You've got to be able to make animation for much less... Less is not the studio's way.
quote by Don Bluth
Added by Lucian Velea
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Allegany Camp
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[...] Read more
poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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From Epidermal Taxidermy to Internal Epiphany
FROM EPIDERMAL TAXIDERMY TO INTERNAL EPIPHANY
Portrait of fair mind is neither, nor!
neither mastered nor in pieces shred,
displayed to touring tourists - Turrell's bore -
whose dreams no themes of genius hint ahead.
Could paint drip down to mop pain's vail of tears,
unveiling pooled oasis to exchange,
past wraith, fresh faith to grace remaining years,
then fears would fade before excitement strange.
From monochrome to rainbow glow display
“we are such stuff as dreams are made of” shows,
no lifeless stuffing, feathers drooping, fray;
vitality surpasses surface glows
to put to shame greyed taxidermist’s skills
forever fixed in time: true talent spills.
True talent overflows as curiousity
channels potential, recent acquisitions,
to harness latent energy, to free
flame burning to encounter twin shared visions.
Gold courage holds no secrets for fair muse
whose darker shades may by Miss, understood,
misunderstandings sweep away to choose
hues better read, refusing mirage wood.
If one would ink fresh portrait of fair mind
contact’s impact could do it justice true,
where words match deeds indeed, feed surge behind
layered lines to tempt that talent through.
No taxidermist’s trophy, prized possession,
pro-active win/win casts out sin, transgression.
Shared view should sunshine through tune-blended flow
to filter out, to mend, doubt’s daunting pain,
suspend in amber all imbroglio
freeing focus, tender trust sustain.
Bottled up desire too well preserves
formaldehyde-postponed screw-cap allure,
throttles interaction, tires, reserves
soul’s parking place, secure in sinecure.
Restraints life paints can’t canvas open urge,
anticipate emotions strong, long stored
in hibernation waiting to emerge,
eager for adventures unexplored.
Suspended animation soul-song cheats
with taxidermist version of heart’s beats.
Could luck alight tonight and somehow show
new way to leech frustration numbing brain,
[...] Read more
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Suspended In Animation
Suspended in Animation
To be lifeless and still
Watch the world passing by
Dreaming Forever
In a world of in justice
To be suspended in animation
To care for all people
But unable to help them
Musing forever
In a world of prejudice
To be suspended in animation
To yearn ends to conflict
Though you cannot end it
Withdrawn forever
In a world of war
To be suspended in animation
To covet life
A vessel for your soul
A body and conscious
From where you can forge change
To wake to a cause
And help the human race
This is your fate
Don't stray from it
Or be suspended in animation
By Alan McDowall
poem by Alan McDowall
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Buzz Aldrin, Space Imperialist
Buzz Aldrin, Space Imperialist,
discovers a tiny brown lesion
on the end of his nose.
he uses his wife’s
concave make up mirror
to examine it more closely
and confirms his worse suspicions:
It’s malignant.
Coolly, he makes
one appointment with his dermatologist
and another in Samara.
After brushing his teeth
he takes another look
at the tiny brown Angel of Death.
It flakes off
-a brown booger.
Buzz cancels his appointments
and craves a celebratory drink terribly,
but summons his fantastic will power
and resists the urge.
II
Buzz Aldrin, Space Imperialist,
lands on the Dark Side of the Moon
and meets the indigenous Moonpupiks,
who are heavily armed yet friendly.
He has sex with many tribeswomen,
but fends off the attentions of the polymorphous perverse
tribesmen, and tells all that they must
dropp their religion and adopt the
State Religion of NASA, Tanglicanism,
which uses Tang for communion wine.
The natives say they don’t mind a bit
as they are lapsed Moonitarians
and were looking for something to fill the gap.
Disappointed they don’t offer more conversion resistance,
Buzz orders the leaders beheaded
and claims the Dark Side of the Moon
in the name of Rio Tinto,
an Australian mining corporation
whose logo he wears on his helmet
and ship.
Then he wakes up.
