Thursday, October 31, 2019

Wednesday, October 30, 2019

Wrapping Up Halloween GIFiness

Up to 14 seconds of basic animation - another few dozen sketches and it'll be ready to render into video.  Here's the ongoing GIFiness.

And another --

And the last gif version before going into "post"

Friday, October 11, 2019

The Season Approaches


V1a - corrected the "catch" in the cycle - cleared the keyframe at the end of the animated symbol layer - it was saving old data:

V2 - continuing with additional layers:

V3 - nearly 6 seconds now....the suspense is killing me!

V4 - 8 seconds, my my...may get this done by Christmas...

V5 - up to 10 seconds, getting ready for the next two basic actions

Update 6 - Adjusting colors, continuing -- this is taking FOREVER

Tuesday, October 01, 2019

Consequences of an Animation Conference - the OIAF experience

Soul Töd - Animation Outline

Music - 1917 Italian mandolin recording, 78rpm played at 45rpm
Italic text represents translation from the narrator/characters.

Man in dark green room, window blinds drawn, TV on, door closed.

Mia animo mortis.  My soul is dead.
Ii batas al la muro. It sticks to the wall.
Mia animo pikas.  My soul stinks.
Miaj internaj demonoj malaperis. My inner demon is gone.

Television is running poorly received broadcast.

The mail slot has a note appear, it retracts.
He opens the door.
A screaming mouth is there.  Spit sprays.  Teeth threaten.  The note is on the tongue.
No response.  Man takes the note.  Closes the door.
It is dripping and illegible.

He opens the door again.  The screaming continues, uninterrupted.  He puts the note back on the tongue and closes the door.

He is drenched in spit.  He goes to the bathroom.  A giant eye is peering into the window.
He looks in the broken mirror.

Rasulo prizorgos ĉi tiun salaton. A shave will take care of this mess.

He leaves through the back of his house.  Demons encircle all houses on his street, screaming into the front door as they embrace the building.

He goes to a barber shop. 

The pole is slowly spinning, the white stripe unraveling onto the ground, the red area oozing out.

One man is there ahead of him in the chair.  He has a marble eye.

Mia okulo ofendas min. My eye offends me.

The barber approaches him from behind, and in a shot to mimic Un Chien d’Anadalou, looks out the window at a cloud bisecting the sun, then draws his razor over the marble eye of the customer.  The blade cracks and splits.

The customer stands.

Via klingo estas tiel obtuza kiel via spriteco Your blade is as dull as your wit.  

He plucks out his marble eye and slams it into the forehead of the barber.  It sets off a blaze of psychedelic colors behind him.

Mia bardisto havis religian sperton. Li komencis preĝejon. My barber had a religious experience.  He started a church.

The skies are bright and cheerful, the church is surrounded by marble eyes and broken razors.  The barber, now aglow with his marble eye in the center of his forehead, preaches a sermon.

The barber:
Mia okulo lasas aeron al mia cerbo por ke miaj oreloj kantu. My eye lets air to my brain so my ears can sing.
Kristaloj dissiris miajn pensojn kaj la koloroj estas bongustaj. Crystals shred my thoughts and the colors are delicious. 
Morta animo ne povas kanti, barba vizago kasas niajn cikatrojn. A dead soul cannot sing, a bearded face hides our inner scars.
Kuketoj felicigas min. Cookies make me happy.
Ciu laudo al kuketoj. All praise to cookies.

Liaj vortoj estis potencaj. Unu post unu, la demonoj komencis foriri.  His words were powerful.  One by one, the demons started to leave.

We see the reverse of the earlier shots, with the embracing demons slowly pfft’ing into dust as he walks home.

The man gets another note in the mail slot.  He opens the door.  It is a sunny day, no screaming demon mouth.  He reads the note.  It is junk mail.

Mi nun ne devas fari mian lavilon. I don’t have to do my laundry as often now. 
Mi pensas, ke mi kreskos barbon. I think I’ll grow a beard.
Mankas al mi demonoj. I miss my demons.

Fade to black.

Voice in the dark:

Surbaze de la rakonto, "La Bloto", de Francesca Kafka
Grava financado de Koseraj Eksteruloj de Beogrado
Perceptita de Jim Middleton

The Ottawa International Animation Festival - OIAF - Notes from September, 2008

After a decade, a return to Ottawa, seeming oddly changed, or realigned, or ... something.  So this note came from a file from a 2008 visit.  The return visits will not be separated by 10 years, that's for certain...

Once a year, I am physically moved to a foreign land of ambulating masses, where the most revolutionary of gothic jaywalkers performs her disobedience with civility, and where the creamy foam head of a Guinness pint is measured in centimeters.
Aside from my home base of Battle Creek, I have spent more time in Ottawa over the past decade than practically any other city on this planet. I find myself giving directions to places along Elgin Street, knowing the hours of the Rideau Centre, and even knowing that Centre is French for Center. I have even sampled the gravied cheese curd comfort food called poutain, although it still remains under the category of “acquired taste.”
The draw has never been Parliament, although their sessions are lively and drip in delicious sarcasm, and while the museums are striking and the scenery evocative of lost forests in central European, what pulls me to the most civilized of North American capitols is the OIAF. Some of this is purely force of habit: before video and DVD, and even before KAFI, the OIAF is where you had to go to see international animation on a large screen, or absorb the latest 90-second test film from that upstart bunch at Pixar. Even once the novelty was diluted by the expanding availability of animation on video and cable, there remained the sense of community-- first of old-school animators, then of increasingly-earnest afficionados. And now of a new generation, able to create and share their work quickly and electronically, can converge and experience what the internet can only emulate–human contact.
Chris Robinson has grown into his role as master of these ceremonies, from his hesitant and seemingly hostile beginnings to that of – dare one use the word congenial? – young fogey who delights in the occasional outrage while poking at the perimeter of propriety. He certainly seems to be using his time efficiently while on his ship of state–this visit served to premiere not one, but two books on animation (a biography of the late Ryan Larkin and a collection of interviews with Canadian animators).
To this setting, this sense of community, and its inherent enthusiasm, add a series of astonishing films and programs. This OIAF was a case of delicious sensory overloads. The feature films in competition included two created in Flash– Waltz with Bashir, a blend of documentary and Apocalypse Now surrealism by Ari Folman, and the astonishing Sita Sings the Blues, presented in multiple stylistic forms by Nina Paley, who bankrupted herself to create this five year labor of love.
The short films ranged from the stark Dark Years to the utterly giddy Lollypop to the bloodfest Super Jail. Five sets of films, only moderately overpriced popcorn and soda, and generally great weather for the walk between theaters. Even the picnic, with its ritualized pumpkin carving competition, left participants unscathed and winners with prizes that will soon show up on Ebay.
Morning meetings with the animators became increasingly bleary-eyed as the festival continued, catalyzed by late screenings and parties. “War stories” of producers and educators continued on panels ranging from animation software to curricula, culminating in an evening with Richard Williams moderated by John Canemaker, in itself worth the journey to Canada (I am so petitioning my school to get the DVD series by Williams, budgets be hanged!). And in a performance redefining old-school techniques, Daniel Barrow related his life in manually-moved overheads, creating a 19th century animated magic lantern show.
Concerns surrounding sliced budgets have made the OIAF subject to the generosity of strangers, but this year remained a celebration. Let’s hope for more projected light from Canada in 2009.
Until then, we’ll always have KAFI in May! (updated note - KAFI is no more - we are but KAFI in Exile now - watch for the T-shirts!)