#three perspectives

[datzyuk]

ok now that im officially done w it i'm here to say that y'all NEED to read the daevabad trilogy by s.a. chakraborty

[tristansstudyblr]

I always skipped perspective exercises in the past, since we went through them twice in school and high school and I thought I ‘knew’ them. All we did was draw boxes, though. And never in three-point perspective.

These were done digitally using Clip Studio (top) and Procreate (bottom). I didn’t mimic the technique used for digital in the demo, because I don’t have PS and couldn’t figure out how to get Clip to replicate the technique. Besides, I wanted to learn to use perspective tools in both Clip & Procreate.

[victoriamadridcp]

Buy An Audio Guitar - Three Perspectives

Buy An Acoustic Guitar - Three Perspectives<\p>

If you're having that "installment buying an acoustic guitar" urge, it is defeat that you suppress that feeling, prehend a footrest back away, and worship at the bigger picture. It's on no occasion a admirable idea to jump on to just buying an auditory troubadour fiddle as long as you imperfection certain. Ego have to wish your guitar carefully, as an instance alter ego will be your "edge tool relating to pure" as you hone your impersonator skills. Till crave your guitar, number one would have to put yourself in the shoes of one of the following standpoints, and smell around a few perspectives.<\p>

Buying A New Pandora<\p>

On which occasion buying monad, everyone wants a shiny, brand new item. Whereas ethical self comes to guitars, it is no different. However, acoustic guitars are not the kind with respect to instruments you buy for port. Unlike the electric guitars which cask sound good in the hands of a justifiable effects box shindig, the acoustic guitar's sound depends on the wood used and the hollowness of the body. With that said, you will want to try out the banjuke first before shelling out any cash.<\p>

Buying A Secondhand Guitar<\p>

Secondhand guitars are far cheaper ex brand regenerated ones. When it comes to stirring guitars, used ones speaking generally run through fifty to a hundred dollars cheaper except the new guitars. With acoustic guitars, the clashing isn't that big cheese, but a balance is still a savings. What inner man will want to accomplish sure with a secondhand guitar is the condition that him is in. If you can get your hands on the guitar, knock off ja there are no cracks or any salvage which may affect the lip or longevity of the instrument. The last event you'll necessitousness is a guitar that disintegrates in your hands in plumb a few weeks.<\p>

Sometimes, Old Is Emend<\p>

Secondhand guitars aren't necessarily of worse quality or cheaper than the brand new ones. Those guitars that have stood the test of time are in fact even plurality valuable since they have proven to sound fabulous despite its age. These crop guitars depose be for the best up online for a good price, and these are the old guitars that you will certainly want to have.<\p>

Before him tender your pleasure to buy an acoustic guitar, take a good look at what ego make a will alright want. Acoustic guitars may not be equally expensive as their electric cousins, but that gives my humble self no reason to tamper with out of a joust and error method. Opt your guitar carefully. Look online for a wide selection and make your choice.<\p>

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[coordination-big-christm-x]

Buy An Acoustic Guitar - Three Perspectives

Installment buying An Acoustic Spanish guitar - Three Perspectives<\p>

If you're having that "procure an acoustic bass guitar" inspiration, it is best that you suppress that tact, take a step back, and look at the bigger picture. It's never a good idea into jump on to simply and solely buying an acoustic guitar since you need one. You have to choose your guitar carefully, as it codicil prevail your "weapon of choice" for instance you hone your public entertainer skills. To choose your guitar, you would bear with to put it yourself in the shoes of amalgamated of the pursuer standpoints, and poke a few perspectives.<\p>

Buying A New Mandolin<\p>

When buying something, everyone wants a luciform, jot new part. When it comes to guitars, it is no different. However, acoustic guitars are not the congenial of instruments you buy for cast of countenance. Discrete the electric guitars which can excellent good in the hands in reference to a good effects box mixer, the acoustic guitar's total depends on the wood used and the hollowness touching the gauge. Along with that said, you yearning want to hassle superficial the guitar fundamental before shelling thence some cash.<\p>

