rendered and loose




I received a number of questions asking about the backgrounds in the 3 Day Project and how they were conceived. So here are a few examples of how we approached the environment. 

As I wrote in my last post, the buildings were modeled, lit, textured, and rendered by the talented CG artists I work with at MAKE. My small contribution to the buildings was to paint over the rendered images in Photoshop with loose brush strokes to help bridge the style disparity between the 2D character I had animated and the 3D background.

Since I was only budgeted 20-30 minutes per building, I needed to omit or alter a fair amount of detail. In particular, the trim of the buildings which were painted to look like wood rather than stone. I would have preferred it remained stone had I the time.

sandsofsoftbread  asked:

hello! I really love your art style, would you mind me asking you how you draw/have any tips or tricks for drawing/coloring? Thank you very much! I hope you have a nice day ✨✨

hi!!! sorry for the SUPER LATE response LMAO fmskegms and uh i don’t really have any tips n tricks other than the standard practice, practice, practice and use photoshop/sai keyboard shortcuts…..

i do tend to use a lot of overlays + effects in my stuff to help me get the colors i want since im absolute MESS w/ picking and using colors….u should probably learn how to use colors on ur own w/o relying on effects but i’m lazy and i just throw effects everywhere LOL idk if it’s any help but i screenshotted a piece as I went through it today, but i try to mix up my process n keep it fluid!!

thx for askin and hope u have a wonderful day too!!!


So, I hear @zenshipper (and maybe one or two other folks) were interested in a little ficlet to accompany this little gif (credit to @balfe-heughan). 

Thought I’d give it a go.


He had been staring at her all night, just like every other man in the room. She wore a fine silk gown of rich brown and bright gold, and her hair was swept up, baring her long, slim neck. Her smile was wide, and her eyes sparkled, but both were aimed at another man. Jamie wanted to strangle the fellow, whoever he was. In fact, he wanted everyone in the room to disappear except the two of them. Instead he traded meaningless quips with aristocrats and made hollow promises to rich men, all the while seething with anger as he watched them undress his wife with their eyes. He flattered their wives to curry their favor. It was becoming physically painful, but for the sake of their mission, he feigned interest in the noblewomen’s silly stories, laughed at their vapid tales, and prayed for the night to end. But until the Prince departed, the party would go on. 

Claire had a circle of admirers around her, all jostling with each other to offer her another glass of fine wine or induce her to play cards. Her tongue was freed by the Bordeaux, and her sharp wit had the men roaring with laughter. Likewise, the alcohol rendered her movements loose and sensual. The men leaned closer to the pink flush rising up her bosom, to her whiskey eyes, to her plush lips, to her opalescent skin. Jamie wanted to tear them all off her, one by one, with his bare hands. Then he wanted to carry her into one of the curtained alcoves and remind her to whom she belonged. 

The moment the Prince left the party, Jamie turned away from the plump young Countess who was trying to keep his interest. He placed his glass on a tray, shouldered his way between a Baron and a Vicomte who were hovering over Claire, and slid his hand around to the nape of the neck. As her mouth dropped open in surprise, he ran his thumb along her bottom lip and told her it was time to leave. Walking backward, he pulled her out of the room. Without taking his eyes from hers, he demanded her cloak from a nearby manservant. 

“What’s going on, Jamie?”

With clenched jaw, he told her, “‘Tis as I said. It’s time to leave.”

“Did something happen?" 

"Not yet.” But if they stayed, surely he would do something he would regret. “I didna care for the way they were looking at ye, none of them.”

She glanced back at the men behind them. “They’re a pair of dandies, but I was in the middle of a conversation. The Vicomte was quite enlightening. Apparently his cousin is a member of King James’ court…”

“I dinna care, Sassenach. Not now.”

Her brow furrowed. “But that’s why we’re here! To gather information. And that man had information.”

“Later.” The manservant handed him the cloak, which her wrapped around her shoulders. He was grateful to finally have something with which to cover her. She was his to look at, and look at her he would, when they were alone. “I need ye, Claire.”

The rough texture of his voice subdued any protest she had, and she blushed brightly. “Oh, I see.” And she did.

He wasn’t certain he could make it all the way back to their apartments. The ride was at least half an hour, more if there was any delay. He had been aching for her for hours, and now that he had his hands on her skin, he didn’t think he could wait another minute. He would have her in the coach.

When it arrived, he boosted her into the cab, his hands so tight around her waist that he actually made it difficult for her to get in. He followed eagerly and was about to shut the door behind them when he heard a loud, “Attendez!” behind him. It was Madam Durand, a friendly woman of middle age who lived only three minutes walk from their home. Her own coach had broken its wheel moments ago when she tried to depart, and she happily climbed into theirs, saying how grateful she was that they would take her home. He clamped his mouth shut to avoid blurting out that he had made no such offer.

Jamie didn’t speak for the duration of the forty minute ride. He simply clenched his fists in his lap, clamped his mouth shut, and glared out the window. Claire compensated nicely, making pleasant and humorous conversation the entire time. She had administered licorice root to Madam Durand’s youngest daughter during a recent coughing illness, and as such had become fond of the family.

Claire kept talking even after Madam Durand waved them goodbye, recalling a silly tale about the little girl. He watched her closely, mesmerized by the fluttering of her hands and watching the movement of her mouth. He didn’t hear a word of what she said. When they entered their apartment, she sat on the floor and removed her shoes with a blissful sigh. “Mmmm. Feels lovely to take those off.”

