Well, needless to say, there was less and less time for me to post anything for you over the past few months; I think it officially ran out sometime around late October. In any event, I spent most of that time in the CADA computer lab trying to figure out why I couldn't do various tasks in AFX, FCP, etc.
However, the hours of stress have, I think, paid off--even if the finished product is only 30 seconds! It's my first ever animation.
I now give you "Picture Window": rendered entirely in Photoshop and AFX, edited in FCP and Soundtrack Pro.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Animatics
No rest for the weary in this production.
Following up on my DPP storyboard for "Noah" is the animatic. While my example is an extremely primitive version, it still serves its purpose as the intermediary step between storyboards and the animation process. In professional productions, every storyboard shot is compiled using a non-linear editing system (i.e. Final Cut Pro, Avid), meaning that the film editor can rearrange shot lengths and sequences without destroying any content. The result is a kind of flipbook in which each shot is timed out in advance of any actual production; the director can see how long each composition will be seen on screen and how the sequence plays out from shot to shot.
The flipbook effect is lost in my example because I am only working with six storyboards; of course, I plan on having more than six shots. In any event, I successfully completed my first assignment on Final Cut Pro (FCP) with only a slight headache, so that counts for something!
Following up on my DPP storyboard for "Noah" is the animatic. While my example is an extremely primitive version, it still serves its purpose as the intermediary step between storyboards and the animation process. In professional productions, every storyboard shot is compiled using a non-linear editing system (i.e. Final Cut Pro, Avid), meaning that the film editor can rearrange shot lengths and sequences without destroying any content. The result is a kind of flipbook in which each shot is timed out in advance of any actual production; the director can see how long each composition will be seen on screen and how the sequence plays out from shot to shot.
The flipbook effect is lost in my example because I am only working with six storyboards; of course, I plan on having more than six shots. In any event, I successfully completed my first assignment on Final Cut Pro (FCP) with only a slight headache, so that counts for something!
Monday, October 19, 2009
The Art of Storyboarding
Having been bombarded with midterm assignments over the past week, I can't bring myself to expound any further on the "Psychology of the Creative Eye." Instead, I'm here to share some information on storyboards: a pre-production phase in which scenes in a film are laid out and pre-visualized shot-by-shot.
I mentioned before that I have encountered some difficulty in conceiving of my "Noah's Ark" project for DPP, owing to the amount of planning involved well in advance of any actual production (or, for that matter, any knowledge of what the hell I'm doing technically). Essentially, I have identified this as the main point of variance between writing stories and showing them; there is far less room to maneuver when executing a story on film than on the printed page, again because of budget concerns. Halfway through a prose narrative or essay, I can decide that I would rather end my story on a completely different note with relatively little consequence. That is near impossible to fathom in cinematic terms. However, the key to avoiding this in film is to start with a strong script, so it all goes back to great writing anyway.
After developing a script, however, there is still the question of how each scene will be shot in terms of cinematography, lighting, blocking, editing, etc. What will the frame actually look like? How will the scene progress? How many different shots will there be? In order to answer these questions ahead of production, thereby saving both time and money, the storyboard was born.
While there exists some debate over who first came up with the idea of storyboards, the practice ultimately came to fruition at Walt Disney Studios, where it came into full use at or around 1933. John Canemaker (incidentally, a world-renowned animator and scholar who teaches at NYU) indicates in his book, "The Art and Artists of Disney's Storyboards" (1999), that a storyboard department was not quite full-fledged when the "Father Noah's Ark" Silly Symphony cartoon was released in April of that year. In terms of format, storyboarding evolved from individual drawings shown along side the producer's script, to individual sheets of drawings that can be pinned on a wall and moved around as necessary to determine a scene's construction.
Disney perfected storyboards for the obvious reason that it made the animation process more manageable in a time when every single frame was drawn by hand; film is projected at 24 fps (frames per second). Ub Iwerks, one of Disney's earlist animators and the man who first drew Mickey Mouse, was known to sketch upwards of 700 drawings in a day. To have each shot laid out in advance meant that no extra work was required for scenes that later might be axed. There was enough work to be done as it was. Take, for example the first feature-length animated film, "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs" (1937). It required 362,919 frames of color film, which required 1.5 million pen and ink drawings!