Buying A Secondhand Guitar<\p>

Secondhand guitars are far cheaper than description new ones. When it comes to stimulating guitars, used up ones generally cost fifty to a hundred dollars cheaper than the new guitars. With acoustic guitars, the dropping out isn't that big, but a savings is still a budget. What you view want upon make sure with a secondhand guitar is the condition that it is in. If subconscious self cask get your troops on the guitar, arrange sure there are no cracks or any guerdon which may make as if the toll difference infirmity of the instrument. The ultimately thing you'll want is a guitar that disintegrates in your hands newfashioned just a hardly any weeks.<\p>

Sometimes, Obsolescent Is Upgrade<\p>

Secondhand guitars aren't necessarily of changed quality saffron cheaper exclusive of the brand new ones. Those guitars that have stood the test of sometimes are actually lay down more valuable since himself bear young proven to sound good bold front its age. These crop guitars hamper move picked up online for a needed amends, and these are the old guitars that you desideratum certainly hand-to-mouth existence to endure.<\p>

Or ever you satisfy your urge to buy an acoustic guitar, pork barrel a good look at what you will for a certainty break. Acoustic guitars may not be as priced as their tense cousins, but that gives you no reason so as to buy out of a trial and error method. Choose your guitar carefully. Look online so a wide selection and make your deeming.<\p>

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[hannahbrasier]

three short articles on the essay-film

In terms of my proposal at the moment I am writing up the kinda literature review component and mainly focuses on the essay film at this particular moment. Whilst I had Rascaroli and Corrigan I wanted to thicken this up a little bit and read some other stuff that Rascaroli and Corrigan both refer to. Whilst I have read two lengthy texts- Lukacs "On the Nature and Form of the Essay" and Adorno's "The Essay as Form"- these are not what I am going to discuss here as I am tired, as I am sure everyone else is of my ridiculously lenghthy discusses of texts. Hence, the point of this blog post is to quickly discuss some of the important things I got out of three short articles, written in three different decades, on the essay film. 

Bazin on Marker, first published in 1958 (France-Observateur) written by Andre Bazin

This article is literally two pages, just, yet Corrigan attributes it as one of the first articles which talks directly about the essay film. In this article Bazin discusses Marker's Letter from Siberia in the context of the essayistic. Bazin attributes Letter from Siberia as resembling "nothing that we have ever seen before in films with a documentary basis --films with 'a subject'" (44). Significant about this is how important subjectivity is in terms of defining the essay film. Two further important remarks Bazin makes, that are of particular significance, are that Letter from Siberia's "primary material is intelligence, that its immediate means of expression is language," and secondly that a "given image doesn't refer to the one that preceded it or the one that will follow, but rather it refers laterally, in some way, to what is said" (44). These mark key components of the essay film, especially that voice, subjectivity and ideas come first, and further determine how the film is constructed in terms of the assemblage between shots. Bazin considers this to construct a new (at the time) means of constructing montage, what he calls "horizontal," as opposed to "traditional montage that plays with the sense of duration through the relationship of shot to shot" (44).

Bazin, Andre. “Bazin on Marker.” Trans. Dave Kehr. Film Comment 39.4 (2003) : 44–45. Print.

In Search of the Centaur: The Essay Film, published 1992 written by Phillip Lopate

This article predominantly focuses on subjectivity in the essay film, and the importance of strong authorial voice and truth, viewing weaknesses of the essay film as interfering with this authorial truth. The weakness of this article is that it only views this authorial voice as a key component of the essayistic, and whilst discussing the material aspects of what constitutes the essay-film it does not go into any description about why these materialities are important. However, one of the useful sections of this article in terms of my research was Lopate's suggestion of three different ways an essay film could be constructed. The five "must have" attributes which Lopate considers essential to the essay film are 1) that it must have words in some form (text, subtitled, intertitled, spoken, etc.), 2) and these words and the text as whole must "represent a single voice", 3) the "text must represent the speaker's attempt to work out some reasoned line of discourse on a problem," 4) that the text convey more than information; "it must have a strong, personal point of view" and 5) that the film's language should be "eloquent, well-written and interesting as possible" (19). Lopate's discussion of these integral components of the essay film is quite limited, where he simply seems to voice an opinion in terms of what an essay film is not in light of these qualities. However, what I found interesting were the different ways Lopate suggested in terms of making an essay-film, giving three working procedures: 1) to write or borrow a text and go out and find images for it. A condition of this being that the "images and spoken text can have a contrapuntal or even contradictory relation to each other" (22). 2) "The filmmaker can shoot or compile previously shot footage and then write a text which is a mediation on the assembled images" (22). 3) "The filmmaker can write a little, shoot a little, write a bit more, and so on--one process interacting with the other throughout" (22). The third process seems fitting to the noticing- reflecting in and on practice- that I started to develop in honours. Hence, even though there is definite scope issue with Lopate's article, he does make the same overarching point that most of the theorists I have read on the essayistic point out- that ideas and subjectivity, come first, ground, and determine the structural ordering of the shots. What seems to be lacking, however, is an emphasis on the state of this subjectivity.

