Michelangelo’s inspiration was his belief, as he put it in a poem:

 ”Whatever beauty here on earth is seen,

To meet the longing and perceptive eye,

Is semblance of that source divine,

From whence we all come.

In this alone we catch a glimpse of Heaven.”

Truly paradise is right here….

The Environment in it’s good state and splendid qualities, much like Art has an intrinsic value for human civilization and a deep value for people and other species.

For the Big Bang theorists it has the scientific value of living in the present magnificent natural process of Evolution…

And for the Creationists, It also has a religious value because it is the only way to glimpse the divine intention…

And for the Philosophers just being in the present is enough as a pleasurable environment.

Drawing probably was born eons ago with dragging a stick in dirt, creating a line. Line continues to be an essential element in art making, from cartoons to fine art painting. It is most often used to show the edge of an image; for example, a line circle for the sun. Fine art tends to distinguish itself from graphic design by varying the tone of the line, instead of using an unchanging, solid outline.

One great way to vary the line tone of your image is to think spatially–think of the distance of the image’s edge between you and the background, such as a wall.

An awesome benefit to varying lines through space is that it creates emotion in the viewer through giving the viewer a sense of moving through space. Michelangelo said it simply: movement equals emotion.

On white paper, the darker you make your line, the more it will “pop” forward toward the viewer. Above is an example of lines toned from light to dark. Notice how the lighter marks disappear into the distance, and the darker lines come forward.

Below is one of my hour and a half drawings done with the focus on accenting her edges based on “pulling” her forms off from the wall behind her. You can’t see the wall, but it was about three feet behind her head, and five feet behind her knees.

Olivia, 2009, graphite on paper, 6 x 9 inches.

I started with marking her distant right shoulder just dark enough to gently pull it off from the wall. Then I drew progressively darker marks for her hair, nose, left shoulder, and so on. The intensity of the darks increased based on how close her forms were to me, and how far they were from the wall behind her.

I hope you enjoyed seeing line in a fresh way.

Michael Newberry
Santa Monica, November 2009

A Criação de Adão é um afresco de 280 cm x 570 cm, pintado por Michelangelo Buonarroti por volta de 1511, localizada ao centro do teto da Capela Sistina, sim, aquela que não se pode fotografar. A cena representa um episódio do Livro do Gênesis no qual Deus cria o primeiro homem: Adão.

Com a máquina no chão no modo "timer", fizemos a foto escondida dos fiscais da Capela Sistina

O senhor barbudo é Deus, Seu braço esquerdo está abraçando a uma figura feminina, interpretada como Eva que ainda espera pela sua criação. O braço direito de Deus está esticado para criar o poder da vida para Adão, que por sua vez esta com o braço esquerdo estendido em direção ao de Deus. Os dedos de Adão e de Deus estão separados por uma pequena distância.

  Trechos do nosso diário de viagem:

“Chegamos ao Vaticano, o menor e mais influente país do mundo. Entramos no território mas não fizemos alfândega, hehehehe. E a multidão no museu do Vaticano? Fala sério. Não sabemos como todo mundo cabe lá dentro. Deve ser porque são mais de 7 Km de corredores. Vários museus. É a maior coleção de obras de arte do mundo. Compramos o guia dos museus do Vaticano. Rumamos para a Capela “Sixtina”. De Papa Sixto, o idealizador. A obra prima de Michelangelo foi explorada com a ajuda do livrinho. Grande dica. Custou 10 euros valeu cada centavo. Vimos, lemos e admiramos cada um dos afrescos. Sentados no banco lateral, íamos arredando para o centro da sala conforme o banco ia vagando”.

(In Memory of George Carlin, Requiescat In Pace)

When George Carlin died last year, I was deeply saddened.  He was one of the Great Comedians I had listened to from my childhood onward.  Indeed, I do not recall not knowing about Carlin, in the same way I do not recall not knowing how to read.

Anyway, the many obituaries and tributes that poured in paid homage to Carlin’s considerable talents, including his genius for skewering the human condition.  And, of course, they all mentioned his legendary “Seven Dirty Words.”  For a Black Baptist growing up in rural North Carolina, hearing these words was like discovering a lewd and truncated mirror image of the Ten Commandments.  (I should point out that my extremely devout grandparents, who would have cringed at Carlin’s unabashed use of the “Seven Dirty Words,” nevertheless allowed me to listen endlessly to Redd Foxx’s incredibly raunchy comedy records–on Sunday, at that.  Perhaps it had something to do with the way Black people tell stories.  Hmmm.  Methinks I have the subject for another post….)

Anyway, for some reason I felt inspired to write a little list of my own.  I have no idea why I chose politics as my canvas.  Perhaps the ghosts of Governor Eliot Spitzer’s recent resignation or the Monica Lewinsky scandal were clanging around in my head.  Who knows?  I humbly submit my “Seven Things You Can Never Say in Politics”:

1. “I will never raise your taxes.”
2. “Go ahead and follow me.  I have nothing to hide.”
3. “S/he was just a staffer.  I never knew her/him personally.”
4. “I welcome the opportunity to take my case before the American people.”
5. “I never accepted gifts of any kind from that individual.”
6. “I pledge to serve my full term.”
7. “I am looking forward to spending more time with my family.”

Looking again at my list, I no longer find it as amusing as I did when I created over a year ago.  I guess you had to be there. 

Do not worry, Mr. Carlin, wherever you are.  I have no plans to give up my day job and try to do what you made look so easy for so many years.  You, Sir, were the Michelangelo of Mirth. 

[Expletive deleted.]

We’re drawing nearer and nearer towards the end of the Tales series as issue 70 quickly comes up.  Nevertheless, Jim Lawson and Tristan Jones deliver a good comic involving Chinese mysticism and a round about of villains.

This issue represents the first and last comic Tristan Jones and Jim Lawson have done and will do together.  Unfortunately, it’s also the last Turtles comic Tristan Jones will do.  It’s a shame because Tristan has become a relatively new writer at Mirage with about 5 (I believe) turtles comics under his belt.  All of them have rejuvinated new life into the comics and brought them back to their grimmer, darker days.

However, this comic takes a different approach by being narrated by Mikey in events of circumstance.

I enjoyed the story, but I didn’t necessarily find it as one of Tristan’s best Turtles stories.  It may just be that it’s strange for me to have the mix between Lawson and Jones because their two styles don’t completely mesh.  On top of that, I really did not like the inks by Steve Lavigne in this issue.  They appeared to be some type of water-like brush that caused the lines to be undefined and a little unclear.  I believe that the inks could also have used a lot more black – negative space – to get Lawson’s artwork to match Tristan’s writing a bit more.

The tale was rather humorous and it was nice to see some of the characters tie back into the new-ish villains Jones begun sculpting for the TMNT universe.

No doubt, the best part of this issue was Mikey’s drawings/interpretations of events.  I felt that Jones definitely pushed Lawson to try some new things and it came out with some stellar results.

Overall, this Tale was bittersweet.  Good compared to most comics, but only decent for the standard that TMNT comics set.