Below I have included a clip from what is perhaps my favorite Disney film, "Sleeping Beauty," along with the storyboards that coincide with it. The storyboards pick up around the 0:37 mark, but you will notice some changes where shots were displaced during production and post.
Given the economical benefits of storyboards, it was only matter of time before the practice went mainstream and became integral to live-action filmmaking as well, used by the likes of Orson Welles, Akira Kurosawa, Federico Fellini, David Lynch, and Sergei Eisenstein (the latter of whom, somewhat surprisingly, was a huge fan of the Disney studio). It is rumored that Alfred Hitchcock often didn't bother looking through his camera's view finder because he knew from his storyboards exactly what the frame looked like.
Lastly, here are my storyboards for the "Noah's Ark" project. We were limited to six and had to do them on Photoshop (I think I still prefer Disney's pen and ink methods...)
I mentioned before that I have encountered some difficulty in conceiving of my "Noah's Ark" project for DPP, owing to the amount of planning involved well in advance of any actual production (or, for that matter, any knowledge of what the hell I'm doing technically). Essentially, I have identified this as the main point of variance between writing stories and showing them; there is far less room to maneuver when executing a story on film than on the printed page, again because of budget concerns. Halfway through a prose narrative or essay, I can decide that I would rather end my story on a completely different note with relatively little consequence. That is near impossible to fathom in cinematic terms. However, the key to avoiding this in film is to start with a strong script, so it all goes back to great writing anyway.
After developing a script, however, there is still the question of how each scene will be shot in terms of cinematography, lighting, blocking, editing, etc. What will the frame actually look like? How will the scene progress? How many different shots will there be? In order to answer these questions ahead of production, thereby saving both time and money, the storyboard was born.
While there exists some debate over who first came up with the idea of storyboards, the practice ultimately came to fruition at Walt Disney Studios, where it came into full use at or around 1933. John Canemaker (incidentally, a world-renowned animator and scholar who teaches at NYU) indicates in his book, "The Art and Artists of Disney's Storyboards" (1999), that a storyboard department was not quite full-fledged when the "Father Noah's Ark" Silly Symphony cartoon was released in April of that year. In terms of format, storyboarding evolved from individual drawings shown along side the producer's script, to individual sheets of drawings that can be pinned on a wall and moved around as necessary to determine a scene's construction.
Disney perfected storyboards for the obvious reason that it made the animation process more manageable in a time when every single frame was drawn by hand; film is projected at 24 fps (frames per second). Ub Iwerks, one of Disney's earlist animators and the man who first drew Mickey Mouse, was known to sketch upwards of 700 drawings in a day. To have each shot laid out in advance meant that no extra work was required for scenes that later might be axed. There was enough work to be done as it was. Take, for example the first feature-length animated film, "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs" (1937). It required 362,919 frames of color film, which required 1.5 million pen and ink drawings!
Below I have included a clip from what is perhaps my favorite Disney film, "Sleeping Beauty," along with the storyboards that coincide with it. The storyboards pick up around the 0:37 mark, but you will notice some changes where shots were displaced during production and post.
Given the economical benefits of storyboards, it was only matter of time before the practice went mainstream and became integral to live-action filmmaking as well, used by the likes of Orson Welles, Akira Kurosawa, Federico Fellini, David Lynch, and Sergei Eisenstein (the latter of whom, somewhat surprisingly, was a huge fan of the Disney studio). It is rumored that Alfred Hitchcock often didn't bother looking through his camera's view finder because he knew from his storyboards exactly what the frame looked like.
Lastly, here are my storyboards for the "Noah's Ark" project. We were limited to six and had to do them on Photoshop (I think I still prefer Disney's pen and ink methods...)