II(a)
Buzz Aldrin, Space Imperialist
takes another nap and,
against the advice of his fellow astronauts,
brings 4 or 5 Moonpupiks (MOON pu pix)
back to the Court of Richard Nixon, Imperial Vizard,
[...] Read more
poem by Percy Dovetonsils
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Willing & Able
Said Im willin and Im able
Im ready 2 place my cards on the table
Ive been holdin back this feelin
4 far 2 long
Now that Im willin, its a fact
Is truly mighty strong
Like a child lost in the wilderness
till I reach my destination, I wont rest
Cuz Im willin (willin)
And Im able (able)
Im ready 2 place my cards on the table (table)
Theres some kings in my deck and a queen or 2
So u know there aint nothin,
Nothin that I wouldnt do (nothin that I wouldnt do)
It twas a long time coming,
But now that its here
All the non-believers better fear me
Cuz Im willin (willin and able)
And Im able
I got good and plenty cards
2 place on the table (table)
Been holdin back this feeling 4 far 2 long
(been holdin back this feeling 4 far 2 long)
Now that Im willing, (this feelin)
This feelin
Its truly mighty strong (truly, i... I)
Im willing (willin)
And able (able)
My vision is all clear, Im feelin kinda stable
U know I am, u know I am
Ready 2 whisper (whisper, whatcha say)
Ready 2 shout (shout, now whatcha say)
Ready 2 scream (scream, now whatcha say)
From the highest mountain top (whatcha say, whatcha say)
Lord, Im willing and able
I wanna dance and sing, somebody watch me do my thing
(willin)
(able)
(willin and able)
(willin)
(able)
(willin and able)
I wanna dance and sing, somebody watch me do my thing
(dance and sing, let me watch u do your thing)
(bring it to me)
Let me take a bite
2 see if ure ripe
Im kinda thinkin about
Takin a hunk, chunk
A piece of your love tonight
[...] Read more
song performed by Prince
Added by Lucian Velea
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Who would be able to think?
I. Who would be able to think?
Who would be able to think
that your eyes as pretty
as stars shining in the heaven?
Who would be able to think
how restless my heart is beating,
that you are more beautiful than I had known before?
Who would be able to think
that your eyes are so pretty?
II. Who would be able to think?
Who would be able to think
that your eyes are prettier
than the sun hidden by banks of fog,
than the stars shining in heaven,
that the tears glittering on your cheeks
comes with a deep meaning?
Who would be able to think
that your eyes are prettier
than the glowing champagne which I am pouring
that the look in them would bring me to a confession
about feelings which hide in my heart like a lizard
while we touch glasses
and who would be able to think this?
III. Who would be able to think?
Who would be able to think
that your eyes are prettier than stars,
that you bring new meaning, to stars hanging in the sky
that your tears glowing against your cheeks
comes with a deep meaning?
Who would be able to think
while we touch glasses
that you are lovelier than I could comprehend before,
that you bring new meaning, to stars hanging in the sky
and when I pour sparkling champagne
the look in your eyes, could bring me to a confession?
Who would be able to think
how restless my heart is beating,
about feelings which hide in my heart like a lizard
that you bring new meaning, to stars hanging in the sky,
[...] Read more
poem by Gert Strydom
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I Feel So Sub-prime
My next-door neighbor is gone
Two small U-haul trucks
Were parked in their driveway
When I got home Friday
The guy that owned the house
Before them
Was an ass
First thing he did
When he and his wife
Moved in was to convert
Their two car garage to
A kick-boxing studio
Our garage faces the street
Their's faces our property
One day I got home from work
Walking up to my door
I glanced to my left
It seemed as if someone else
Was walking too
At just about my pace
Then like Lucy and Harpo
If you remember that TV scene
From 'I Love...' we both
Stopped and stared at each other
The entire back wall of his garage
Was a glass mirror
Like a ballet studio Glass!
Without the class
His studio had been downtown
In a commercial building
I had read the magnetic signs
On the sides of his SUV
Now his studio faced my front yard
Heavy bag hanging there
All the space was needed
Washer and dryer? ? ?