We as a species are only half-baked.  We’re mostly animal, and only partly rational, only partly godlike.  And yet, once we become aware of the possibility of achieving godliness–i.e., to become like ancients imagined their gods were like, which in fact we have moved a long way towards over the past 500 years, then we realize, instinctually, that our noblest goal now becomes to continue on this journey – to eventually make ourselves like gods.  This, in essence, is the job of the medical profession (creating ideal bodies–i.e., making us immortal), and of the liberal arts professoriate (creating an ideal society, and an ideal political system, making us omniscient regarding the nature of society) and the psychological profession (creating ideal, strong, rational, healthy minds), of the science profession (making us omniscient regarding the nature of the universe) and of the engineering profession (making us omnipotent).  As a society, in other words, we already have our best minds dedicated to this task, which I call, in a phrase borrowed from Michelangelo and other renaissance thinkers,  ’making men like gods.’  In this post I would just like to detail, to make manifest, and to articulate, exactly what our task is, that we are already performing, and also to ask why we are doing this, even though it is something that we all participate in every day, and the nature of the human mind is that we are still 90% animal, i.e.,  most of us do things without self-awareness, most of the time (this being a function of the fact that, though some of us have become self-aware, most of the species still lags behind, most of the time). So in this light you can think of the history of the human species like this:

We evolved for a few hundred million years from blue green algae, through apeishness, through to becoming neanderthals, and finally, about 100,000 B.C., homo sapiens–meaning, that at that point, our brains were essentially about as big as they are today.

The problem is–we became self-aware.  The terminator people are playing on this thought, which is something that most of us have realized, even if we don’t consciously dwell on it very often.  Animals don’t lament their fates, because they don’t know any better.  They just wake up, find that they have been born, and in their very limited way.

But in a way, God screwed up.  When we became self-aware, we slowly came to the realization that all was not right with the world–the ancients thought of this life as a place of battle, and possible glory, but essentially one of hardship, sorrow, and lament.  One need only read “the wanderer” and ”the seafarer” to get this sense, or else the Orpheus legend in its various forms, to get a sense of how pagan europeans viewed this world and the next. 

The earliest humans did not have gods per se, but we get a sense that they probably worshipped the forces of nature.  Slowly, these evolved into actual gods:  i.e., anthropomorphizations of these natural forces.  They gave their gods human bodies, and they gave them names.  This was by about 8000 B.C., in the places where agriculture first began.  On the fringes of ‘civilization’ the older ways prevailed for longer.  Then, about 1500 B.C., the egyptians toyed with monotheism, and some still believe that the Jews learned their monotheism there.  At any rate, they invented monotheism, and later, some jewish heretics (aka christians) modified the religion to allow all roman citizens (gentiles) into the religion.  And then another person influenced by judeochristianity founded islam, and spread monotheism even further, so that still to this day, almost half of the world population professes to be monotheistic.  

The reason why monotheism was so popular, was that it promised, for the first time, a salvation for all people (not just kings, like with most pagan religions) – a happiness in the next life which was supposedly even better than this life – and this made sense for most people, since their lives generally sucked (and perhaps 1/3 of them were slaves, in most societies, excepting that of western europe after the year 1000 – when most were serfs or at least peasants anyway, which was slightly better). 

Interestingly for our present purposes, the hebrew scripture (also used by christians and muslims) begins with the garden of eden, which contains a parable of mankind waking up from ignorance – i.e., becoming self-aware, in the exact way that the cyberdine systems machines in the terminator movies are supposed to have done.  They realized that they had just been doing – acting– more or less like animals, more or less like automatons, but not having any idea that they were doing what they were doing – i.e., they lacked the capacity for introspection, for self-awareness, for self-criticism, for doing what theorists today call “being meta.”  They could step outside themselves, imaginatively, and see what their society was, and theorize about what it meant, etc.  This is the first step towards taking control of one’s environment.  It is prerequesite.  When adam and eve ate the apple:  they realized they were naked – i.e., they gained a sense of morality, of intellection, and a knowledge of good and evil – they realized, in short, the existence of the platonic ideals:  truth, beauty, justice, etc.  And according to the book of genesis, this meant that they now had access to the same knowledge as god:  to the mind of god itself.  They could, in essence, equal god in terms of the quality of their thought (if not the quantity).

If we relinquish the eden myth, however, and concentrate on historical fact:  on the fact of evolution, and the fact of our eventually becoming self aware, we see that biology has left us with a number of serious limitations.  Since there is no god, or at least, no micro-managing god of the type which the monotheists would like to believe in (and believe me, i wish there was any reason to do so), this means that once we became self aware, then it became possible for us to really begin to take over where nature had left off.

I’ve already written about this a bit in other posts, so i won’t detail it here, but we actually didn’t ‘wake up’ as a species, fully, until about the 1880s, when nietzsche finally dispensed with the notion of god.  Of course, many people still refuse to open their eyes (because this is very scary), but most of the critical-thinking-capable populace has for over a hundred years realized that, darwin and freud and einstein are right, about the nature of biology, the nature of the mind, and the nature of the universe, respectively.  And nietzsche is therefore right about the nature of morality – to a degree (though he was mostly a nutcase – but he did get the fact that sine god, there is no absolute backing for morality – though i have argued elsewhere that this shouldn’t stop us from embracing a human-anchored absolutism–).

So, we’ve only had about a hundred years, then to begin formulating, clearly, and with no interference from the notion that god was guiding things, which caused people to balk, a sense of what we should do, now that we have woken up as a species.  I’ve also talked about this somewhat in my post “what are our goals as a species,” but here I want to point out quite specifically what a mess biology has left us with, and from there point out the obvious challenges that we as a species now face, if we want to improve ourselves and make ourselves into our potential ideal.

1)  Mortality.  This is obvious.  For evolving species, it makes perfect sense to have individuals mate, and then die, to leave room for the next generation to improve the gene pool, and presumably, the adaptability of the species.  Once you become self-aware, however, this is brutal.  The only thing is:  if we didn’t have mortality, then we would seldom evolve as a species in terms of thought.  One nice thing about European republican thought is that is has evolved, every generation tending to improve on the next in some way or another.  If people didn’t die, then this would happen much slower.  I do think, however, that we have reached a stage of culture where we could produce a pretty ideal world with the ideas that are just now emerging in terms of equality.  So, this means that even the moral imperative towards mortality is now no longer compelling, so much.  And besides, even if we ‘fixed’ mortality, people would still die, and could still have kids.  You’d just have to wait.  Which is no big deal, since you’d have a while to life, and plenty of things to do.

2)  Procreation– men, due to the prescriptions of evolution, and the fact that he who mates most wins, in an ape-like tribal situation, naturally want to spew their goo, as they say, far too often for civilized society — thus the profusion of porn; most dudes i know tend to relieve themselves on a daily basis.  Ultimately, we’d want guys’ sex drives to at least be on a par with that of women–it would make domestic tranquility that much greater, for one thing, if the guy wasn’t always bugging the girl, and the girl not always having to come up with excuses and or give in to far more demands than she would like.  Arguably, this one factoid, is a major cause of disharmony in society as a whole.   

3)  Disease– clearly, we have to address this, before we can address the mortality issue.  Again, disease is fine and dandy in a dog-eat-dog world of nature, where life is cheap, and disease helps to weed out the weak, to make room for the strong, but again, it’s brutal, and has no place in civilized society.  I am talking here of infectious disease, which is essentially micro life forms preying on others.  But when some of the said life forms are sentient beings, with the intellectual capacities of angels (see Pico – in my “our journey” page), it’s time for us to take charge, as medical science is now doing in earnest, and to kick those little bastards’ butts. 

4)  Memory – our memories work in a far too limited, far too impressionistic way, for the most part, to be of much use.  Ultimately, we’ll want to come up with ways to recall information better, in a more informed way.  Some of us can do that, and i suppose that that’s what we’d want the species to be like.  Some people, i’ve heard, can remember too much – all the time, without being able to suppress it.  That’s clearly not good either.  But it’s within the bounds of biology for us to create, for the majority of us, a much better system than we have now. 

