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12-05-2011, 09:39 PM
These are examples of medieval and renaissance sculptures of the woodwose, the wild man of the woods in myth. I attached some links, can't remember where everything came from. I may do something may not, but maybe this will get some ideas going.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/norfolkodyssey/2934392030/ http://newlexicons.blogspot.com/2011...per-rough.html |
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12-05-2011, 09:47 PM
Or how about this for inspiration:
The Tollund Man in Springtime by Seamus Heaney The Guardian, Friday 15 April 2005 Into your virtual city I'll have passed Unregistered by scans, screens, hidden eyes, Lapping time in myself, an absorbed face Coming and going, neither god nor ghost, Not at odds or at one, but simply lost To you and yours, out under seeding grass And trickles of kesh water, sphagnum moss, Dead bracken on the spreadfield, red as rust. I reawoke to revel in the spirit They strengthened when they chose to put me down For their own good. And to a sixth-sensed threat: Panicked snipe offshooting into twilight, Then going awry, larks quietened in the sun, Clear alteration in the bog-pooled rain. ------- "The soul exceeds its circumstances". Yes. History not to be granted the last word Or the first claim ... In the end I gathered From the display-case peat my staying powers, Told my webbed wrists to be like silver birches, My old uncallused hands to be young sward, The spade-cut skin to heal, and got restored By telling myself this. Late as it was, The early bird still sang, the meadow hay Still buttercupped and daisied, sky was new. I smelled the air, exhaust fumes, silage reek, Heard from my heather bed the thickened traffic Swarm at a roundabout five fields away And transatlantic flights stacked in the blue. ------- Through every check and scan I carried with me A bunch of Tollund rushes — roots and all — Bagged in their own bog-damp. In an old stairwell Broom cupboard where I had hoped they'd stay Damp until transplanted, they went musty. Every green-skinned stalk turned friable, The drowned-mouse fibres dried up and the whole Limp, soggy cluster lost its bouquet Of weed leaf and turf mould. Dust in my palm And in my nostrils dust, should I shake it off Or mix it in with spit in pollen's name And my own? As a man would, cutting turf, I straightened, spat on my hands, felt benefit And spirited myself into the street. http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2005...y.seamusheaney |
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im doin my best to keep these values consistent as i work. i want dramatic lighting so... hopefully its translating well. was there any part in particular that looks off? or is it just in general? Love your piece by the way. tells so much story.



Linear Mode