Monday, October 12, 2009
Pre-Production
Following up on my post of a few weeks ago, the HD-DVD project in DPP continues to progress through the development and pre-production stages. This means that I have completed a project treatment and a script for the Noah's Ark concept. Supposing that this project was an actual industry commission or freelance piece, it would mean that I have successfully pitched the idea and likely been paid a percentage of the overall production cost in order to proceed. The script is a producer's script, which uses a three-column format to break down the action into audio, visual, and time components (i.e. what you see and hear on screen at a specific time). This is only challenging in the sense that it requires me to plan out more than I am used to; creatively, I prefer to start with an elemental concept and let it take me who-knows-where. Filmmaking, however, requires a stricter sense of where I end up because of the hypothetical cost accrual--either to myself or a client.
The next step, and the subject of this week's assignment, is to create a visual that showcases the project's look, feel, and even theme. Ideally, the style frame should closely resemble a shot that will occur in the finished piece. Once again, I have put my Photoshopping (the only shopping I do these days) skills to the test and come up with this. It goes without saying that I chose the stained glass aesthetic for the short.
Coming soon: A trip to the MoMA and more on the psychology of visual perception! (Exciting, I know...)
The next step, and the subject of this week's assignment, is to create a visual that showcases the project's look, feel, and even theme. Ideally, the style frame should closely resemble a shot that will occur in the finished piece. Once again, I have put my Photoshopping (the only shopping I do these days) skills to the test and come up with this. It goes without saying that I chose the stained glass aesthetic for the short.
Coming soon: A trip to the MoMA and more on the psychology of visual perception! (Exciting, I know...)
Friday, October 2, 2009
Art, Mathematics, and Psychology
Thus far, I have written mostly about ongoing project developments and information pertaining to my DPP class. Meanwhile, most of my time has been spent reading, studying, and designing for Art, Technology, and Design (ATD). Essentially a crash course in graphic design, ATD is a bit like taking a linguistics class where, instead of letter-based semantics, one studies how to "read" pictures. Surprisingly, this involves a fair bit of background in psychology and mathematical principles.
The primary text is Rudolph Arnheim's "Art and Visual Perception: A Psychology of the Creative Eye," and yes, is about as dense as it sounds. Arnheim describes the various ways in which the mind processes certain qualities of an image. For instance, the relatively simple rule that Westerners "read" images from left to right--like text--is explained by delving into the functions of the left and right cerebral cortex and their related functions. He also says that we perceive objects to be stable or restless depending on a shape's imaginary structural skeleton. The restful loci in a square, for example, can be found along the diagonal, horizontal, and vertical axes passing through its imaginary center. These rules are essential to achieving balance in a composition, regardless of whether or not the observer is aware of them; we sense innately that something is imbalanced even if we cannot explain why that is so.
Similarly, certain laws of psychology--specifically those of the Gestalt school--enable us to arrive at conclusions based on how objects exist in relation to one another (part to whole). Gestalt, from the German meaning "whole" or "form," describes the concepts that make unity and variety possible in design. Each principle can be used both to group or to un-group (A or Not-A, as Derrida might put it). Ultimately, Gestalt theorists believe that the whole, in perception, is more than the sum of its parts. Their basic organizing laws, which are more or less self-explanatory are: Proximity, Similarity, Closure, Continuity, and Symmetry. Therefore, objects closer together appear grouped; objects that are similar in shape, color, or size appear grouped; etc. Within each law there exists one or more subsets, creating a hierarchy that artists then use to convey meaning. Or not. I personally feel that some of this is a bit too technical a way to explain great art, depending on the medium.
One thing that does seem inescapable, though, is the ratio 1.618 : 1. This is the mathematical principle underlying the Golden Mean, from which the golden rectangle also derives. A golden rectangle is one that can be partitioned into a square and a smaller rectangle, which has the same length to height aspect ratio as the original rectangle of 1.618 : 1. This means that the smaller rectangle can also be divided into a square and a golden rectangle, and so on. Pythagoras is credited with constructing the first golden rectangle in the 6th century B.C., although it appears to have been used by the Egyptians in the construction of the Great Pyramids. This again raises the question: To what extent are these design choices made subconsciously? Leonard Da Vinci, however, saw the golden mean as evidence of a spiritual force rather than a psychological one. In his studies of the human body, he found that the distance from the soles of a man's feet to his navel, divided by the distance between the navel and the top of his head, was 1.618: the Divine Proportion.
