Plaines Theatre. Very few people know the tremendous history and beauty that has been buried under black curtains, ugly carpeting, and bollywood movies.
Now, the theatre is undergoing some incredible restoration. The two screening rooms were opened back up to one, and the old stage that was used for vaudeville was revealed anew. Right now, in the middle of its restoration, the Des Plaines Theatre looks beautiful. I cannot wait until it opens up. I hope they put on live shows and stuff.
Anyway, last night, we walked around, went into the old projection rooms, and went on the roof. I took pictures.
Last night, I was reminded of the benefit of actually having friends. I don't have many friends. What I do have is a charming, witty, affable wife. Consequently, I get the opportunity to hang out with her friends. Yesterday, a few of them went to see her play, and we had dinner after. Fortunately, one of the dinner guests was the infamous Brian Wolf.
For those who don't know, Brian Wolf is a fellow WMTH alumnus and a super-awesome historian. A great fringe benefit of being Brian Wolf's friend is that he has keys to the Des Plaines Theatre. If you grew up in Des Plaines, you remember the shit pile that was the Des Plaines Theatre. Very few people know the tremendous history and beauty that has been buried under black curtains, ugly carpeting, and bollywood movies.
Now, the theatre is undergoing some incredible restoration. The two screening rooms were opened back up to one, and the old stage that was used for vaudeville was revealed anew. Right now, in the middle of its restoration, the Des Plaines Theatre looks beautiful. I cannot wait until it opens up. I hope they put on live shows and stuff.
Anyway, last night, we walked around, went into the old projection rooms, and went on the roof. I took pictures.
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