I feel like I had already learned quite a bit about Japan before visiting for the first time, recently. There were, nonetheless, surprises. (Probably either a reminder of how distant Japan is from north Atlantic culture despite surface familiarity, and/or a sign that my knowledge was much more shallow than I thought; Japan disclaimer.)
Two discoveries stand out, from lots of other interesting experiences. In both cases I was mildly shocked, honestly, not only because I had never learned of these seemingly basic cultural practices before, but also because it still took about three days walking around Tokyo before the penny really dropped.
For days, I was surrounded by advertising, signs and other messages that were largely familiar in style and some times in content, even if most of the specific text was lost on me. Throughout those days I grew more and more puzzled by the rarity of URLs; here and there I saw what was obviously an internet address, but the great majority of advertisements, brochures etc., seemed to lack any discernable internet reference.
Then, at last, I figured out (I think) what I had been missing. While relatively few layouts included a URL, nearly all included something like the following:
Months in the making, I recently completed a new product brochure for DuPont Pioneer. I have added the cover and a sample spread to Modern Alchemy’s online portfolio.
I am rather happy with the appearance of this, from a straightforward standpoint, not to mention in light of various challenging circumstances for all involved.
As usual, I am limited in terms of what I can share, where, and respectful of client wishes. But do click through and have a glance.
I hope most people are familiar with the “bring out your dead” scene from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. (And familiar with the whole movie, really.) I’m reminded of it, a bit, by “The 7 Signs That Desktop Publishing is Failing You” by Amelia Salyers, which argument I stumbled upon the other day.
Ms. Salyers’ comments are mostly, and openly, a sales pitch for the offerings of her employer Inkling. Unsurprisingly, there are large holes in many of her assertions. Her overall thesis that “most desktop publishing software has reached the end of its useful life,” meanwhile, seems rather like the villager insisting that the old man slung across his shoulder was fit for the corpse cart, despite the old man’s quite audible protests to the contrary.
I make this comparison not only because it amuses me, however; I think it’s also apt in more ways than one. True, traditional desktop publishing platforms are hardly so near death as someone interested in seeing them off may want you to believe. At the same time, though, I think there is a further resemblance to the old man, who was alive enough to insist that he felt happy and might go for a walk… but was at the same time so feeble that he remained flopped over the younger villager’s shoulder, unable to mount any more vigorous defense.
I confess that at least one or two traditional publishing platforms do seem, like that old man, ready to be put out of their misery. Or at any rate, out of our misery.
This is one example of why I enjoy historical research: you find all kinds of cool things. Here’s a low-tech but very adequate information graphic from 1954:
Apparently this was prepared by administrators at dear auld ISU back in the early days of President James H. Hilton.
This object delighted me because, while it’s so charmingly basic, it’s still very like what I do 61 years later. The tools are different today, and the results probably a bit more professional in appearance. But for all of its near-steampunk material origins—apparently colored pencils and a typewriter—this gets the job done in a fairly neat and efficient fashion.
Nowadays, of course, we have so much automatic digital precision that you occasionally see something like this as an effect, to suggest “authenticity” or something. Usually, though, it’s simulated using software filters and textures.
This is the pure stuff, here.
So, I’m a bit behind the times. I bought a PlayStation3 after the PS4 came out, and—while the PS3 still sees new titles released—my most recent acquisition for it is from 2010. It’s so old that the promotional web site has apparently expired.* I do think this is kind of chintzy and lazy, actually; you can’t be bothered to pay the pennies it would take to keep this online? I’m planning to keep www.brilliantdeduction.info live, and Costume Quest is probably still more profitable in 2015 than Brilliant Deduction will ever be…
This aside, I commend DoubleFine for a delightful, delicious game.
As much of the gaming community has already recognized this achievement and moved on, however, I’ve decided to direct most of my comments to some aspects of the game’s design. (Which is why this post is here rather than at my personal site.)
Prominent among its merits, Costume Quest is a feast of design. Keen-o costumes, the icon system of “Battle Stamps,” plus the whole set of “Creepy Treats Cards” (presumably inspired by Garbage Pail Kids) which serve negligible function in the game besides ornamentation. The design element that has prompted the most fascination for me, though, is the built landscape.