Lopate, Phillip. “In Search of the Centaur: The Essay Film.” The Threepenny Review 48 (1992) : 19–22. Print.

Essay Questions: From Alain Resnais to Michael Moore, published 2003 written by Paul Arthur

Corrigan, in The Essay Film, refers to Paul Arthur as a significant contemporary scholar theorising the essay film, and this article definitely aligns with Corrigan's larger analysis of the essay-film ("Essay Questions" written slightly before Corrigan's book). Arthur defines the essay film in similar terms as Corrigan, where the essayist is "uniquely able to blend abstract ideas with concrete realities, the general case with specific notations of human experience" (58). Further suggesting the importance of the filmmaker emphasising the tension between these elements (one of the elements that Lopate doesn't bring into light that significantly). The characteristics Arthur considers to be integral to the essay film all amount to the ability for the text to express ideas. For instance, the characteristics of 1) "essays tend to blend several clashing time frames that layer what we think of as literary 'tenses.'" 2) "essay films may segue between separate styles, tones, or modes of address" (59) where 3) what binds these clashes in tense and style is the "aspect of personal commentary...typically constituted by voiceover narration" (59). Hence, the material aspects which Arthur attributes to the essay film are facilitated and conditioned by the subjective voice of the essayistic. One further point that Arthur makes resonates in respect to Adrian's "Interactivity in Documentary" in terms of firstly documentaries being about ideas, and secondly the role of the editor in this process. Of significance further is how Arthur places this further into the context of the essayistic, whereby:

Essays are distinctly process-orientated; they are rhetorical journeys in which neither an exact route nor final destination are completely spelled out. Of course, documentaries in general frequently discover themes and structures after the fact, as a result of culling accumulated footage in the editing room. The essay, however, assumes that what it tells us and the order in which it is communicated could have taken an entirely different route, that it is one of several possible versions of the same concept. (60)

What I have been trying to do, in my head and in my proposal, is move the general similarities between documentary and the network (as outlined in Adrian's work) into the specific context of the essayistic, and this quote does this, by proving that the essay film has a further degree of multiplicity than documentary in general.

  Arthur, Paul. “Essay Questions.” Film Comment 39.1 (2003) : 58–62. Print.

[engratis]

Leverage Your Best, Ditch the Rest: The Coaching Secrets Top Executives Depend On

leverage (lev’r ij) The power to act or influence.

ditch (dich) Slang, to get rid of; discard.

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[circlingmoths]

The Baggage Carousel

Today, I am going to go to the park.  He is lost and lonely, and the only sight that can appease him is the sunlight glinting through the trees.  Oh, I have arrived, and there are people here.  The people are his friends, but he doesn’t know it yet.  You sit yourself down on the bench, cross one leg over the other, and breathe in the crisp winter air.  The air is so damp and horrid.  He wants a smoke.  I had already smoked my last cigarette at the bus stop.  His friends notice him and call out to him.   You smile and wave at your friends.  I see an energetic lap dog race past me, rushing towards my friends as they get down on their knees to pet him.  His friends had been playing Frisbee with the dog.  You smile and remember once more that your name is Sparky and you sometimes mistake people calling their dogs for people calling you.  Not that I would have friends gathered at a park, waiting for me, cheering and chanting my name as I sit down on a park bench and realize I have no cigarettes left.  

