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i love the soundtrack to Glory. it is a beautiful thing. even after all these years, i still love it ~ maybe even more than the soundtrack to The Thin Red Line. both can make me cry on a good day, so it's hard to choose between the two. so i won't ~ hahahahaha.
here's another thoughtful sunday at -33 wind chill. i don't feel like drawing, which is a bit dangerous because the wheels and gears in my brain are turning over a conversation i had with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bachsoprano and i am trying very hard not to tip the scales over into too deep a self-evaluation at the moment. i will never be an artist, nor fit into an artist's community. i know this because my heart knows it. i love other people's art. i don't love mine and never will. i mean, i like it in that sympathetic "there, there, isn't that nice" sort of way and that's all good and safe. but it doesn't set my world on fire. not the way crafting an exquisite sentence or exchange of dialogue does. i am a writer. no matter how much i run from it, no matter how much i try to bury it in other pursuits.
yesterday i watched The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford. i love Ron Hansen's work, but this is a book of his i have not read (it's a long booger and i have the attention span of a gnat). but i think i might read it after all. or at least poke at it with a stick to see what it's like. the movie is not great. casey affleck gives a good performance and the story is a good one, but somewhere the film got off on the wrong foot and never gets in step. it's got a glacial, field of wheat blowing quality that is too spare to keep it moving. it makes the poignant conclusion too-long-suffered-for. i thought the whole time: the book is probably really good, but impossible to adapt easily (which is strange because i think Hansen's other novel, Mariette in Ecstasy is purely cinematic). anyway, it got me thinking about writing and how sometimes writing is the only right medium for a thing, no matter who wants to dress it up and send it out into the world as something else.
what a gorgeous picture.
unfortunately, if you stare at it for three hours you'll
have some sense of what the film is like.
re: the current project: i find it interesting that drawing this story, i suddenly feel the need to create transitions (like that train), and fill in backgrounds (like those bricks). a hundred bricks in writing is three words (if even that ~ it could just be one: brick). a train ride in a novel is just a blank space between paragraphs. when you draw soldiers in an illustration, you have to paint every single button on their coats. when you write about them, the buttons are the reader's job.
i had some other ideas rolling around in my noggin, but i got interrupted by just how ridiculously piled up my desk is, so i took a major detour to try to clear it off and lost my train of thought.
lucky you, probably.
: D
here's another thoughtful sunday at -33 wind chill. i don't feel like drawing, which is a bit dangerous because the wheels and gears in my brain are turning over a conversation i had with
bachsoprano and i am trying very hard not to tip the scales over into too deep a self-evaluation at the moment. i will never be an artist, nor fit into an artist's community. i know this because my heart knows it. i love other people's art. i don't love mine and never will. i mean, i like it in that sympathetic "there, there, isn't that nice" sort of way and that's all good and safe. but it doesn't set my world on fire. not the way crafting an exquisite sentence or exchange of dialogue does. i am a writer. no matter how much i run from it, no matter how much i try to bury it in other pursuits. yesterday i watched The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford. i love Ron Hansen's work, but this is a book of his i have not read (it's a long booger and i have the attention span of a gnat). but i think i might read it after all. or at least poke at it with a stick to see what it's like. the movie is not great. casey affleck gives a good performance and the story is a good one, but somewhere the film got off on the wrong foot and never gets in step. it's got a glacial, field of wheat blowing quality that is too spare to keep it moving. it makes the poignant conclusion too-long-suffered-for. i thought the whole time: the book is probably really good, but impossible to adapt easily (which is strange because i think Hansen's other novel, Mariette in Ecstasy is purely cinematic). anyway, it got me thinking about writing and how sometimes writing is the only right medium for a thing, no matter who wants to dress it up and send it out into the world as something else.
what a gorgeous picture.
unfortunately, if you stare at it for three hours you'll
have some sense of what the film is like.
re: the current project: i find it interesting that drawing this story, i suddenly feel the need to create transitions (like that train), and fill in backgrounds (like those bricks). a hundred bricks in writing is three words (if even that ~ it could just be one: brick). a train ride in a novel is just a blank space between paragraphs. when you draw soldiers in an illustration, you have to paint every single button on their coats. when you write about them, the buttons are the reader's job.
i had some other ideas rolling around in my noggin, but i got interrupted by just how ridiculously piled up my desk is, so i took a major detour to try to clear it off and lost my train of thought.
lucky you, probably.
: D