Most of Costume Quest takes place in a suburban neighborhood, a shopping mall, and some kind of rural setting that I can’t even describe effectively without going into it at some length… Before getting to that, though, I’ve wondered why I have wondered so much about this scenery, and today I had an idea. I think maybe the locations in Costume Quest hover in some kind of uncanny valley.
Time I posted a few notes about this, my most recent comics work.
As regards inspiration, the original idea to create a promotional comic of some sort resulted from a specific opportunity (I thought) to get a little free exposure. That did not pan out, in fact. But I think it was a great idea because I had much fun making it.
Once I began thinking “what if I made a comic,” I had plenty of ideas. The story of the Cotton library is, I (obviously) think, full of entertaining if often tragicomic episodes. Cotton “picking” his collection from any source that wasn’t nailed down… the intrigues of the rival librarians… the frequently exasperated Sir Frederic Madden… but fairly quickly, I settled on the 1731 fire as the best place to begin.
It just seemed to offer both the best “hook” as a promotion—hey, did you know all these amazing documents are part of one collection and that 300 years ago it was nearly incinerated despite being formally entrusted to Parliament by that point?—and multiple opportunities for jokes amid the greater narrative.
Essentially none of which are made up, either. Dr. Bentley attempting to move the shelves outside… tossing volumes out a window when that first idea wasted too much time… and, yes, even Bentley’s bizarre suggestion that the fire was ghostly punishment for the library’s neglect. All drawn from historic accounts. The literal appearance of Cotton’s ghost is invented, obviously, but it felt like he deserved an opportunity for rebuttal. So, voila artistic license…
Another Christmas, another commissioned drawing:
USPS informs me that this was delivered today, and so (since I doubt my brother has ever visited my web sites anyway) I think it’s safe to post it here.
I think it’s okay. Unlike last year’s drawing, this was much more a direct rendering from a source photo. I did have to convert from color to black and white (which I might have done in Photoshop, but I didn’t), and I also added the clouds. The sky was basically an overcast blank in the original photo, and it felt like very awkwardly trapped white space between the bridge tower and the tall tree.
Otherwise, I think the original composition was pretty good for an amateur snapshot. As is common in amateur photography, though, the light was behind the subject, so a lot of bike detail was just lost in shadow. Frankly, I just decided to declare this okay, and roll with it. Unfortunately graphite pencils are not ideal for large, solid black areas; try as I might I was unable to eliminate some degree of reflective texture, as evident above. Oh well. Ink might have been better in theory, e.g., but in practice I just don’t have a lot of skill or comfort with wet media.
I also did not especially love drawing all of that foliage in the background, let alone stippling the road texture, for what that’s worth. I think the road at least does look nice, but stippling has not gotten any more fun since the last time I did it.
Some notes on its design, now…
On the whole, design for Cotton’s Library was simpler and easier than Brilliant Deduction. The cover was a relatively direct affair, a rare (for me) opportunity in the “single image plus typography” school of cover design. I had a somewhat different idea, originally, hoping to find an old still life painting with books and papers. I’m sure there’s something like this in the world. But nothing that I found among public domain archives, even with their recent growth, really persuaded me.
So, plan B was stock photography. I believe it worked out entirely well enough. This is a nice, warm image, hinting at age and capturing a bit of dramatic light. The only thing I did to it was replace the printing in the opened book with calligraphy, since Cotton’s library is primarily a manuscript collection. The result, here, is rather unlikely, in that I believe that most of these are paper books and this kind of manuscript page would be more likely in a parchment volume… but, y’know, I’ve never thought this kind of literalism was very profitable in cover design, anyway. (It isn’t like I put Wolverine on the cover and he’s only in the background of one panel, e.g.)
I looked at a few options for typography, but gravitated toward Perpetua Titling, and not for the first time. I think this, too, looks smashing. Perpetua Titling has all the classical elegance and decorum of Trajan, without the baggage of overuse in a zillion often very random applications. I completely reserve the right to use this typeface on a cover yet again, in future.