5)  Dichotomies in looks.  Most of us are not that good looking, but some are beautiful, and these people are documented as having much easier and happier and generally more successful lives, because of it.  We should ultimately address this looks-gap, in the same way as we should address the IQ gap.  Clearly, we don’t want us all to look alike – but it would be far more democratic if we had a society where everyone could feel as though they were actually attractive, however one may choose to interpret this (which I do not think is futile, since almost everyone can agree that some people are beautiful, while others are ugly – so, yes, I believe that beauty is not entirely relative, but is based on some fundamental human norms, which are hardwired into the same DNA which makes us all ‘humans.’)

6)  Dichotomies in intelligence.  I’ve already detailed this in previous posts, but it’s here for completeness.  

7)  Emotions.  For the most part, men get angry too often, and people are too psychologically unbalanced.  Biology has left us with a situation where too many people are prone to depression, and, in general, happiness is too difficult to come by.  If we are talking about genetically engineering (and/or, hopefully just gradually working towards these types of goals) the species, then we should also put on our wish list a strong sense of reason for most people (i.e., having a high IQ), but also an emotional stability, which is capable of great feeling, and sensibility, but also capable of being happy and contented, and appreciating the small and great things of life, with the best possible attitude.

8)  Susceptability to mental illness.  Abuse of children, especially sexual abuse, causes many lives to be ruined.  Clearly, the first thing to do is to stop abuse, which we as a society are slowly working towards.  But ultimately we’d like to steer our minds away from the hangups that we can so easily get hung up on, as a result of the fact that our minds are essentially very primitive.  Psychologists who look for the root of mental illness are in essence doing just this:  they are working, ultimately, to solve the problems of weakness in our mental structures which nature has bequeathed to us – due to the fact that we, as a species, are half baked. 

The sooner we realize what our goals are, and rationally sit down and take stock of where we have been left, when we suddenly woke up and realized that mother nature had abandoned us here, sitting on a bench in a bus stop, with only one suitcase and very little money, the sooner we can figure out which bus we should take, and where our best prospects lie.  Nashville, New York, or LA?

So its been over a decade and the turtles are still kicking. As part of their 25th anniversary, Mirage and 4Kids Entertainment, the people behind the 2k3 series have joined forces to bring you “Turtles Forever”. In this direct to DVD movie, the Ninja Turtles from the popular 80’s toon team up with the Ninja Turtles from the 2k3 series in order to stop 2k3’s villain, Krang aka Shedder from destroying the Turtles universe – literally. We get a special treat at the end when the appearance of the original Mirage comic book Turtles make their debut in animation form. Turtles Forever is witty, amusing, and well animated. Its hard to believe after so many years the Turtles are still mean, green, ninja butt kicking machines. All in all, Turtles Forever is – Cowabunga.

Production Art Work.

]]> http://design1sm.wordpress.com/2009/11/23/the-importance-of-the-client-in-design/ Mon, 23 Nov 2009 15:30:54 +0000 design1sm http://design1sm.wordpress.com/2009/11/23/the-importance-of-the-client-in-design/

Here is a great example of the importance the role the client plays in the outcome of a design.   This example is taken from an online book by the famous advertising agency Ogilvy and Mather called Ogilvy on Recession

Consider Michelangelo’s painting for the Sistine Chapel:

What was he exactly asked to do by his client?

“Cardinal Alidosi needed to brief Michelangelo to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in Rome.  How did he do it?

He might have said  “Please paint the ceiling”.  This is a bad brief.  It gives Michelangelo no idea as to what the solution might be.”   

He might have said “Please paint the ceiling using red, green and yellow paint.”   This is worse.  It still does not tell Michelangelo what to paint, and it also gives him a number of restrictions.

The actual brief was this:  “Please paint our ceiling for the greater glory of God and as an inspiration and lesson to His people.  Paint frescoes which portray the creation of the world, the Fall, mankind’s degradation by sin, the divine wrath by deluge, and the preservation of Noah and his family.”

This brief helped produce one of the great creative works of all time.”

.

Nunca o sonho de ficar mais magro foi tão fácil de realizar.

Agora a esperança permanece até ao post mortem. Se não consegue ser magro em vida, no Peru há profissionais que lhe garantem um belo corpo esbelto antes de chegar ao céu.

Afinal, até os outrora gorduchos anjos querubins, deixaram de ser fashion.

Tal como o desejado epitáfio de Jô Soares, também o seu poderá ser:

Enfim, magro.

E com sorte, talvez o céu seja um bom lugar para engatar:

Presenting my second interview of the week with Mr. Jim Lawson.  His style has become synonymous with the Ninja Turtles for the nearly 25 years he’s worked at Mirage.  Lawson has drawn more Ninja Turtles comics than anyone else in the business, and he was quite gracious to let me interview him.

Interviewing Jim Lawson has been a grand opportunity for me, and I’m very thankful to share his insights and knowledge about the Turtles.  In the interview, we discuss the recent purchase of TMNT by Nickelodeon, his future plans (with dinosaurs!), Paleo, most likely the last TMNT comic to come out (at least for a long time) Tales #70, and R.E.M.!

This whole experience has been fun connecting with the Mirage crew, and I hope that further opportunities will come to them as they face the future.

Recently, on your blog, you addressed the issue of the TMNT purchase from Nickelodeon, and briefly mentioned some of your possible future plans.  Have you further thought about your options since then?

Not really. It’s been kind of overwhelming emotionally since the announcement of the sale—I think only now that the dust is beginning to settle and I can start thinking about the future. As I sit here right now, I can’t honestly say just what it is that I want to do.

Do the possibilities still remain to finish up the Paleo TPB and even release more Paleo comics?

Yeah, definitely. Paleo was published under the Zeromayo partnership between Peter (Laird) and myself.  Whether Pete still wants a relationship and involvement in that, that’s unclear to me. However, I don’t see that there would be anything preventing me from finishing the TPB myself.

You also mentioned that the thought of doing a children’s book has been in your head for awhile, do you have any ideas that you might want to share about what this would involve?  Dinosaur themes or something similar to your work from on the Turtles Comics?

The children’s book idea is something that’s always appealed to me- and now that I’m playing around with colors, even more so now. Nothing concrete, storywise- but you’re correct, dinosaurs are absolutely a direction that I would like to go.

How did Peter Laird break the news about the deal to the writers and artists, or how did you find out about the deal?

I think that it was October 13—Gary (Richardson) called us all into a staff meeting here at Mirage. Everyone was there including Pete. It was then that we were told that a deal to sell the Turtles was nearly complete.  Some details of the sale were talked about and Pete discussed his situation and reasons for my he felt he had to make this decision.  Contracts were given us to review and sign. It was pretty emotional.

You explained your personal account of what it was like for you to walk around the Mirage office after hearing about the deal (as a zombie), were everyone else’s reactions similar to yours?

I think so. Everyone seemed sorta paralyzed by the news. But conversely, I think that we all knew in the back of our minds that this day was coming.

I’m happy for Pete—it’s been tough watching him struggle for the past few years with regards to his loss of enthusiasm for the comics. I hope this unburdens him and he can rediscover the creative person that he once was.

I’ve always enjoyed how stylistically and minimalist your artwork has been especially in depicting action, how did you develop this style that has almost become synonymous with the TMNT?

Lots and lots of drawing. I’m asked occasionally why my style changed so dramatically over the run of the TMNTs. I can’t say that it was my intention to draw the way I do now-it just naturally happened.  I really like that it’s such an evolving thing- it’s very exciting for me as an artist.

I’ve noticed that the pacing and beats in all of the miniseries that you have both written and drawn have had a lot of downtime, scenic, mood-setting moments (most recently in the Donatello miniseries) which is quite impactful stylistically.  What’s some of the inspiration behind these moments?