The recurrence of this number in nature is indeed prolific and naturally raises questions about a supreme order--or even a supreme being. In terms of art, it essentially asks us to consider whether there can exist a mathematical formula for determining beauty? Such was indeed the case for the Parthenon. Rather than continuing to explore it here in laborious prose, however, I return now to this project's roots in animation and present the short film that we watched in ATD. Not surprisingly, I particularly enjoy the bunny rabbits.
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The primary text is Rudolph Arnheim's "Art and Visual Perception: A Psychology of the Creative Eye," and yes, is about as dense as it sounds. Arnheim describes the various ways in which the mind processes certain qualities of an image. For instance, the relatively simple rule that Westerners "read" images from left to right--like text--is explained by delving into the functions of the left and right cerebral cortex and their related functions. He also says that we perceive objects to be stable or restless depending on a shape's imaginary structural skeleton. The restful loci in a square, for example, can be found along the diagonal, horizontal, and vertical axes passing through its imaginary center. These rules are essential to achieving balance in a composition, regardless of whether or not the observer is aware of them; we sense innately that something is imbalanced even if we cannot explain why that is so.
Similarly, certain laws of psychology--specifically those of the Gestalt school--enable us to arrive at conclusions based on how objects exist in relation to one another (part to whole). Gestalt, from the German meaning "whole" or "form," describes the concepts that make unity and variety possible in design. Each principle can be used both to group or to un-group (A or Not-A, as Derrida might put it). Ultimately, Gestalt theorists believe that the whole, in perception, is more than the sum of its parts. Their basic organizing laws, which are more or less self-explanatory are: Proximity, Similarity, Closure, Continuity, and Symmetry. Therefore, objects closer together appear grouped; objects that are similar in shape, color, or size appear grouped; etc. Within each law there exists one or more subsets, creating a hierarchy that artists then use to convey meaning. Or not. I personally feel that some of this is a bit too technical a way to explain great art, depending on the medium.
One thing that does seem inescapable, though, is the ratio 1.618 : 1. This is the mathematical principle underlying the Golden Mean, from which the golden rectangle also derives. A golden rectangle is one that can be partitioned into a square and a smaller rectangle, which has the same length to height aspect ratio as the original rectangle of 1.618 : 1. This means that the smaller rectangle can also be divided into a square and a golden rectangle, and so on. Pythagoras is credited with constructing the first golden rectangle in the 6th century B.C., although it appears to have been used by the Egyptians in the construction of the Great Pyramids. This again raises the question: To what extent are these design choices made subconsciously? Leonard Da Vinci, however, saw the golden mean as evidence of a spiritual force rather than a psychological one. In his studies of the human body, he found that the distance from the soles of a man's feet to his navel, divided by the distance between the navel and the top of his head, was 1.618: the Divine Proportion.
The recurrence of this number in nature is indeed prolific and naturally raises questions about a supreme order--or even a supreme being. In terms of art, it essentially asks us to consider whether there can exist a mathematical formula for determining beauty? Such was indeed the case for the Parthenon. Rather than continuing to explore it here in laborious prose, however, I return now to this project's roots in animation and present the short film that we watched in ATD. Not surprisingly, I particularly enjoy the bunny rabbits.
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Sunday, September 20, 2009
Noah's Ark
During my sophomore year at NYU, I took a screenwriting class with the goal of writing the first thirty pages--or Act I--of a feature length script. At the time, I was also reading Billy Collins' poetry anthology, "180," which included a poem by C.S. Lewis (of "Narnia" fame) entitled, "The Late Passenger." It told the biblical story of Noah's Ark with a twist; one animal arrived too late to board: the unicorn. When it came time to brainstorm ideas for the screenplay, this idea was at the forefront of my mind. I wrote the story of why the unicorn was late, and "Avalloc and the Ark"--now a completed script--was born.
