Saturday, 17 December 2011
Saturday, 10 December 2011
SKETCHBOOK
It's two weeks until Christmas, and I am bed ridden with a stinking cold. After going mad watching the same 30 Rock DVD on repeat I sketched this
Thursday, 17 November 2011
Wednesday, 16 November 2011
Wednesday, 19 October 2011
Thursday, 13 October 2011
Tuesday, 11 October 2011
Tuesday, 30 August 2011
Tuesday, 23 August 2011
GhostPoet.
Last Friday I was lucky enough to meet the mercury nominated GhostPoet. This shot was taken before his gig at the Concorde 2 in Brighton, along with budding photographer/ writer Patrick Bethell for Mint Magazine. http://www.mintmagazine.co.uk/music/brighton-with-ghostpoet/
Sunday, 21 August 2011
Tuesday, 16 August 2011
Saturday, 6 August 2011
Friday, 29 July 2011
Sunday, 3 July 2011
The Graduate.
After three years of living in Portsmouth, experiencing the highs and the lows, the new friends and the dodgy landlords, I am now a graduate of Portsmouth University, gaining a 2:1 degree in Illustration. Now all I need is a job.....
Thursday, 23 June 2011
Monday, 20 June 2011
Wednesday, 8 June 2011
A Chore.
It would seem that since the success of debut album 'We have sound' Tom Vek had done a disappearing act, but now he is back with a fresh image presenting 'Leisure Seizure.'
'A Chore' being the first release of the album, presents a wound up break up song, with hard hitting drum beats and a some what confusing music video.... see above
Wednesday, 25 May 2011
Tuesday, 10 May 2011
Monday, 18 April 2011
............
The Werewolf By Angela Carter, taken from The Bloody Chamber
The Bloody animation- By Lorna Leigh Harrington
Go and visit grandmother, who has been sick. Take her the oatcakes I've baked for her on the hearthstone and a little pot of butter.
The good child does as her mother bids - five miles' trudge through the forest; do not leave the path because of the bears, the wild boar, the starving wolves. Here, take your father's hunting knife; you know how to use it.
The child had a scabbby coat of sheepskin to keep out the cold, she knew the forest too well to fear it but she must always be on her guard. When she heard that freezing howl of a wolf, she dropped her gifts, seized her knife, and turned on the beast.
It was a huge one, with red eyes and running, grizzled chops; any but a mountaineer's child would have died of fright at the sight of it. It went for her throat, as wolves do, but she made a great swipe at it with her father's knife and slashed off its right forepaw.
The wolf let out a gulp, almost a sob, when it saw what had happened to it; wolves are less brave than they seem. It went lolloping off disconsolately between the trees as well as it could on three legs, leaving a trail of blood behind it. The child wiped the blade of her knife clean on her apron, wrapped up the wolf's paw in the cloth in which her mother had packed the oatcakes and went on towards her grandmother's house. Soon it came on to snow so thickly that the path and any footsteps, track or spoor that might have been upon it were obscured.
She found her grandmother was so sick she had taken to her bed and fallen into a fretful sleep, moaning and shaking so that the child guessed she had a fever. She felt the forehead, it burned. She shook out the cloth from her basket, to use it to make the old woman a cold compress, and the wolf's paw fell to the floor.
But it was no longer a wolf's paw. It was a hand, chopped off at the wrist, a hand toughened with work and freckled with old age. There was a wedding ring on the third finger and a wart in the index finger. By the wart, she knew it for her grandmother's hand.
She pulled back the sheet but the old woman woke up, at that, and began to struggle, squawking and shrieking like a thing possessed. But the child was strong, and armed with her father's hunting knife; she managed to hold her grandmother down long enough to see the cause of her fever. There was a bloody stump where her right hand should have been, festering already.
The Bloody animation- By Lorna Leigh Harrington
Untitled from lorna harrington on Vimeo.
Go and visit grandmother, who has been sick. Take her the oatcakes I've baked for her on the hearthstone and a little pot of butter.
The good child does as her mother bids - five miles' trudge through the forest; do not leave the path because of the bears, the wild boar, the starving wolves. Here, take your father's hunting knife; you know how to use it.
The child had a scabbby coat of sheepskin to keep out the cold, she knew the forest too well to fear it but she must always be on her guard. When she heard that freezing howl of a wolf, she dropped her gifts, seized her knife, and turned on the beast.
It was a huge one, with red eyes and running, grizzled chops; any but a mountaineer's child would have died of fright at the sight of it. It went for her throat, as wolves do, but she made a great swipe at it with her father's knife and slashed off its right forepaw.
The wolf let out a gulp, almost a sob, when it saw what had happened to it; wolves are less brave than they seem. It went lolloping off disconsolately between the trees as well as it could on three legs, leaving a trail of blood behind it. The child wiped the blade of her knife clean on her apron, wrapped up the wolf's paw in the cloth in which her mother had packed the oatcakes and went on towards her grandmother's house. Soon it came on to snow so thickly that the path and any footsteps, track or spoor that might have been upon it were obscured.
She found her grandmother was so sick she had taken to her bed and fallen into a fretful sleep, moaning and shaking so that the child guessed she had a fever. She felt the forehead, it burned. She shook out the cloth from her basket, to use it to make the old woman a cold compress, and the wolf's paw fell to the floor.
But it was no longer a wolf's paw. It was a hand, chopped off at the wrist, a hand toughened with work and freckled with old age. There was a wedding ring on the third finger and a wart in the index finger. By the wart, she knew it for her grandmother's hand.
She pulled back the sheet but the old woman woke up, at that, and began to struggle, squawking and shrieking like a thing possessed. But the child was strong, and armed with her father's hunting knife; she managed to hold her grandmother down long enough to see the cause of her fever. There was a bloody stump where her right hand should have been, festering already.
Saturday, 16 April 2011
Thursday, 14 April 2011
I miss John the prick.
So for about a month my student house became inhabited by a lodger, in the form of a Black and White Cat that we called John. Everyday without fail John would appear in our garden meowing at the back door to be let in, only to once he had been allowed into the house repay us by scratching up the carpet, walking all over the kitchen work tops and generally being a pest.....a bit of a prick.
Even though he was an annoying beast, who would hide under my bed and jump out to scare me in the early hours of the morning, we all loved him.
But now our stray Cat has gone again, and hasn't been back for nearly two weeks. Where he has gone?Who knows, this Cat is an enigma.....
Saturday, 2 April 2011
Thursday, 31 March 2011
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