That’s an interesting question. In response to that, all I can say is that I try for a sense of realism in my stories. I very much want to try to convey a character’s mood or emotion- I want to really get in their head and to know what an individual’s thoughts are.  It’s during my own quiet times when I’m introspective and reflecting so I think that that’s what I try to bring into my writing.

I’m sure you’ve answered it a ton before, and that’s why I was hesitant to ask earlier, but who’s your favorite character and why?  How do you go about drawing the separate characters when they look nearly identical?

I don’t know if I have a favorite character. Leo I find really interesting. I guess as the unofficial leader of the Turtles it’s my belief that he is subject to more responsibilites and influences than the other guys. There’s just got to be more of a depth there. From an artistic standpoint, all the Turtles are nearly identical, appearance-wise.  I think for me personally, the differences become more of a facial expression or body positioning– Leo stands straight, Mikey looser, Raph when he’s addressing someone, more aggressive- in their face. Don very often standing separate. That type stuff.

What is your creative process like?  Do the writers leave you plenty of room for your own interpretation?

It changes from writer to writer, but for the most part, yeah- in my experience the writers that I’ve dealt with have allowed me a lot of freedom. Perhaps it’s because Mirage was what I consider a small-time publisher- everyone pretty much knew each other so I think there was this sense of familiarity and trust.

As for my creative process, there’s no trick to it really. I’ll usually have some germ of an idea and write it out more or less in outline form. Often, certain scenes that I want to highlight I’ll try to dialogue at that early stage. Occasionally, I’ll even have ideas about how I want to end the story and I’ll have to backward engineer events leading up to that. 

Do you have any special pencils or pens that you like to work with, and what is your view on digital pen tablets?

Yeah, every artist has their favorites. The pencil that I like right now is something called a Black Warrior. My favorite paper is Strathmore Bristol. With pens, I’ve been using some Japanese brush pens for the past few years- my favorite is the Zebra FD-301. More recently, I’ve taken to using the Pentel Pocket Brush—it features a waterproof ink that is required for use with watercolors.

I have no view on digital pen tablets, as I’ve never used one.

For the younger generation of Comic readers today, you were a participant at the Creator’s Bill of Rights drafting, could you explain your influence in the couple day event?

In all honesty, I don’t think that I had much of an impact on the Creator’s Bill of Rights.  Peter and Kevin were the influential ones- myself and the other Mirage artists were more secondary characters, in my opinion.

How was it like working with Tristan Jones for the first time on Tales #64 (out now)?

Awesome. Tristan’s a hell of a nice guy, as well as being a very talented writer. His enthusiasm for the Turtles is infectious. I’m gonna miss him a lot.

Can you hint at anything that might catch our eye in the second two pieces to the Donatello miniseries?

Not really. In the Don mini, my intent was to give a view of the character that might be a little different than what most people might think. The darker side of Donatello, if you will.

Currently, you’re working on quite possibly the last comic of the TMNT at least for a decent amount of time with Tales #70.  You stated that the story is set in Return to New York and that you’re replicating the process and feel of those comics back in the 80s.  Are there any other exciting things that this issue may contain?

The story will feature Raph, almost exclusively. Eric and I have in mind a fight scene that will be unlike anything that I’ve ever done, so I’m looking forward to how I’m going to choreograph that in the pencils. The book will also be done on the old school Duoshade paper so that should give it a classic RTNY feel, I hope.

With issue #70 focusing primarily on Raph, does this mean the story takes place right before the Turtles fight the Mutant Shredders?  Or does it focus on when he runs off when they’re in the foot base and Leonardo has to save him (one of my favorite frames of all comics)?

As to when Tales 70 takes place, it’s in that 3 or 4 day time period after Leo and Raph have that fight at the barn in Northampton. The story does take place in the NY sewers. I guess as sort of a prequel to issue 19.

Over the last 20 years you have drawn plenty of frames in comics, are there any that stand out to you as a favorite?  Or any issue that you had a lot of fun on?

A standout most certainly has to be the Leonardo mini-series, Blind Sight. Much of that book was done in white silhouette, and that gave it definitely a different look. As well, it was a real challenge to my drawing and design sense, as far as actually creating the art. Unquestionably the most memorable book that I’ve done.

How did you develop the style behind the silhouettes in Blind Sight?  I’ve often noticed that you’ve used the style (before and since then) for a single frame or two, is this a technique you like to use to establish a certain mood?

Simply yeah- the white silhouette was just that, kind of a drawing gimmick. It had a kind of visual power that you couldn’t help but notice, though. That’s I suppose, what attracted to it and made me want to take it to the next level.

You often post commissions on your blog, will you continue to do commissions and how would someone go about getting one?  What is the average cost?

I’ll continue to do commissions until I leave Mirage, most likely. When that day is though, I’m not entirely sure. That said, folks who want a commission need only to contact me at my email: jmlawsn@aol.com. Prices vary with the number of figures and complexity of the drawing. As far as a range, commissions are generally from $50.00 to $250.00. Most are in the $100-$150 neighborhood.

Despite having your job as a TMNT writer and artist for the last 20 years, are you excited for the break to try something new?

Absolutely, and I think that’s why I’m uncertain about the whole comics thing—part of me is really hungering for a new adventure, something totally different. It’s hard to imagine a future without drawing as being my bread and butter, but that certainly is a strong possibility.

Just for some general questions that you may have fun at:

What’s your favorite music/band/musician?

No question, REM is my favorite band.

If you hands down love R.E.M., then what’s your favorite song(s)?

Some of my favorite REM tunes are:
Walk Unafraid
E-Bow the Letter
7 Chinese Brothers
I’ll Take the Rain
Nightswimming

What type of Motorcycle do you ride?

Right now, I have 4 motorcycles—they are:
2005 Yamaha FJR 1300
2007 Moto Guzzi Griso
2009 BMW F800 GS
1979 Honda Ratwing

What are you currently reading?

I very recently finished “Endless Horizons” by Dan Walsh. Walsh is a sometimes columnist for several motorcycle magazines and this is his travelogue about a journey that he took to South America.

What is/are your favorite film(s)?

Films that feature some kind of adventure, I guess. But within that, everything from Hildago to The Road Warrior to Up to Kun Fu Hustle to Army of Darkness.

What is the comic that continues to inspire you?

Usagi Yojimbo amazes me. How Stan (Sakai) can continue to generate stories that are of a consistently high quality after all these issues- it’s stunning. I just bought the little hardcover/color comic that he just published, Yokai. It’s absolutely beautiful.

Once again, thanks to Jim Lawson for the interview, and I hope everything works out well for him and all of the Mirage crew.  I know that I’ll be their to support them in whatever their endeavors are because through the Ninja Turtles they’ve impacted my life astoundingly, and I hope they can continue work like that in their own lives and work.

 Monty Python. Absolutamente brilhante, como sempre.

Well, it’s finally here, I got to interview Dan Berger (for real, this time) the writer and artist of many notable projects behind the TMNT comic books.  We discuss in the interview the recent purchase of the creator-owned TMNT property by Nickelodeon, His future plans, his views on the TMNT universe, and some of his favorite music and movies.

Once again, I know that I said this to him every time we e-mailed back and forth for the interview (and the handful of other times I’ve e-mailed him), I am incredibly thankful for the opportunity to interview a wonderful writer, artist, and above all, someone who I truly admire, in order to show their viewpoint of the business and bring to light some things that fans may just not expect.

Also, Click to see a larger version of the cover for the penultimate issue of Tales by Dan.  This is the – basically – world premiere of the image on the interweb.