Of course, the story of the ark has been told on film for almost as long as the medium has existed. The earliest reference I have found is a 1906 animated version from the UK by Arthur Melbourne Cooper. Interestingly enough, in 1928, the ark featured as a parallel story line for a Great War film that included a performance by Myrna Loy, who later found fame alongside William Powell in "The Thin Man" series. The first Disney animation came in the form of a "Silly Symphony" cartoon (1933), and was revisited in "Fantasia 2000" to the accompaniment of "Pomp and Circumstance," shown here. It's a fun clip. You might recognize several of the animals from previous Disney films, including ostriches from the original "Fantasia" (1940), skunks from "Bambi" (1942), elephants from "The Jungle Book" (1967), and an opening that strongly resonates with "The Lion King (1994).
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Notice the dragon, unicorn, and phoenix around the 2:22 mark? Similar idea to Lewis. My approach, however, was not that the mythical creatures scoffed at the idea of boarding the ark. Rather, they were impeded from doing so...[dun dun dun!] Like this short, my story was also told from the animals' point of view, which is apparently the plan for a 2010 CG film version. While my initial response to this news was devastation that someone has beaten me to the punch, the $35 million budget ("UP" was made for $129M, to give you some comparison) and vocal talent of Rob Schneider assures me that there may still be room for my vision in the future.
In any event, I include all of this to give some contexts for my final project for DPP, which is to be a high-definition DVD lasting 30 seconds. My chosen theme, of course, is Noah's Ark. With this in mind, I have been asked to come up with three proposed styles. Thus, the .jpegs seen here:
Judaica
Watercolors
Stained Glass
Of course, the story of the ark has been told on film for almost as long as the medium has existed. The earliest reference I have found is a 1906 animated version from the UK by Arthur Melbourne Cooper. Interestingly enough, in 1928, the ark featured as a parallel story line for a Great War film that included a performance by Myrna Loy, who later found fame alongside William Powell in "The Thin Man" series. The first Disney animation came in the form of a "Silly Symphony" cartoon (1933), and was revisited in "Fantasia 2000" to the accompaniment of "Pomp and Circumstance," shown here. It's a fun clip. You might recognize several of the animals from previous Disney films, including ostriches from the original "Fantasia" (1940), skunks from "Bambi" (1942), elephants from "The Jungle Book" (1967), and an opening that strongly resonates with "The Lion King (1994).
">
Notice the dragon, unicorn, and phoenix around the 2:22 mark? Similar idea to Lewis. My approach, however, was not that the mythical creatures scoffed at the idea of boarding the ark. Rather, they were impeded from doing so...[dun dun dun!] Like this short, my story was also told from the animals' point of view, which is apparently the plan for a 2010 CG film version. While my initial response to this news was devastation that someone has beaten me to the punch, the $35 million budget ("UP" was made for $129M, to give you some comparison) and vocal talent of Rob Schneider assures me that there may still be room for my vision in the future.
In any event, I include all of this to give some contexts for my final project for DPP, which is to be a high-definition DVD lasting 30 seconds. My chosen theme, of course, is Noah's Ark. With this in mind, I have been asked to come up with three proposed styles. Thus, the .jpegs seen here:
Judaica
Watercolors
Stained Glass
Saturday, September 19, 2009
So what is a pixel?
Might as well start at the beginning. Luckily, my professor for "Digital Production Process" (DPP) thinks so, too.
A pixel, derived from "picture element" (a quasi-portmanteau), is the smallest unit that comprises a digital image. If you were to take a photograph and lay a sheet of grid paper over it, each square would be a pixel--although your photograph wouldn't look so great in a computer. That's because computers run on binary code (0 and 1), where 0=off and 1=on, so your pixel would either be black or white. To get around these 2 options, we then break down each option into two again (0, 1), and again, and so on, creating shades of gray until we reach 2^8 power, or 256 shades. At 256, the human eye can no longer distinguish between each shade, so the progression from black to white looks like a continuous scale. This is the minimum for the illusion, also called 8-bit graphics, which progresses upwards to 16-bit, 32-bit, etc. The higher you go, the better the quality of the image. The same holds true for the number of pixels in an image: the number of pixels across by the number of pixels high equals the image resolution. We see these kinds of numbers when purchasing digital cameras or adjusting our computer monitor resolutions; my computer is set at 1200 x 800 pixels and 32-bits.