The had been hooked up
Outside for Christ's sake
Under a tacked-on lean-to
To keep the rain out
[...] Read more
poem by Tom J. Mariani
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Studio Musician
I am a studio musician
We've never met
But you know me well
I am the English horn
Who plays the poignant counter-nine
Upon the song you heard
While making love in some hotel
I am a part of you
I've never tried for fame
You'll never know my name
I am the strings that enter softly
Or three guitars that glitter gold
I am the thousand trumpet lines
That were an afterthought
Intended eyes,
the way to get a dying record sold
I never ride the road
I never play around
I played what they set down
I'm a working musician
living from week to week
I'm the voice through each empty men
tried to speak
A studio musician
Blowin' the chance I see
And when the woodwind coushin rises
I start to dream
With the low brass bed
But I awake the horns
The drummer calls to me
We're up the letter D
I'm a man of the moment
pop is my stock n' trade
Singles, jingles and demos
conventently made
A studio musician
Whose music will die unplayed
A studio musician
Whose music could have died unplayed
song performed by Barry Manilow
Added by Lucian Velea
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Intermission Ii
No you not goin
I am goin to the club, I am goin,
No, Im not havin it
I am goin to the club wit you and the boys
You not hangin out wit the boys
No...
I aint never been Im goin...(ring)
Ima go and get the phone but
I am goin to the club
Hello
T-boz
Yeah
Uh, get down to the studio quick you hafta
Hurry you gotta do your part
Yeah, yeah alright Ill be there
Alright...
Thanks, bye
Look, I gotta go to the studio so whats it gonna be
You gon take me or what?
Dang, you gotta go to the studio...
I was gonna take you to the club but ah....
Now why you lyin?
Look, let me tell you somethin, just forget that
*bang, whop, punch...*
Ahhhhhhhh.......
Dont nobody have to take that from nobody
And wit dat I dont know who he think I am...
Shoot, Im about to go, Im gonna go to the studio alright
Ima take the car, he aint gonna go nowhere
Hey, what you doin?
What you think Im doin?
Leaving, leaving, leaving....
Hey, come here...
Tionne.....................
song performed by TLC
Added by Lucian Velea
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Through the eyes of a Field Coronet (Epic)
Introduction
In the kaki coloured tent in Umbilo he writes
his life’s story while women, children and babies are dying,
slowly but surely are obliterated, he see how his nation is suffering
while the events are notched into his mind.
Lying even heavier on him is the treason
of some other Afrikaners who for own gain
have delivered him, to imprisonment in this place of hatred
and thoughts go through him to write a book.
Prologue
The Afrikaner nation sprouted
from Dutchmen,
who fought decades without defeat
against the super power Spain
mixed with French Huguenots
who left their homes and belongings,
with the revocation of the Edict of Nantes.
Associate this then with the fact
that these people fought formidable
for seven generations
against every onslaught that they got
from savages en wild animals
becoming marksmen, riding
and taming wild horses
with one bullet per day
to hunt a wild antelope,
who migrated right across the country
over hills in mass protest
and then you have
the most formidable adversary
and then let them fight
in a natural wilderness
where the hunter,
the sniper and horseman excels
and any enemy is at a lost.
Let them then also be patriotic
into their souls,
believe in and read
out of the word of God
[...] Read more
poem by Gert Strydom
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Book III - Part 03 - The Soul is Mortal
Now come: that thou mayst able be to know
That minds and the light souls of all that live
Have mortal birth and death, I will go on
Verses to build meet for thy rule of life,
Sought after long, discovered with sweet toil.
But under one name I'd have thee yoke them both;
And when, for instance, I shall speak of soul,
Teaching the same to be but mortal, think
Thereby I'm speaking also of the mind-
Since both are one, a substance interjoined.