I apologize for how the images are integrated into the interview… typically you can just make it look like a newspaper type and plunk the pictures so the Text fits around them, but I still haven’t figured out how to do this on WordPress.

let’s dig in!

Thanks once again for doing this interview.

My pleasure.

How did Peter Laird break the news about the deal to the writers and  artists, or how did you find out about the deal (with Viacom/Nickelodeon for the Rights to all things TMNT)?

Nick hasn’t approached any of the creators from Mirage – if anyone is  interested in trying to work for them, they’ll have to go to Nick.

I have no idea if that answered your question – but it does show how neurotic I am about deadlines.

Ya gotta try to come up with something a bit different if you want Peter to approve your plots.

I hope it lives up to your expectations. I’ll do my best.

However, the continuity issue comes up… will this be for sure something that will happen in the future or just an imagined story?

It’s a future story – definitely not imaginary.

I’ve got several varied ideas, but I can’t really talk about them without giving away too much – but they involve monsters, cats, and of course, kids.

Will you do the art as well as the writing duties?

Yeah – but that’s a tough row to ho these days. Publishers typically want someone to write (usually a celebrity) and then they’ll assign an illustrator of their choice to do the artwork – but I’m not particularly interested in doing it that way, since I’m not a celebrity and I feel too close to my ideas to let someone else draw them, at least initially. If I were to be fortunate enough to have some success and be able to do lots of projects, I wouldn’t mind working with other artist because there are so many out there far more talented than I am (which is one reason why writing for “Tales” has been so much fun).

Nothing unfortunate about it – I know how old I am. I feel it every day.

As I tell all my buddies, getting old sucks, but it beats the 
alternative.

Is your grand wall of TMNT toys still going to hang up in your office?

the bag-carried charms of lonely school-girls

blue crushed dreams drowned at noon-day

vented fortunes melted and re-created

morphed laughters reflected in a magenta pool

shadowy remains of the over-large green lantern

vultured skulls swinging by their guitar strings

music honeyed lions pondering the dancing stars

there a stare – here a smile – everywhere death

paper-thin mannequins feasting on shrimp salads

oceanic largesses buttoned and stored sideways

sun-dried tomatoes drank with overmuch salt

zion led saints proportioning those fairly decked nuns

swing crushed remains – the bread cracks of yore

the vegan induced convulsions of some carnivore

emperor dreamed lords dressed in nakedness

street whispered symphonies overtaken with sun-dried laughters

slithering oysters wrestling with some stranded toe

darling buds gnashing their teeth as they gently kiss those receding winds

suffocated wedding bands recalling past conquests

suffused pleasures desiring a proper vessel

the sweaty palms of boys chained in boarding schools

green sullied roof tops laced in brown jacaranda leaves

death masked violins overran with a craving for strings

there be but a remainder of mats – herded feet whistling their displeasure

overmuch excitement – the sure emblem of lovers at war

gloried bosoms rounder than the fairest august apple

middle apportioned fortunes starved of the seasons fallings

i pose a conundrum – suppose i cared

those circular yearning s teasing the pathetic fortunes of our failings

trombone led bands cowering beneath flute dresses

museum honeyed murals of masters unknown

leather clobbered loins remained upon the chiefest lizard cliffs

shop stewed beans rustling in their metal prisons

willows distantly dancing a fresh of the flowing muds

the punished sounds of choirs hanged at dawn

boot driven passions remained on a plastic plate

a loose lip here – a shoe there – everywhere death

numidian mushrooms sheltered beneath kilimanjaros shoulders

kissed birds overcome with grief

the booked imaginings of shy pupils giggling in rain

pampered lobsters sunbathing in their coffins

oiled thighs standing erect besides michelangelo’s david

yellow scented lusts of husbands given over to theatre

comedy driven longings – the perpendicular stares of wronged lover

the karoo streams – kalahari basins – toureg chants – gorgon encampments

they all be but simple venison servings

table laid charms bottled in salt

how fair are those dancing bears – even the same fur-less devils

suspended aloft that soon disappearing iceberg

night stars rushing purposefully to their deaths

sychellian crustaceans wallowing in grief

the bushveld  tropics leaning gently upon fair mozambique’s cheeks

soon-approaching monsoons announcing their arrival in himalayan chants

train hurried suns murmuring for a lack of attention

the haired touching of lovers stranded at and in the sea

easterly badlands housed in some papal estate

toe-tugged yearnings elegantly decked in straw skirts

of epher’s children – salute them with a gentle tug in either direction

craven red shoes seated upright in some rainy mud hut

of mau mau and his abandoned harlots – whistle only and touch not

burning forests housed wholly in her mouth

olympian straits considered and rejected

righteousness forced upon unwilling saints – they chose sin instead

snow-covered churches overcome with laughter

coat pocketed jealousies of rivals resorting to righteousness – dueling

scorched lands immigrating downward and into hell

cherry scented mustangs awash in fresh aloe

dew carried feet refusing the flung serving of fresh boots

the remaining african horn fed to the nomadics of eritrea

diseased waters bottled and sent to epher’s descendants

soap deprived ankles painted in valley yellow

dark suns prejudiced at the sight of blue oranges

suited bullfrogs desiring an audience with the priest

mournful dirges of some tragic anthem lorded over the plains

serengeti woodlands teaming with overmuch grasshoppers

lateral – dental – palatial

the rice grown hatreds of aphrite’s rude cousins

millet rinsed touchings of loves and lovers clothed in burnings

sight condemned ancients rehearsing their final movements

hurried motionings of sharks harpooned at the high deserts

drunk instructors condemned to the wine cellars

drought moustaches grown arrogant with the occasional brush

ankle dipped hands dancing on freshly painted ceilings

roman centurions sheepishly waiting upon the priests

the back covered lashes of whips crying at dawn

zebra teethed lions lying sideways – the feed was much

meditating monks nightly preaching patience as they doubt its efficacy

rib jointed searchings of parents transfixed upon some tragic statute

guitar stringed understandings of lovers soon to be loosened

hurricane gales refusing freely gifted medications – they instead desire destruction