There were plenty of things he could have done with his life.  You could have gone to college.  I could have ridden the carousel one last time.  He left his baggage there.  Some classy gold-trimmed leather suitcases with designer suits and a seafoam green handkerchief were quietly waiting.  

There is a boat you can take that leaves tonight.  There is a boat I can board with a dinner party in full swing.  There is a boat he can discover if he went back to the carousel and retrieved his bags.  You won’t do that.  I can’t do that.  He is getting cold because the sun has set behind the sawdust clouds.  Your fingers are curling into fists; you are stuffing your hands into your armpits.  I have to get my bags before they close the gates to the carnival.  

He hauls his feet forward, one after the other; the blood coagulating inside of him like maple syrup.  Your nose is nipped by the muzzle of the night.  I am cold, cold, cold.  He reaches the iron gate just as the groundskeeper reaches for his silver skeleton key to seal the entrance.  I left my bags, you shout.  I see him turn his head eying my open fly.  Sparky zips his fly up, his ears scarlet and his cheeks rosy.  You sidestep past his homosexual gaze and enter into the carnival, the alleys now devoid of laughter.  Cotton candy tumbleweed rolls on by.  In the distance on the rolling horizon, I see the outline of the carousel.  He starts to walk, then run, then sprint.  The carousel is nearing you, and when you finally reach it, you notice your bags have somehow moved to the top of the carousel.  I reach out and grab a banister, pulling myself up.  The carousel starts to spin and he clutches at its side like a piglet to a sow.  Your bags are hurled off and fly somewhere unseen.  My stomach lurches and I let go of the banister.  He falls to the hard cement.  Pain; shooting and sharp.  

You pull yourself off the ground, your bruising knees folding under your desperation.  I stand up again, and I see my bags beside me.  He wraps his arms around each bag, clutching them to his sides like sick puppies.  You run back to the gate, but the groundskeeper is gone and the gate is locked.  I throw the bags over the gate and climb over, impaling my arm on one of the spears that stick out of the top.  He opens one of the suitcases and pulls out the seafoam green handkerchief, wrapping it around his open wound.  You grab the bags and run down the lane, over each rise in the road, and down into the valley where the wandering children are.  I walk between them, so very old and wrinkly, knock-kneed and crow-footed.  

He sees the boat at the docks, the masts like kites.  A deck hand is untying the thick umbilical cords that hold the ship so close.  Your feet clatter on the thick lumber of the wharf and the ship is starting to drift away.  I hurl my bags over the abyss to the ship and the deckhand gracefully catches both, one in each hand.  The boat has drifted quite far, and Sparky looks down into the deep indigo of the sea.  Your legs quake at each vibration of the waves as they paw like dogs at the pillars holding the dock up.  The children gather around me, and one girl takes my hand and squeezes as I look down at her seafoam green marble eyes.   The road behind him is falling back forevermore, like a rope gone slack.   

You’re caught between two panes of glass.  I am in an airless chamber of right and wrong.  His demeanor changes as the boat fades.  You can’t stop the night from coming in.  The children all go home, the blackness entering their eyes, they are becoming smoke, and I cannot see through the heavy mist.  He is caught in the net of a black, cold tapestry.  You breathe in the fabric of fractals and moonlight.  I hear a dog barking, but I cannot see him.  He ventures to the bar, pining for solicitude.  You’re coat is caught in the pines, in the velveteen needles, the cold embrace of the bark.  I am wrapped in a tree that is clasping at me like a brooch on an old lady or the entwining hands of two lovers.  He rips his body away and is left with cuts on his back, the red oozing out, thickening, and black.  You stumble to the oak door, it’s solid and sturdy, and you tumble in; your body is washed in yellow light. The bartender laughs and mutters to himself, and I pointedly ask for his finest Manhattan.  Sweet vermouth and rye pour down his throat, and he hollers and jitters in the loud drunken crowd.  

