30 December 2011

what a way to end the year...

proud mum

CBR Contributor Brett White
COMIC BOOK RESOURCES


1. Daredevil
Written by Mark Waid
Drawn by Paolo Rivera & Marcos Martin
Published by Marvel Comics

"For decades, Daredevil was a character who only 'worked' when he was being built up and torn down. Enter Mark Waid, Marcos Martin and Paolo Rivera, and for the first time in decades -- yes, decades -- Matt Murdock's life is not only not that bad, but interesting and fun to read about, to boot."

-- CBR Senior Editor Stephen Gerding

"After reading the issue I felt as hopeful and engaged as I did in the early 1980s when absorbing Walt Simonson's 'Thor' #337 (the first issue in his epic run). The most refreshingly joyful approach to the character in decades, and I have enjoyed each subsequent issue as much as the first."

-- Robot 6 Writer Tim O'Shea

"So, so happy to be reading a true superhero comic that truly is friendly to new readers. Waid writes Murdock with a joie de vivre that has long been missing from our current breed of introspective, narcissistic super heroes. Swashbuckling and brave, this is a Daredevil getting on with the job of being super, leaving his worries at the door and enjoying his powers."

-- Comics Should Be Good Writer Sonia Harris

"Mark Waid is setting out to give Daredevil reason to smile and the readers can't help but join in. After years of being one of the darkest titles published by Marvel, 'Daredevil,' with art by Marcos Martin and Paolo Rivera has been a delight, worthy of being shared."

-- CBR Reviewer Doug Zawisza

"What do you do with a character that's been pushed to such a dark place that no one thought he could recover? Go fun, bright, pop art. Team one of comics' best superhero writers with two stunning artists that craft pages unlike what you've seen before."

-- CBR Reviewer Chad Nevett

20 December 2011

night light


festival of lights, and a celebration of birth - light overtakes darkness on thursday, and i will return in a week to welcome it. enjoy your holidays.

19 December 2011

07 December 2011

and working...

this was a very involved installation, requiring a level, a chalkline, a yardstick and many pencil marks. one box of boxes arrived crushed, so eun-khung suh ironed, while i marked intersection points.

this is a process shot; more photos to follow.

I've been reading...

"Kent and Allan also looked as if they were enjoying themselves. Neither one was grinning, no high fives or anything, but - you could tell - they knew they were doing well, and their expressions and their postures spoke in a cant of confidence and competence. They'd worked for this moment for a long time, even before they ever knew they'd be there.

And in that small realization, that tiny truism, I started sensing something gigantic...

To the right of them, the previous team cleaned up. To their left, another team continued to cook and began to put up their platter. With the motion stilled in the EMP kitchen, momentum and purpose were hanging like phantoms in the air. In a moment they'd dissipate like a scent.

I was thinking again of what I thought before: They've worked for this moment for a long time, even before they ever knew they'd be here....

What I'd just seen was a philosophy of life in action. Two guys - two kids - who one day decided they would be excellent; who disciplined themselves, learned everything they could, practiced aggressively, and moved their thinking onto a whole other plane. They might have been musicians; they might have been dancers. In their case, it was about food. And they recognized that at each stage - from the second they set out their equipment through the moment they do their prep to the final assemblage - that there is a best possible way to do everything. Every gesture, no matter how small, was about the individual attempting to be great.

What those guys did - what they do - is attainable. You'll wind up bleeding to get there, but you can get there. But not me, at least not with the bruises and slights of how I think about myself, with all my hesitations, my timidity, my half-assed methodology of doing what was expected of me but little more...

I had gotten to see greatness today."

Beaten, Sauced and Seared by Jonathan Dixon


05 December 2011

I've been reading...

"The chickens had been brought to the farm as newly hatched spheres of down and had grown ineluctably toward this point in time. The farmers' daughter, a girl of maybe fourteen or fifteen, had appeared. She wore ratty jeans and a green T-shirt. She still had her adolescence all over her; someday, when that awkwardness dropped away, she'd be very beautiful. She was keeping to herself, sitting off at a distance. The first chicken went into the cone. The daughter just broke. She streamed tears but wouldn't look away. She sat with her arms crossed, weeping with more intensity. She'd helped raise them. She'd witnessed the entirety of their transition.

That first bird: a young woman from school was the first to kill, and it didn't go as well as it could have. The knife seemed to stick; the bird freaked out; she responded in kind but got the knife through the neck...She had blood running down her cheeks and held the head in her hand. She was blameless; it's hard for your hands to know what to do. In the cluster of students around her, I saw one of the teaching assistants from school, her eyes also shining with tears.

Most of us were shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. I held my knife with a tight grip..."

Beaten, Seared, and Sauced by Jonathan Dixon

02 December 2011

I've been reading...

"The crowd was patient, she was not, finding herself taut with misgiving, hearing Gracie in her head. Planes dropped out of the darkness toward La Guardia, splitting the air with throttled booms. She and Sister Jan traded a sad glance. They stood and looked. They stared stupidly at the juice. After twenty minutes there was a rustle, a sort of human wind, and people looked north, children pointed north, and Edgar strained to catch what the were seeing.

The train.

She felt the words before she saw the object. She felt the words although no one had spoken them. This is how a crowd brings things to single consciousness...The headlights swept the billboard and she heard a sound from the crowd, a gasp that shot into sobs and moans and the cry of some unnameable painful elation...Because when the train lights hit the dimmest part of the billboard, a face appeared above the misty lake and it belonged to the murdered girl. A dozen women clutched their heads, they whooped and sobbed, a spirit a godsbreath passing through the crowd.

Esmeralda.
Esmeralda.

Edgar was in body shock..."


"Before you can blame an individual for their choices, you have to make sure they have the same choices as everyone else."

Bix , the fanatic cook.