church chimed machinations – the loud shadows of sarcadortal hems

leather-covered sweaters speaking of soon returning father abraham

marsh covered bibles resurrected to their mournful parents

papered lips pretending to care yet found out

fortuned souls buried in moses’ bosoom

piano starved school children emaciated and in need of fresh cassava

drunk pilgrims desecrating their holy places

curses courtiers given over to overindulgence

pleasured hips forgetting how to dress

earth abused servants despising their hoes

equator neglected bears doubly aggrieved

polluted musics distilled in yellow barley

tomato crushed dreams of lovers separated by war

tributaries of untamed passions spewing from eva’s bosom

tribal instincts of mothers caressing their pops – confused loves

crucified sailors condemned for purity of passions

the yellow ribbons circling about in their blue trousers

bus driven fears of known futures

boiled mannequins cascading in sheltered rage

the oiled ankles of lovers destined to fail

teaming marshes pregnant with the anticipation of your impending hanging

what would shylock do

such purity contained in those unassuming holy loins

not a penny more or less

the weighty pendulums of earthly expectations placed shoulderwise

upon such lowly flesh – pray for his rich poverty

freely consider the run – jonah did

circular chains layered outwardly upon her cheeks

wandering stares of the decomposing tortoise

craged backs of prisoners rejoicing at the sight of a whip

unseemly lovings of the nile priests

snow married rains competing for the mastery

roaming preachers begging for fresh underwear

any recall the simple pleasures of death

hyacinth troubled waters refusing to suffocate

consider the daffodils and their fair cousins – the black mamba

following – continue your runnings

street dancing muses overtaken with giggling willows

haggard poets taking up whistling

layered burnings of victims returned from their nightly flames

the bleached denials of lovers untrained in the art – of lying

caressed lips of saints hanged and burned by the eclipse

green creeks snaking around eva’s proud towers

ever populated with the bagged trifles of smiles sealed and delivered

expected rains falling only the honest sinners

touch not but freely reach

the flasked remains of wars forced upon the innocent

dirt condemned shoulders praying for rain

honeyed nights scribing the moanful chants of reunited lovers

built ruins of some ancient king – god

boot-straped cowboys jeaned and straightwith saddled

onion ringed stairs of pilgrims unfurling their carpets in prayer

stoned devils loosened on an unassuming friday afternoon

the shamelessly chanted charms of choirs rehearsing compassion

free range grains frustrated at the sight of a sickle

garden manufactured sandals covered in cassava peelings

the red vases of fortunes’ train soon approaches

temple plundered riches housed in some temple

boat driven suspenders tugging the wily doe

arabian summers spend it hibernation

square run destinies married to music slithered hands

love-worn seagulls taking up residence on greenland’s beaches

the pilgrim stares of submerged penguins

superfluous gains of tormentors destined to burn

collected unicorns aimlessly peddling their air cycles

terrace covered nakedness of summers spent at the arctic

zerubabel conducted symphonies arrested by the passing eclipse

the retrograde joys of past loves recalled in regret

of pains  known and grown out of – try harder

vase-shaped frustrations – even the same man nurtured

sandals of ambitions dead at birth

any care pass along the rope – how make you a proper noose

how sweet the contradiction daily raping humanity

baleful mourns of innocence hushed in the still of the night

bewildered stares fixed upon the priestly robes of the temple vultures

scavengers given over to overmuch prayer – before consuming their flesh

teeth mapped meats shaking with fear

with love and for love yet always serving self

hades scented saints marching triumphantly towards their sabbath pews

those proper passions gently housed in some harlots bosom

care consider her kind

rude awakenings of skirts hugged one upon another

round fingers – the meandering coins emblazoned with sea fortunes

sword kissed deaths transfixed upon some tragic mount

that they too desire to commune with father moses – any care find him

knee-nursed yearnings of some crawling pop

kettle-whispered lovings of mothers overcome with joy

loves journeyed in darkness only to be condemned by the searching light

some waffled longings of imprisoned cousins – twice removed

fortunes plundered and straightaway surrendered to mightier foes

watched yearnings of those round face anthills

care imitate the socialized hatreds of the sheppard

joyous singings at the news of the stranded winters upon the seas

today be the burial of some tragic figure – some son of three parents

scared remains of lovers burned in love – rather it be love that burned then -

or love caused these burnings – love burned them – in a word: they be dead

the dragon costumes singularly common yet without a mother

companies of soldiers bewailing their blood-muddied swords

pure-bred expectations of fathers married to daily runnings

parisian harlots – even those decadent damsels of notre dame

lamp lighted walkings of some painted corridor

symphonic laughters given over to overmuch prayers

recall the butterfly laced travels of righteous odysseus

the drought peopled apartments quietly screaming for chardonnay

touched purities of priests aggrieved in spirit yet glad in the flesh

palm lined libraries of cairo giddily seated adjacent jerusalem’s famous lamps

summer covered carpets laced with gerbera ferns

nightly runnings of forbidden lovers conspiring their next escapes

apostolic sureties of saint eva – blessed be her musical loins

poems collected in empty wooden wine skins

coerced laughters masked in the lying giggles of the anaconda

prayerful knees of the arabian monk wrestling with an empty sea shell

rehearsed returns of the blue women of the green lagoon

liberian tiles refusing their ordained marriages to cuban cements

any care hear of the loud shrills of the debauched crickets

plimsol expectations of princes ignored in plain sight

the returned piercings of lapped waters dancing in a great danes mouth

restrained sheep recalling their wild histories as dakota mustangs

of sacrifices a dove yet wholly unrepentant

rosy mornings carried in an empty jar

that the sistine chapel was erected by a harlot – aye even eva

that most righteous and upwardly decked saint of the weeping sheets

known of most for her convulsing inducing hands

virgin pilgrims remained upon their store-bought piety

some raisin cured yawns of the whited sepulchers housing her blessed remains

glass layered centuries of accusations returned and loosened

sweet-honeyed chirpings of the wooly mammoth

crane-spoted hyenas jumping rope in the serengeti plains

crowned turtles desiring the company of boiling lobsters

any recall the tearful repentances of proud nabucco

slaves become masters and enslaving their fellow slaves

how that in running – they instead lost themselves

have a care

Narra un’antica leggenda che quando Michelangelo appena ventiseienne, chiamato in terra di Firenze per alcuni lavori, incrociò per caso un marmo già sbozzato nei magazzini dell’Opera di Santa Maria del Fiore, proveniente da una cava di Carrara – udendo una voce provenire dal suo interno supplicarlo di liberarne la figura in esso contenuta – il giovane artista si sentì scosso da un profondo turbamento.

Spaventato dinanzi ad un blocco di marmo la cui anima chiedeva proprio a lui, lui soltanto, di poter essere liberata, chiamandolo per nome: la leggenda vuole che il Buonarroti, giovanissimo, sentisse per la prima volta il bisogno di fermarsi ad interrogare se stesso, facendo i conti coi propri limiti e le proprie grandi possibilità.

Seppur reduce dall’aver già stupito il mondo con la creazione a San Pietro in Roma, di un monumento magnifico dalle qualità straordinarie: “La Pietà”, eppure dinanzi a quella voce, confuso e smarrito …

C’era una volta nelle lontane terre di Caprese un giovane artista di nome Michelangelo. Dal carattere schivo e riservato e i modi timidi e semplici, bello coi suoi riccioli capelli scuri e i tratti marcati del viso in armonia con la forza e la possanza delle sue mani tozze, avvezze a maneggiare con la stessa identica cura e precisione pesanti scalpelli quanto leggerissimi pennelli, viveva lui della sua arte con gioia e dedizione infiniti.

Ed errando di Corte in Corte, Chiesa in Chiesa, paese in paese, portando nel cuore i propri colori e ben fisso nella testa il suo martello, non vi era lavoro che lui non riuscisse a portare a termine con mirabile maestria e incantevole magnificenza, attirandosi addosso i consensi e i complimenti di tutti: pittore eccelso, scultore eccezionale, poliedrico architetto e finissimo poeta.

Giovane amante dell’arte e della bellezza in ogni sua forma, in maniera genuina e diretta, fiero di poter riempire con le sue Opere il creato e con le sue sfumature il mondo, manifestando ciò che Estro, spirito bello degli artisti, gli aveva soffiato nel cuore alla nascita, quando prendendolo fra le sue braccia lo aveva deposto nella culla, restando seduto al suo fianco a vegliare sui suoi sogni bambini. Artista abile e brillante, dall’animo estremamente sensibile e delicato, capace di riporre sulla carta i suoi più intimi pensieri trasformandoli in aulici versi da tenere gelosamente custoditi lontano dagli occhi altrui, lui era così, un cuore caparbio e nobile di natura più che di aristocratico lignaggio.

Cocciuto e pignolo, dal piglio libero dello zingaro, perennemente in viaggio per il mondo alla ricerca delle risposte al fuoco sacro della sua arte con mente vivace e ingegno fino, capace di catturare con la sua bravura e l’affascinante misteriosità del suo animo ombroso, l’ammirazione e la devozione di  chiunque lo conoscesse con semplicità e schiettezza.