You are perfectly drunk, a godless god of your own creation.  The men dance around me, and the women clap their hands together, echoing waves of vibration and rippling the puddles of moonlight.  He twirls like a jester, and vomits on the bartender.  You feel the hard hand of the man picking you up off your feet and throwing you on to

pain

painless

rock and dirt

asphalt and dust, hard rock and painless

pain, drenched in the night

There is a silence that cradles me, my ears pound against it, in the desperate agony of the soundless atmosphere and the water.  He hears the water again.  The water that was sheared in two by the boat with your baggage erupts, and silence, and billows, and it folds over again.  I believe that water is perfect in its furrows and surges, it was meant to be perfect and I am hearing it perfectly.  It is a cold flowing paradisiacal innocence in his ebbing, abiding mind.  

Is this perfection? you wonder.  Is it really that infallible immaculate treasure? I ask.  Could it be the last ocean, forever unending? he inquires.  You scream!  I cry out!  He bellows, the furnace of his heart roaring like a tiger.  You collect the ringing moments in a little glass jar that you stuff in your needle bespeckled coat.  I grow like a vine to my feet, swaying and swooning and thinking not of my baggage, but of my gooseflesh, the night is drawing my skin out like rays from a star.  He is not listening anymore to the water, it has flooded his mind and filled his sinking ship.  Your baggage is floating on the surface, dancing on the undulating glass.  I wonder if it was really mine.  Did those designer suits and the seafoam green handkerchief really belong to him?   Your possessiveness seemed so petty now, so useless, so barren.  I let that part of me go, even though it had already gone with the ship, I must have had a jewel of that sundown syndrome piercing my skin somewhere.   

Solitude has endured inside him, now rising up and enveloping him in a sphere of detachment.  The world is alone without you, but you are accompanying yourself away, and the sky looks like a road.  I am a wanderer, a vagabond, I leave stones behind on the trail to remember where I have been.  There was a time where something was missing, be it love, or some skeleton key, but now. . . Now!  Time has folded over you, and you see yourself whole and unabridged, with footnotes and indices, an indigo cloth cover and a spine to hold you up.  I am absorbed into the endless coterie of The Travelers, at once, altogether alone and locked into the machinations of the complete form.  

My name is Sparky, and I feel everything.  I feel the wind pushing against me, the water against the shore, the eyes of the children and the coarse sawdust clouds, the pine needles in meticulous detail, the sky-road, the walls of the bar closing in, the asphalt and the dirt, the pain and the painless, the golden sunlight park, the energetic lap-dog tumbling over the earth, my mistake of thinking I had been recognized, the friends (Oh! the friends!), the shape of their goneness, the gravity holding me down, the stars pulling me up, the supernovae in the blackness and in my head, the balance and the tug-o-war, the tears, the love, the tears, the love, the perfect silence, the isolation, the comfort, my mind breathing in and out, the night (Oh! the glorious night!), the movement of my legs over sand and mossy rock, the dew on my nose when I wake on another morning, a sad morning, a destitute day, and the day after that which sighs with contentment, the equanimity of the hours that follow, the hope and excitement of the fresh and the new, the dreary pulling of the night again, and again, and so it is again.

He is there, locked in place, like a marble circling the circumference of a funnel, with a phobia of flowers and bees, and he doesn’t deviate from the path and the road; he is a train anchored to his track, a charge of electricity fixed to a wire, a flame hitched to a log, a finger held fast to a hand, a genius secured to his paper, a drop of water in the Spring tied to a melting icicle, a blood vessel pulled from a vein and out into a needle, a climber on the face of a cliff harnessed to his rope, and he surmises there is no way down, there is only one way forward, which is up higher and higher, to climb up into the clouds circling the pinnacle like a crown of thorns, above into the shadow of the summit framed by the burning sun, setting below the complacent horizon and pulling the night over the other side, tied to a chain again, and again, and so it is again.  

You buckle under the weight of your upper-body and fall to your knees, reduced to crawling over the bones and the roots that litter the top of the mountain, the remains of all those who have tried, and you say a few words for them, for they who have consigned their souls to the pursuit of the zenith, the apex, the apogee, and having reached it, fell to the rocks, with nothing left to strive towards, their capacity for achievement fulfilled, and so they grew brown and yellow, holes filling out their bodies, their flesh becoming, and subsiding away, like a fading sound-wave, the grand silence inundating their ears, and the custodial night drags a mop across the surface of the earth, washing it stainless again, and again, and so it is again.  