Fun fact: The story goes that the Pixar name is yet another portmanteau for "pixel art." This is, however, untrue. Here is the version I was given by Alvy Ray Smith, who co-founded the company and whom I interviewed for my "Rat" thesis:
"I grew up in New Mexico with Spanish all around. The verb infinitive in Spanish ends in '-er,' '-ir,' or '-ar.' I proposed to Rodney Stock and Loren Carpenter and Jim Blinn one day over burgers that we name our new digital optical printer with a name that, like 'laser,' was a noun that looked like a Spanish verb. I proposed 'pixer' as in, 'to make pictures.' Loren, or perhaps Rodney (Loren says it was he), said that the word 'radar' was very high-tech sounding, so what about spelling it 'pixar.' I immediately agreed because that is another Spanish word form...So the name of our device became the Pixar (or Pixar Image Computer). When we were looking for a company name, we just couldn't decide on one...We were called simply the Computer Division at Lucasfilm because we could never decide on a sexy name like 'Industrial Light & Magic.'...Finally, in desperation because we needed a name for our company documents, I said, "Well, the word 'Pixar' is now associated with us, so why don't we call the company that?' Everyone groaned, but said unenthusiastically, "Welllll, okkkkkk" [sic]. So I can justly claim that I named the company, but as you can tell it was not greeted with rousing cheers at the time."
A pixel, derived from "picture element" (a quasi-portmanteau), is the smallest unit that comprises a digital image. If you were to take a photograph and lay a sheet of grid paper over it, each square would be a pixel--although your photograph wouldn't look so great in a computer. That's because computers run on binary code (0 and 1), where 0=off and 1=on, so your pixel would either be black or white. To get around these 2 options, we then break down each option into two again (0, 1), and again, and so on, creating shades of gray until we reach 2^8 power, or 256 shades. At 256, the human eye can no longer distinguish between each shade, so the progression from black to white looks like a continuous scale. This is the minimum for the illusion, also called 8-bit graphics, which progresses upwards to 16-bit, 32-bit, etc. The higher you go, the better the quality of the image. The same holds true for the number of pixels in an image: the number of pixels across by the number of pixels high equals the image resolution. We see these kinds of numbers when purchasing digital cameras or adjusting our computer monitor resolutions; my computer is set at 1200 x 800 pixels and 32-bits.
Fun fact: The story goes that the Pixar name is yet another portmanteau for "pixel art." This is, however, untrue. Here is the version I was given by Alvy Ray Smith, who co-founded the company and whom I interviewed for my "Rat" thesis:
"I grew up in New Mexico with Spanish all around. The verb infinitive in Spanish ends in '-er,' '-ir,' or '-ar.' I proposed to Rodney Stock and Loren Carpenter and Jim Blinn one day over burgers that we name our new digital optical printer with a name that, like 'laser,' was a noun that looked like a Spanish verb. I proposed 'pixer' as in, 'to make pictures.' Loren, or perhaps Rodney (Loren says it was he), said that the word 'radar' was very high-tech sounding, so what about spelling it 'pixar.' I immediately agreed because that is another Spanish word form...So the name of our device became the Pixar (or Pixar Image Computer). When we were looking for a company name, we just couldn't decide on one...We were called simply the Computer Division at Lucasfilm because we could never decide on a sexy name like 'Industrial Light & Magic.'...Finally, in desperation because we needed a name for our company documents, I said, "Well, the word 'Pixar' is now associated with us, so why don't we call the company that?' Everyone groaned, but said unenthusiastically, "Welllll, okkkkkk" [sic]. So I can justly claim that I named the company, but as you can tell it was not greeted with rousing cheers at the time."
Friday, September 11, 2009
The Proverbial New Leaf
Welcome to my new coping mechanism, because I have no idea what I just got myself into.
Once upon a time, I regarded blogging as an act of self-indulgence and mild desperation: the keeping of a public diary designed to elicit pity and sympathy, a place where like minds could commiserate anonymously in cyberspace.