E così un giorno di agosto, mentre era intento a camminare lungo le strade lastricate di pietre grosse del Regno di Firenze, dove era stata richiesta la sua presenza per la realizzazione di alcuni lavori, Michelangelo, scorgendo di colpo in un cantiere fra i numerosi blocchi di marmo ammassati ad ogni angolo, uno di essi brillare più di tutti,  fermando d’istinto il passo, gli si avvicinò col cuore in tumulto squadrandolo con un misto di  attenzione e paura insieme.

Come a voler uscire da quella forma amorfa, una figura ben abbozzata, dai capelli ribelli e il profilo giovinetto ben delineato, sembrava tendergli la mano in cerca di aiuto, sperando che lui la afferrasse dandogli un appiglio sicuro.

E a quella vista, il giovane artista, sentendo di colpo il cuore mancargli di un battito come mai gli era accaduto prima di allora, stravolto da una richiesta tanto accorata, sentendosi così miseramente piccolo dinanzi a quel volto sconosciuto che sembrava riporre in lui tutta la sua fiducia, indietreggiando spaventato, scosse il capo confuso, scappando via all’istante da quel posto.

“No! Michelangelo, no! Messer Buonarroti tornate indietro! Aiutatemi ad uscire da questa prigione! Apritemi le porte di questa gabbia! Tiratemi Fuori!”  udì una voce supplicarlo nel vento.

E ancor più sconvolto a quelle parole, Michelangelo, cercando di ricacciare indietro quella che stava prendendo i seri contorni di una visione spettrale, uscendo di fretta dalla cava  trovò rifugio nelle camere dell’alloggio a lui assegnato, e chiudendosi con un solo botto la porta alle spalle, si gettò a capo fitto nello studio di alcuni  progetti, cercando in essi una valida distrazione.

Ma tracciate appena poche linee male abbozzate su di un foglio, con mano tremante e sguardo perso, Michelangelo cercando di mandare via disperatamente dalla testa quella voce insistente, sospirando profondamente scosse la matita nell’aria facendola vibrare con fare nervoso.

“Non riesci a concentrarti vero?” gli sussurrò di colpo una voce alle sue spalle in tono dolce “Non riesci a non pensarci, è così?” l’incalzò.

E Michelangelo voltandosi di scatto a quelle parole, levandosi di botto  rovesciando indietro la seggiola, sentì il cuore salirgli in gola nel ritrovarsi riflesso nelle splendide iridi viola della bella Musa, spirito dell’ispirazione, splendida nella sua meravigliosa veste dalle trame cucite col filo rosso del fuoco eterno e la cintola di perle lunari stretta a fasciarle i fianchi.

E boccheggiando l’artista annaspò “Tu sai tutto, vero?”

“Si!” rispose lei schietta “Io ero lì con te nel cantiere del Duomo e ho ascoltato ogni cosa, nella vana speranza che tu non scegliessi di fuggire da quel compito tanto arduo, eppure solamente tuo!” sospirò.

“Pensi che io debba tornare indietro?” le chiese timido l’artista, temendo per la risposta.

“Si!” rispose lei senza remore, decisa “Tuttavia resta solo a te decidere cosa è meglio, ovviamente! Tu solo puoi sapere cosa realmente vuole il tuo cuore!” fece spallucce.

E afferrando di peso la sedia caduta, chiuso nella morsa del suo cuore in tumulto, il giovane Michelangelo si portò la testa fra le mani nel riascoltare vivida battere nelle sue tempie quella sconosciuta voce maschile, supplicarlo di tornare indietro per liberarlo dalla sua prigione di marmo.

Con gli occhi della mente, gli parve allora di rivedere scorrere di colpo lentamente dinanzi a sé tutte le immagini delle Opere che aveva realizzato in quegli anni, da quando, appena giovinetto era entrato contro il volere del padre nella bottega del Ghirlandaio per “imparare il mestiere”, quel genere di lavoro tanto odiato dal genitore, che con disprezzo non gli aveva mai lesinato parole dure e offensive, ripetendogli all’infinito quanto non fosse stato che una delusione come figlio, definendolo semplicemente uno “spaccapietre”.

Da quel suo primo giorno a bottega, fino a quel mattino di agosto, di tempo ne era trascorso davvero tanto, e lui ripensando alle sue tele, ai suoi schizzi, ai suoi progetti, sospirò forte, ma così forte da sentire dolore al petto.

In quel blocco di marmo si celava un giovane uomo, lui lo aveva visto, aveva scorto tutto di lui, chiaramente: gli occhi, il naso, le braccia, i glutei alti, il profilo. Così bello in tutto il suo splendore, acerbo, forte, tenace nella sua fierezza; e sospirando nel comprendere quanto lui fosse già vivamente materializzato nel suo cuore, irrimediabilmente, strinse i pugni con forza.

Altre mani avevano lavorato prima a quel blocco, l’aveva desunto a colpo d’occhio dai segni che riportava la superficie tenuta male, ma mai nessuno aveva udito prima di allora quella voce, la richiesta di aiuto chiara e squillante di colui che chiuso in quel marmo, chiedeva di uscirne. Quella figura sconosciuta e informe a tutti nascosta, aveva chiesto soltanto a lui il suo intervento, ne era certo, solo a lui, a lui e nessun altro, chiamandolo per nome.

E levandosi dalla scrivania il giovane scultore, sorridendo alla dolce Musa con sguardo d’intesa, la vide sparire in mille bagliori di luce sotto i suoi occhi, mentre uscendo da quella stanza, sentiva battergli forte nel petto il desiderio di giungere presto al cantiere.

Un pezzo così mastodontico non sarebbe di certo stato facile da ottenere in lavorazione, ma lui avrebbe insistito e non si sarebbe arreso per nessun motivo.

“E’ un gran bel peso! E non intendo certo solo a livello materiale!” gli rispose senza mezze misure un anziano di passaggio alla cava, ascoltando il giovane Buonarroti chiedere in affidamento il marmo per lavorarlo.

“Si!” rispose lui secco, pronto a qualsiasi tipo di critica, rivolgendosi allo sconosciuto con piglio sicuro “Ma io sono deciso nel mio intento!”
“Questo è chiaro!” balbettò lui di rimando, continuando la conversazione basito, incuriosito da tanto accanimento “E me ne compiaccio … ma posso chiederti chi sei tu, per avere così a cuore un pezzo del genere?”

“Un tagliapietre!”  rispose lui di getto.

“Un tagliapietre nelle primavera della sua vita, direi!” asserì il vecchio con aria sorniona e ammirata al contempo “Sembri giovanissimo per un simile impegno!”

“Dipende!” fece spallucce l’artista “Sono nella primavera della mia vita è vero, ma diciamo pure, forse nel suo momento più particolare!” rise sottolineando le ultime parole.

Poi volgendosi verso coloro i quali avevano ancora nelle mani la piena autorità sul blocco di marmo, giunti al cantiere per ascoltare la sua richiesta, disse loro diretto e vero “Quello che chiedo a prescindere dalla mia età, dalla mia estrazione e dal mio ceto sociale, scevro dei miei meriti e consapevole dei miei limiti … cosciente dei guadagni anche minimi che ne ricaverò e conscio delle beghe che hanno ruotato da sempre attorno a questo pezzo, che può apparire a prima vista semplicemente un grosso e poco maneggevole ammasso di calcare” tossì “Quello che chiedo … è aiutare semplicemente la figura  in esso racchiusa a venire alla luce, con tutti i sacrifici e la fatica che quest’impresa potrà costarmi!”

E ottenuto il suo lavoro, Michelangelo cominciò la sua Opera.