Unable to bear the space between them, he lowered himself into the narrow space between her and the settee. Every nerve in his body burned with the need to touch her, so he wrapped his arm around her narrow waist, wishing the clothing under his hand would simply disappear. He leaned into her and felt the tickle of her hair on his cheek. It wasn’t nearly enough, so he strained his hips into the layers of her skirt and jerked her firmly against his chest. He whispered, “Do ye remember what I told ye? I need ye, Claire. And I will have ye.”

Jamie simply could not breathe from the wanting of her. He descended on her mouth, lips parted, and stole the air from her lungs.

A comiXologist Recommends:
Harris Smith recommends Arsene Schrauwen

Ollie Schrauwen’s new graphic novel Arsene Schrauwen, from fantagraphics, is rich and fantastical, yet at the same time resolutely physical and sensual. It is a comic that provides much more than a story; reading it is an experience. Arsene Schrauwen follows its titular hero, the author’s grandfather, as he travels from Belgium to a lush tropical landscape identified only as the Colony. There, he teams with his cousin, Roger, to turn the Colony into an ultramodern utopia based on Roger’s sprawling, impractical yet wondrous design. Along the way, Arsene falls for Roger’s wife, Marieke, and gradually loses touch with reality, or perhaps encounters an entirely new form of reality.

Schrauwen, the author, keeps the level of realism we should expect from his story somewhat mysterious from the very beginning, creating at first a dreamlike, gauzy feel but becoming, as Arsene’s sense of his surroundings becomes more bizarre and unnerving, more feverish and haunting. There is an element of old world fable, distinctly European, to Arsene Schrauwen, as well as the kind of modernist journeys portrayed in books like Kafka’s Amerika, with their emphasis on the conflict between an individual’s internal struggles and the absurdity of their surroundings, both subtle and sublime. 

All of this is rendered in a loose, yet fine lined and playful style, with Schrauwen, the author, cleverly utilizing elements of the medium to emphasize tonal or narrative threads. On some pages, text drifts out of narration boxes to show disorientation. On others, the author encourages readers to take a week or two off between chapters (and graciously thanks us for doing so). Schrauwen also uses his coloring expressionistically, shifting between monochromatic blue and orange, occasionally mixing the two and expanding his palette towards the end. All of this, combined with the skill of the artwork and the charm and wit of the writing, serves to give Arsene Schrauwen the feeling of providing, upon conclusion, a complete, satisfying experience. You’ll want to thank Ollie Schruawen for creating such a masterful work, and thank for yourself for taking the time to read it.

[Read Arsene Schrauwen on comiXology]

Harris Smith is a Brooklyn-based comics and media professional. In addition to his role as a Senior Production Coordinator at comiXology, he edits several comics anthologies, including Jeans and Felony Comics, under the banner of Negative Pleasure Publications. He’s also the host of the weekly radio show Negative Pleasure on Newtown Radio.

anonymous asked:

♪ Minewt

Song—Raining on Sunday by Keith Urban

It’s 10:00 AM and the sky is almost dark.

Newt’s eyelashes flutter and his chest feels warm and heavy, shot through with something syrupy and content as he takes in the shadow stained room around him. He’s tangled up in Minho, his head tucked under his boyfriend’s chin, and their toes brush lazily beneath the sheets as they both pretend they’re still asleep.

Newt’s been awake for at least twenty minutes, and he slid into consciousness to the feeling of Minho’s fingers woven through his hair, hand tapping out a gentle rhythm on his spine in time with the rain.

It’s storming outside but their hearts are calm and so is his mind. It’s Sunday, and they have nowhere to go, no one to please, nothing to do. Minho’s skin is warm beneath his palms and the rise and fall of his chest helps Newt to count the seconds as they pass, languid and secure.

Usually he’s up and about, running from place to place and worrying about wasting time—not getting to work or class or to the store when he’s supposed to, but today is going to be different. They haven’t said a word to each other, not even once Minho realized that Newt was no longer asleep. It doesn’t matter.

Newt said good morning a few minutes ago when he pressed his nose into Minho’s collarbone, smiling into the ridges and bumps beneath his mouth, and Minho’s shiver was all the answer he needed. They’d silently agreed not to move, conveying their thoughts and words through fingerprints on joints and hips, tracing the bruises and marks from last night as they let the rain lull them into a idle state of mind.

Minho’s finger drags against a tender spot on his lower back and Newt shifts just slightly, a hushed exhale of breath against Minho’s shoulder. There’s an apologetic pair of lips on the top of his head not two seconds later, asking for forgiveness, and Newt obliges with the touch of his knuckles on Minho’s cheek.

The rain pounds out a symphony on the roof; quietly triumphant at rendering them loose and pliant for the morning, and Newt feels the muted color in the room like it’s a blanket urging him back into sleep. He squeezes Minho’s hip, just the barest hint of pressure, and it’s a million things—reassurance, happiness, and an effortless request. As always, Minho reads his intent as though he’s whispered it into his skin like a secret, and he draws the covers further up their bodies.

They’re cocooned together, skin and spirits warm with the beat of the storm and the thump of their hearts pressed together, an early morning lullaby designed to soothe and sedate. Newt sinks into the feeling of being part of something simple and raw, something as easy and validating as being told ‘I love you’ before you’re awake enough to understand or doubt. It’s something that just is, that they just are, and right now Newt is more than okay with just existing.

Send me a ♪ and a ship and I’ll write you a fic based on a random song from my playlist!