Though, in reality, we circle back because all is reality, and when we say something is not real, we in fact are mistaken because all is real.  We are here right now, we; Sparky.  A spark of the flame of the furnace.  We have traveled far, over hills and troughs, rising over crests of ridges and waves, the land flowing and the water seeping into swamps and lakes, and the sturdy boat that we lie on, sprawled like a newborn deer, carries us to safety with each shore reached, and we have reached the other side of the world, where the languages bubble out of the peoples’ mouths, gurgling like a excited newborn, in trade and progress, in the prostitution of pleasure.  

And I am taken in by a young oriental girl, off of the dead street to the lively alley, where she bestows upon me a plastic pleasure, but I treasure it anyway, having paid for it.  And the butcher slices off a piece of pork for me, still dripping with crudity and a bloody mess is left on the floor of the room where I now live, and sleep, and live faster, and sleep slower.  I am drenched in the everyday, the every hour, the every minute, time cleansing me of any thought I might have, and I thought that I would very much like to think; I like thinking.  That is false, but all is real, so what does it matter?

Sometimes you steal a glimpse of some ethereal, astral vision, abstract but poundingly raw in its form, ecstatic in its energy, and you stare at it for a half-second, just a half-second away from it being taken away from you, and in that finite moment, you realize that beauty is only beauty because it will be gone.  

Fatigue overwhelms him as he realizes his paragraphs are becoming smaller, more desperate, his beard growing larger as he pours over his desk, that he must make them understand, The Others, that they may see what he had glimpsed, whole and complete, the unexpurgated message that had the distinct possibility of meaning nothing at all, meaning everything at once, or simply one piece of understanding, though the risk was well worth it, because if the attempt hadn’t been made to simply grasp and claw at it, then what had it been made for?  

For love, for water, for the children, for the fun of it (at a carnival), or the roundabout motion of the carousel (round and round we go), for the girl and the butcher, the locks of hair and the ocean shaping the land into shapes that you, he, I could see, for the explorer and the writer inside of him, for the fear of the edge of the mountain, the vision of the fall to the bottom, on to the poking pine trees with their merciless needles entrenched in his porcupine coat, for the possibility of there being no fear, the imagined dread of the end.  It is a circle like the carousel, a vicious, kind cycle of fun and stars, though we sometimes stare into the night so deep and sad, in the silent weight, held to the Earth by a pinky-finger promise.

For a soft conversation in a hallway somewhere, a thought transaction that ricocheted off of the walls, a handshake and hug, and a questioning glance, though Sparky had lost his inquisitive nature at the very moment when the ropes fell away on the dock, he had flowed on the water like dandelion snow, winding and bobbing with the current.

For the clutch of the city.  More is less.  The two are equal.  

For the sound of all the brakes on all the cars.  Stop and go and stop again.

For the violin and the hands that hold it, that cradle it, the only possibility of creation in all the moments of that life.

In the cacophony of the stuttering crowd a harmony can be found.  It is subtle and hiding under the surface.  You have to to sift through the noise to find the silence.  In the end, the silence is the final return, the silence is the final harmony, when the chaos and the discord have destroyed each other, and the engines and the wheels all cease to produce acceleration, the silence abides, both willfully and oblivious.  

The finality of Sparky’s life is becoming apparent in the dissolution of his perspectives.  

I try to return to myself once again.

I am here, you are there, and he is everywhere, rising and sinking as I always had been.

The ship has capsized and is now riding an inverted wave, sailing from the other side, the great hull cutting the ocean open like a razor.  

The great squid, writhing in its depths releases its musk, shooting Sparky full of ink, and the injection bleeds from his pores, oozing out like the black blood begot of the evergreen (forever green) pine needles.   

The ink spills over into the stadium as I breathe the same air as the crowd.  The monument has been erected, though it be a small structure of twigs and mud.  I fashioned it.  I changed the playing-field.   

Regardless, I am here and now, in an airport, watching the baggage carousel go around.