Solo lui avrebbe potuto abbracciare una simile sfida, un tale smisurato compito, convinto della sua riuscita. E scolpendo alacremente, ritto sopra la sua impalcatura di legno, battendo quel marmo col cuore e con la mente, colpo dopo colpo, lungo tutta la sua gigantesca mole, Michelangelo Buonarroti, lo spaccapietre venuto al mondo un giorno qualsiasi di marzo, riuscì a tirarne fuori il giovane dentro racchiuso: il ragazzo forte e coraggioso, che stringeva nel pugno una pietra, piccolo uomo, ma grande nel suo coraggio tanto da assumere misure mastodontiche, pronto a  scagliare contro il nemico Gigante la sua sola arma per salvare il suo popolo, chiamandolo “David” perfetto, in ogni sua forma.

E la bella Musa sorridendo fra le lacrime nel vederlo al lavoro sopra la sua impalcatura, tenendosi ben nascosta ai suoi occhi, piccola alle sue spalle, scuotendo estasiata il capo dinanzi a tanto splendore ringraziò in cuor suo che quel genio scultore, avesse dato ascolto al suo istinto e non alle sue paure.

                                                             Monica Fiorentino

 Michelangelo Buonarroti nasce a Caprese (AR) il 6 marzo del 1475, per spegnersi poi a Roma nel 1564 dopo un’intensa quanto mai straordinaria vita artistica, costellata dalla creazione di Opere d’arte intramontabili, la cui bellezza e inarrivabile magnificenza saranno in grado di cavalcare i secoli senza perdere mai un briciolo del loro smalto, restando i punti cardine della scultura e della pittura di tutti i tempi …

Scultore, pittore, architetto, poeta, il suo genio non conobbe confini, la sua voglia di conoscere e sperimentare non ebbe mai momenti di stanca: animo ombroso, ribelle, solitario, tormentato; d’indole caparbia e tenace, è grazie al suo vivere zingaro lontano dalla casa paterna che lo aveva rinnegato come artista, e alla sua voglia di esistere per l’unica ragione della sua vita: l’Arte, se riuscì a divenire il Grande dalle qualità eccezionali che era, assicurandosi l’immortalità: sempre pronto alla sfida, aperto al progresso, assetato di modernità, arso dal fuoco sacro dell’Arte capace di portarlo alle più alte vette d’esaltazione, quanto di farlo precipitare all’istante, ripiegando su stesso, alla continua ricerca del suo vero io e delle sue autentiche possibilità, tormento ed estasi di se stesso.

Michelangelo Architetto a Roma. L’architettura è sicuramente una delle doti meno conosciute del Maestro toscano, in cui non di meno eccelse che nella pittura e nella scultura, le due arti che maggiormente lo hanno reso famoso.
Fino al 21 febbraio 2010 saranno esposte ai Musei Capitolini Michelangelo Architetto a Roma, ben 105 opere del periodo in cui Michelangelo visse a Roma (1505-1516 e 1534-1564), dove si potranno ammirare molti dei suoi progetti, provenienti soprattutto dalla Collezione della Casa Buonarroti, tra cui alcune delle avveniristiche invenzioni che ideò durante la vecchiaia.

Capolavoro del genere noir e del cinema inglese, cult movie il cui fascino è cresciuto nel tempo, Il terzo uomo nasce da un felice melange di eventi:la sceneggiatura avvincente dello scrittore Graham Greene, un regista, Carol Reed, abile nell’unire mistero ed introspezione psicologica, lo scenario della città di Vienna fotografata da Robert Krasker in un bianco e nero dal taglio espressionistico( Premio Oscar), la bravura degli interpreti ed infine una particolare colonna sonora, basata sulle sole note della cetra di Anton Karas.
1946: in una Vienna postbellica, divisa in quattro zone d’occupazione, giunge l’americano Holly Martins( Joseph Cotten), squattrinato scrittore di romanzi western, per incontrare il suo vecchio amico Harry Lime(Orson Welles), che vorrebbe offrirgli un lavoro, ma questi è morto il giorno prima, investito da un camion, e se ne sta celebrando il funerale.
Non convinto della versione dell’incidente datagli dai testimoni, Holly inizierà una personale indagine, scontrandosi con il maggiore Calloway(Trevor Howard) della polizia inglese, che gli spiega come il suo amico fosse uno spietato trafficante di penicillina adulterata, e conoscendo l’amante di Harry, l’affascinante ed ambigua Anna( Alida Valli), dalla quale si sente attratto.
Tra luci ed ombre, intrighi, doppi giochi, la verità verrà dolorosamente fuori, a partire dalla scoperta che il corpo sepolto non è quello di Harry…
La macchina da presa scruta ogni angolo della città ed ogni particolare, anche il più insignificante, rende partecipe la plumbea atmosfera all’ambiguità morale dei personaggi, in un sottile gioco di metafore, dove nessuno è realmente come appare; l’uso del grandangolo distorce le immagini, creando prospettive sghembe, accentuando i toni onirici e surreali e sottolineando quella linea di confine tra bene e male che tutti i protagonisti del film attraversano, senza che vi sia una netta vittoria del primo sul secondo.
Infatti a risultare vincente, pur nella sua sconfitta, è proprio il personaggio di Harry, che, espediente narrativo dalle ascendenze letterarie, entra in scena dopo circa un’ora, all’improvviso, illuminato da una luce uscente da una finestra aperta, polarizzando l’attenzione sul suo carisma sinistramente diabolico, enfatizzato dalla frase rivolta all’amico Holly a conclusione di un discorso (pronunciato su di una ruota panoramica, sospesi nel vuoto, simboleggiando l’astrazione da ogni possibile condizionamento)su quanto poco possa valere la vita umana di fronte a facili guadagni, auto-assolvendosi dai suoi crimini: “Sai che diceva quel tale? In Italia, sotto i Borgia, per trent’anni hanno avuto assassinii, guerre, terrore e massacri, ma hanno dato vita a fenomeni come Michelangelo, Leonardo Da Vinci e il Rinascimento. In Svizzera hanno regnato amore fraterno e cinquecento anni di pace e democrazia, e cosa hanno prodotto? Gli orologi a cucù.”

Telfair Academy, Savannah, Georgia. ©Calvin Palmer 2009. All Rights Reserved.

Zeiss Planar T* 1,4/50, ISO 200, 1/3200 sec, f/2.8, Canon 40D. B&W conversion in CS3.

Começa a contagem regressiva: falta exatamente um mês para o início da segunda Fixolimpíadas, o segundo maior espetáculo da terra!

Desta vez o palco será a bela cidade de Curitiba.

Ajeite sua bike, prepare seu boné, entre em contato com as pessoas. Não fique fora dessa.

Lembre-se, arrependimento mata.

So, did you always want to be a hairstylist,

or would you have been a painter or sculptor or architect instead?

I pose this, if only in my head, because it occurred to me

while spinning round in your chair, that you cut hair

like you’re making love to my skin.

I feel this from the tenderness of your hands,

the light scratches of fingernails,

the gentle way you prod when you need to turn my head.

As if you know me well enough to not want to hurt me.

As if you recognize the dangers of a loose electric shaver,

and you’d like to spare me a sting or two

wrought from a wild slice at my hairline.

You want me to love you and your nimble hands.

Want me to glance in the mirror and see

you shaping my tightly cropped hair, edging away

the damage I do by wearing my hat. And you spin me around.

You curl my ears.

You slide supple fingers under my chin, square up my sideburns.

You are the Michelangelo of hair.

You are the Rodin of tight fades.

You are the building maker who smiles when we ride the elevator.