These are development ideas for a design based off the arts and crafts movement. Mostly done with black ink and white paint, to stay true to the era.
26.2.10
Visual language sketches
These are development ideas for a design based off the arts and crafts movement. Mostly done with black ink and white paint, to stay true to the era.
16.2.10
Valentines Day
It’s one of the best moments in my life: when alcohol soaks through my brain on the dance floor. There is only me and them and rhythm. The lights flash, and movement becomes nonchalant and automatic. Everyone radiates off each other in a very human way; in smell and taste and sex. It’s a moment when my brain can completely rest. It’s one of my favorite moments.
In the same respect, it’s unbearable to sober up in the middle of a dancing crowd. Thoughts come back, questions repeat and you remember that you just wasted 4.50 on a glass of cheap rum. I remember the words “isolation” and “connection” but I don’t quite remember what they mean. In moments like those I am hanging between drunken bliss and analyzing hell. Sobering up on the middle of a dance floor is to be avoided at all costs.
She looked at me and gestured to the door. I followed her and made the decision to forget my coat.
She was sober, I could tell: she lit her cigarette too fast. When drunk it should take you at least three flicks of a lighter before you are able to produce a flame large enough to securely light a cigarette; it’s a rule. She got it on the first try. I felt sorry for her.
It was cold and the air was wet. I could feel pending snow. This is another great time to be drunk. Alcohol gives you the super human ability to stand out in the snow in a short dress that shows off the tattoo on you back and never feel the cold. If I was sober I would remember that drinking only gives someone a false the sense of warmth, but I’m not. So it’s a wonderful thing.
Because I’m drunk I am thinking of people in the sense of prime numbers, or at least defining it that way. I always hated math, maybe that’s why I'm using it as a vague allegory for people. I see people on the dance floor as fractions, or at least pretending to be fractions. They can be divided and reduced almost infinitely; they use bigger numbers to define the minute, and they can almost always be changed in order to be compatible with another fraction, you know, for addition. And don’t even get me started on the fun that mixed fractions can have. But there are some prime numbers out there too, more than they probably want to admit.
No one wants to be called a prime number: there is no least common denominator, no clean division at all, and it’s pretty lonely. When you can’t have someone divide into you, it’s a pretty lonely thing. And you can’t just change your denominator and magically become compatible with someone else; they have to change for you. But who wants to change for a prime number? Your denominator would have to be one.
She offered me a cigarette and I snapped back to the moment; I stagger because I’m drunk. I also smoke because I’m drunk. It took me forever to light that damn cigarette.
“It just doesn’t feel right.” She looked down at me as I found a seat on the bench.
“I know, I know, something is different tonight, right?” I’ve been more eloquent with words in my life, but at least I got my point across.
“I feel like I’m in high school again, in a place I shouldn’t be, wearing clothes I shouldn’t be wearing.”
Something about what she said smacked me hard across the face. I could tell she was thinking of the words “isolation” and “connection” and that she probably still knew what they meant. I wish I could have shared my blood alcohol level with her. She needed a drink but didn’t want to drink. In that sense she is stronger than I will ever be. It’s something to admire.
“Well then let’s go, let’s get the fuck out of here.”
I follow her inside. We walk downstairs, away from the live music, across the dance floor, and grab our coats. I trip on my way out the door and touch the wall. Its before 2am, and very early. I want to sit in the snow and think about prime numbers. I want to look down the stairs and see snow and warmth and red. I want to dance. But I don't. I follow her as she talks on her cell phone. It's a quiet moment and a beautiful one. It’s one of the best moments in my life
In the same respect, it’s unbearable to sober up in the middle of a dancing crowd. Thoughts come back, questions repeat and you remember that you just wasted 4.50 on a glass of cheap rum. I remember the words “isolation” and “connection” but I don’t quite remember what they mean. In moments like those I am hanging between drunken bliss and analyzing hell. Sobering up on the middle of a dance floor is to be avoided at all costs.
She looked at me and gestured to the door. I followed her and made the decision to forget my coat.
She was sober, I could tell: she lit her cigarette too fast. When drunk it should take you at least three flicks of a lighter before you are able to produce a flame large enough to securely light a cigarette; it’s a rule. She got it on the first try. I felt sorry for her.
It was cold and the air was wet. I could feel pending snow. This is another great time to be drunk. Alcohol gives you the super human ability to stand out in the snow in a short dress that shows off the tattoo on you back and never feel the cold. If I was sober I would remember that drinking only gives someone a false the sense of warmth, but I’m not. So it’s a wonderful thing.
Because I’m drunk I am thinking of people in the sense of prime numbers, or at least defining it that way. I always hated math, maybe that’s why I'm using it as a vague allegory for people. I see people on the dance floor as fractions, or at least pretending to be fractions. They can be divided and reduced almost infinitely; they use bigger numbers to define the minute, and they can almost always be changed in order to be compatible with another fraction, you know, for addition. And don’t even get me started on the fun that mixed fractions can have. But there are some prime numbers out there too, more than they probably want to admit.
No one wants to be called a prime number: there is no least common denominator, no clean division at all, and it’s pretty lonely. When you can’t have someone divide into you, it’s a pretty lonely thing. And you can’t just change your denominator and magically become compatible with someone else; they have to change for you. But who wants to change for a prime number? Your denominator would have to be one.
She offered me a cigarette and I snapped back to the moment; I stagger because I’m drunk. I also smoke because I’m drunk. It took me forever to light that damn cigarette.
“It just doesn’t feel right.” She looked down at me as I found a seat on the bench.
“I know, I know, something is different tonight, right?” I’ve been more eloquent with words in my life, but at least I got my point across.
“I feel like I’m in high school again, in a place I shouldn’t be, wearing clothes I shouldn’t be wearing.”
Something about what she said smacked me hard across the face. I could tell she was thinking of the words “isolation” and “connection” and that she probably still knew what they meant. I wish I could have shared my blood alcohol level with her. She needed a drink but didn’t want to drink. In that sense she is stronger than I will ever be. It’s something to admire.
“Well then let’s go, let’s get the fuck out of here.”
I follow her inside. We walk downstairs, away from the live music, across the dance floor, and grab our coats. I trip on my way out the door and touch the wall. Its before 2am, and very early. I want to sit in the snow and think about prime numbers. I want to look down the stairs and see snow and warmth and red. I want to dance. But I don't. I follow her as she talks on her cell phone. It's a quiet moment and a beautiful one. It’s one of the best moments in my life
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