But no more. I get it. Even more amazing? "Julie and Julia" had nothing to do with it.
In brief, I have spent the last year turning in circles, twiddling my thumbs, and pondering existential questions such as: "What is the meaning of life?"; "Why did the worst recession since the '30s have to coincide with my graduation?"; etc. etc. I graduated from NYU with a BA in English and Cinema Studies; I went to work answering phones at a cancer hospital 5 months later. It's an amazing institution--if you aspire to work in health care. However, if you spend your last semester of undergraduate life writing a thesis on Pixar's "Ratatouille," the transition to answering call bells for dying patients can be a bit jarring.
Needless to say, I was miserable. Also, I had Lauren (then stepmother-to-be, now legalized Wicked Stepmother) encouraging (badgering, nagging, etc...) me to go back to school and "learn a trade." First she tried law school. No way. Then she suggested journalism. Yes, I love writing, but I could care less about reporting. Lastly, she went for graphic design. Interesting, but...
I was hesitant. However, after multiple commutes home from NYC (stepmother also works at the hospital), the idea of graphic design began to stick. It also evolved beyond graphic design. We began speculating on how I, the person who wrote the "Ratatouille" thesis, could somehow make animation relevant to the hospital that I felt I didn't really belong in. And lo, there was the niche. Apart from its more obvious application to medical illustration, I could use animation for patient education--especially pediatrics.
I scouted out suitable programs. Despite my vow to never give them another penny for as long as I live, NYU had the most viable option: a Master's of Science (good selling point for those laboratory people trying to cure cancer) in something called Digital Imaging and Design, which specializes in 3D graphics and animation. I met with Admissions and determined that I would have about 3 months to put together a solid portfolio and enroll in the spring--if the hospital approved me for reimbursement ($10,000 per calendar year, but really more like $7500 since Bush decided to tax it. Thanks for that, Dubya).
I wrote up a proposal for work and steeled myself to defend it to the death. I imagined myself standing in a windowless room full of faceless people, trying to convince them that my education was worth the investment. What I didn't expect was to get a response, via email and without any form of interview whatever, in a matter of days that read: Good news. We will pay for this degree.
Did I mention that my work is an amazing institution?
Now I had 3 weeks, not 3 months, to put together that portfolio, because starting in the fall semester meant more money for me. I raided my 29878172310 photos from studying abroad for the most "artsy" captures. I feverishly sketched 11 characters from my feature length animated screenplay, "Avalloc," and designed the entire package around it. Miraculously, it was enough. I submitted my material on a Thursday. In an unexpected show of efficiency, NYU accepted me on Monday.
My first graduate classes are "Art, Technology, and Design," and "Digital Production Process," and I am increasingly aware of the fact that what I have essentially signed on for is digital filmmaking. I am also acutely aware of the fact that I have zero background in all of the technical applications that I am required to use; I believe that one other person, in a class of 14, also has no prior experience. I am also one of two to be working full time while enrolled. My professor has already stated categorically that he will not take it personally if we fall asleep in class.
"Digital Production" requires that we maintain a blog with NYU, which I have done. However, I don't find it a suitable outlet for venting frustrations and gushing over triumphs; the former will, I'm sure, crop up in spades during this semester and beyond. So I have started this one, giving it a title that I hope is apt. "How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Love the Pixel" exists to chronicle my journey into Firewire drives and 8-bit color schemes, and will contain everything I post to my academic blog and then some--including clips and articles that pertain to my great love for all things animated.
There are moments when I feel that I have gotten in over my head by enrolling in this program. But then, I also felt that I was in over my head when I began my employment with the hospital. The funny thing is, on this side of graduate school, I don't resent the last year as much as I thought I did. I worked a position that I never thought I could handle, in a high-stress environment, with people who were determined to push me over the edge--only I wouldn't go over. So I'm not afraid of what's in store for me in CADA (that's the Center for Advanced Digital Applications--my program's official title); in fact, I'll probably end up surprising myself. I suppose that isn't surprising at all then, is it?
Stay tuned.
Once upon a time, I regarded blogging as an act of self-indulgence and mild desperation: the keeping of a public diary designed to elicit pity and sympathy, a place where like minds could commiserate anonymously in cyberspace.