First, then, since I have taught how soul exists
A subtle fabric, of particles minute,
Made up from atoms smaller much than those
Of water's liquid damp, or fog, or smoke,
So in mobility it far excels,
More prone to move, though strook by lighter cause
Even moved by images of smoke or fog-
As where we view, when in our sleeps we're lulled,
The altars exhaling steam and smoke aloft-
For, beyond doubt, these apparitions come
To us from outward. Now, then, since thou seest,
Their liquids depart, their waters flow away,
When jars are shivered, and since fog and smoke
Depart into the winds away, believe
The soul no less is shed abroad and dies
More quickly far, more quickly is dissolved
Back to its primal bodies, when withdrawn
From out man's members it has gone away.
For, sure, if body (container of the same
Like as a jar), when shivered from some cause,
And rarefied by loss of blood from veins,
Cannot for longer hold the soul, how then
Thinkst thou it can be held by any air-
A stuff much rarer than our bodies be?
Besides we feel that mind to being comes
Along with body, with body grows and ages.
For just as children totter round about
With frames infirm and tender, so there follows
A weakling wisdom in their minds; and then,
Where years have ripened into robust powers,
Counsel is also greater, more increased
The power of mind; thereafter, where already
The body's shattered by master-powers of eld,
And fallen the frame with its enfeebled powers,
Thought hobbles, tongue wanders, and the mind gives way;
All fails, all's lacking at the selfsame time.
Therefore it suits that even the soul's dissolved,
Like smoke, into the lofty winds of air;
[...] Read more
poem by Lucretius
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When I Am 65
When I am 65
Every day will be a blessing from God
When I am 65
I hope that I will still be able to see with my eyes
When I am 65
I hope that I will be able to hear well with my ears
When I am 65
I hope that I will still be able to talk
When I am 65
I hope that I will be able to walk long distances
When I am 65
I hope that I will still be able to look after myself
When I am 65
I hope there will be somebody that will take care of me
When I am 65
I will be retired
When I am 65
I hope that I will not be isolated and lonely
And I hope that friends will be around for me
When I am 65
I hope to be able to see my nephew more
And I hope that he will come here to see me
When I am 65
I will have gray hair
And I will look more handsome
When I am 65
I won’t be able to do nothing about aging
I will age with time
When I am 65
I will receive my little pension
When I am 65
I will be a senior citizen
When I am 65
I hope that I will still have my brilliant mind working
poem by Aldo Kraas
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When you do a movie in the studio system, there's a committee. A committee of six or seven people you answer to. There's two or three producers, a studio executive and one or two people above that studio executive.
quote by Thomas Lennon
Added by Lucian Velea
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So for my studio purposes, I know that I'm in my studio with technicians who've done amazing things to my board and to my power amps and I know what I can deliver out of my studio.
quote by Billy Sherwood
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Widening Spell of the Leaves
--The Carpathian Frontier, October, 1968
--for my brother
Once, in a foreign country, I was suddenly ill.
I was driving south toward a large city famous
For so little it had a replica, in concrete,
In two-thirds scale, of the Arc de Triomphe stuck
In the midst of traffic, & obstructing it.
But the city was hours away, beyond the hills
Shaped like the bodies of sleeping women.
Often I had to slow down for herds of goats
Or cattle milling on those narrow roads, & for
The narrower, lost, stone streets of villages
I passed through. The pains in my stomach had grown
Gradually sharper & more frequent as the day
Wore on, & now a fever had set up house.
In the villages there wasn't much point in asking
Anyone for help. In those places, where tanks
Were bivouacked in shade on their way back
From some routine exercise along
The Danube, even food was scarce that year.
And the languages shifted for no clear reason
From two hard quarries of Slavic into German,
Then to a shred of Latin spliced with oohs
And hisses. Even when I tried the simplest phrases,
The peasants passing over those uneven stones
Paused just long enough to look up once,
Uncomprehendingly. Then they turned
Quickly away, vanishing quietly into that
Moment, like bark chips whirled downriver.
It was autumn. Beyond each village the wind
Threw gusts of yellowing leaves across the road.
The goats I passed were thin, gray; their hind legs,
Caked with dried shit, seesawed along--
Not even mild contempt in their expressionless,
Pale eyes, & their brays like the scraping of metal.
Except for one village that had a kind
Of museum where I stopped to rest, & saw
A dead Scythian soldier under glass,
Turning to dust while holding a small sword
At attention forever, there wasn't much to look at.
Wind, leaves, goats, the higher passes
Locked in stone, the peasants with their fate
Embroidering a stillness into them,
And a spell over all things in that landscape,
Like . . .
That was the trouble; it couldn't be
Compared to anything else, not even the sleep
Of some asylum at a wood's edge with the sound
Of a pond's spillway beside it. But as each cramp
[...] Read more
poem by Larry Levis
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In the empty studio
The diffused northern sunlight
of this studio at dawn
matches the silence and the stillness
like the speaking silence
of the retrochoir behind the altar
of a simple white Greek island church –
that has no ornament; simply walls
painted in a pale blue wash,
the space, the air itself, as radiant with heaven;
behind the iconostasis – gold and candle and eternal gaze -
where praise is prepared; thought surrendered;
humility the robe; the sacred word awaits
the moment when it’s spoken;
so this studio; and at its centre, calling,
stands an easel with a white canvas on it;
what waits in this empty studio
that’s so full of emptiness that calls?
what challenges? This canvas
waits, as being ever does; full, content,
needing nothing but itself…
the silence will accept our spoken word,
then return to stillness;
the canvas will not be so forgiving;
‘make a mark on me that will not diminish
my completeness…; so let our being
meet, before a mark is made…’
this holy place: only godself may mark
this canvas and yet not detract; from space,
draw space; or may with colour stain transparent
this white white radiance of eternity:
and in the place whence all arises,
Nothing and Everything smile together
in their secret play.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Way of the Mantis
Here is our thesis animation completed at RIT.
It is the story of an impetuous Chinese monk who finds he has a thing or two to learn from an unlikely source. The animation is rendered in a brushpainted style reminiscient of old Te Wei films.
short film Way of the Mantis, directed by Joseph Daniels and Jedidiah Mitchell
Added by Maria
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Canto the Sixteenth
I
The antique Persians taught three useful things,
To draw the bow, to ride, and speak the truth.
This was the mode of Cyrus, best of kings --
A mode adopted since by modern youth.
Bows have they, generally with two strings;
Horses they ride without remorse or ruth;
At speaking truth perhaps they are less clever,
But draw the long bow better now than ever.
II
The cause of this effect, or this defect, --
"For this effect defective comes by cause," --
Is what I have not leisure to inspect;
But this I must say in my own applause,
Of all the Muses that I recollect,
Whate'er may be her follies or her flaws
In some things, mine's beyond all contradiction
The most sincere that ever dealt in fiction.
III
And as she treats all things, and ne'er retreats
From any thing, this epic will contain
A wilderness of the most rare conceits,
Which you might elsewhere hope to find in vain.
'T is true there be some bitters with the sweets,
Yet mix'd so slightly, that you can't complain,
But wonder they so few are, since my tale is
"De rebus cunctis et quibusdam aliis."
IV
But of all truths which she has told, the most
True is that which she is about to tell.
I said it was a story of a ghost --
What then? I only know it so befell.
Have you explored the limits of the coast,
Where all the dwellers of the earth must dwell?
'T is time to strike such puny doubters dumb as
The sceptics who would not believe Columbus.
V
Some people would impose now with authority,
Turpin's or Monmouth Geoffry's Chronicle;
Men whose historical superiority
Is always greatest at a miracle.
But Saint Augustine has the great priority,
Who bids all men believe the impossible,
Because 't is so. Who nibble, scribble, quibble, he
Quiets at once with "quia impossibile."
[...] Read more
poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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It just seems like the whole, overall animation world is trying to go where maybe animation doesn't belong.
quote by Don Bluth
Added by Lucian Velea
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I prefer that animation reach into places where live action doesn't go, and it seems like all of animation nowadays is trying to go where live action is.
quote by Don Bluth
Added by Lucian Velea
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