But no more. I get it. Even more amazing? "Julie and Julia" had nothing to do with it.
In brief, I have spent the last year turning in circles, twiddling my thumbs, and pondering existential questions such as: "What is the meaning of life?"; "Why did the worst recession since the '30s have to coincide with my graduation?"; etc. etc. I graduated from NYU with a BA in English and Cinema Studies; I went to work answering phones at a cancer hospital 5 months later. It's an amazing institution--if you aspire to work in health care. However, if you spend your last semester of undergraduate life writing a thesis on Pixar's "Ratatouille," the transition to answering call bells for dying patients can be a bit jarring.
Needless to say, I was miserable. Also, I had Lauren (then stepmother-to-be, now legalized Wicked Stepmother) encouraging (badgering, nagging, etc...) me to go back to school and "learn a trade." First she tried law school. No way. Then she suggested journalism. Yes, I love writing, but I could care less about reporting. Lastly, she went for graphic design. Interesting, but...
I was hesitant. However, after multiple commutes home from NYC (stepmother also works at the hospital), the idea of graphic design began to stick. It also evolved beyond graphic design. We began speculating on how I, the person who wrote the "Ratatouille" thesis, could somehow make animation relevant to the hospital that I felt I didn't really belong in. And lo, there was the niche. Apart from its more obvious application to medical illustration, I could use animation for patient education--especially pediatrics.
I scouted out suitable programs. Despite my vow to never give them another penny for as long as I live, NYU had the most viable option: a Master's of Science (good selling point for those laboratory people trying to cure cancer) in something called Digital Imaging and Design, which specializes in 3D graphics and animation. I met with Admissions and determined that I would have about 3 months to put together a solid portfolio and enroll in the spring--if the hospital approved me for reimbursement ($10,000 per calendar year, but really more like $7500 since Bush decided to tax it. Thanks for that, Dubya).
I wrote up a proposal for work and steeled myself to defend it to the death. I imagined myself standing in a windowless room full of faceless people, trying to convince them that my education was worth the investment. What I didn't expect was to get a response, via email and without any form of interview whatever, in a matter of days that read: Good news. We will pay for this degree.
Did I mention that my work is an amazing institution?
Now I had 3 weeks, not 3 months, to put together that portfolio, because starting in the fall semester meant more money for me. I raided my 29878172310 photos from studying abroad for the most "artsy" captures. I feverishly sketched 11 characters from my feature length animated screenplay, "Avalloc," and designed the entire package around it. Miraculously, it was enough. I submitted my material on a Thursday. In an unexpected show of efficiency, NYU accepted me on Monday.
My first graduate classes are "Art, Technology, and Design," and "Digital Production Process," and I am increasingly aware of the fact that what I have essentially signed on for is digital filmmaking. I am also acutely aware of the fact that I have zero background in all of the technical applications that I am required to use; I believe that one other person, in a class of 14, also has no prior experience. I am also one of two to be working full time while enrolled. My professor has already stated categorically that he will not take it personally if we fall asleep in class.
"Digital Production" requires that we maintain a blog with NYU, which I have done. However, I don't find it a suitable outlet for venting frustrations and gushing over triumphs; the former will, I'm sure, crop up in spades during this semester and beyond. So I have started this one, giving it a title that I hope is apt. "How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Love the Pixel" exists to chronicle my journey into Firewire drives and 8-bit color schemes, and will contain everything I post to my academic blog and then some--including clips and articles that pertain to my great love for all things animated.
There are moments when I feel that I have gotten in over my head by enrolling in this program. But then, I also felt that I was in over my head when I began my employment with the hospital. The funny thing is, on this side of graduate school, I don't resent the last year as much as I thought I did. I worked a position that I never thought I could handle, in a high-stress environment, with people who were determined to push me over the edge--only I wouldn't go over. So I'm not afraid of what's in store for me in CADA (that's the Center for Advanced Digital Applications--my program's official title); in fact, I'll probably end up surprising myself. I suppose that isn't surprising at all then, is it?
Stay tuned.
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