http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jRAld2YHpp8

Project #2

Sound Boards

John Galliano

World of Text

Word Problems


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nzakCwZUYHg

Flash hosting

http://www.swfcabin.com/open/1298569411

http://www.swfcabin.com/open/1298574010

 http://www.swfcabin.com/open/1298579468

http://www.swfcabin.com/open/1298578618

Project #1: Initial Plan

A comic: At the Moulin Rouge

It starts in black and white, blowing through Henri's childhood quickly. It shows his love of art, a strained relationship with his father, his fall, his subsequent growing up, and then a fight with his father at which point he leaves his childhood home.

Now, it transitions to color. It begins with him at the Moulin Rouge, drinking and sketching. A beautiful woman, Rosa, enters, singing, and it is very clear Henri is enamored of her. There is even a soft radiance about her. She leaves with another man however and he gets more and more drunk before stumbling home. The world is spinning and blurry, hellish in his mind, changed because of all of the alcohol he drank.

The next day, Henri is outside the Moulin Rouge, sees Rosa kissing the other guy in an alley. Shows her glow fading in his mind. He is heartbroken over it.

He gets very drunk that night, the world inside the Moulin Rouge gaining the hellish quality of the night before. He passes out there.

He wakes up, home, in bed, his parents standing over him. This is the first time he's seen his father in years. His dad is yelling, looking angry, making gestures. There's a juxtaposed shot in black and white of his father when he left and now. He's aged, but the expression is identical.

Henri turns away from him and says, “Good papa. I knew you would not miss the kill.” Then he closes his eyes and the world goes black.

The style of art I am aiming for is similar to Arthur Rackham's, but I want to incorporate some of the images in Toulous's posters when possible.

Project #1: Sources of Inspiration

"Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec was born into an aristocratic family in the south of France in 1864. His father, Count Alphonse, was a notorious eccentric known for all kinds of unpredictable behavior: from washing his socks in the river (unheard of for an aristocrat!) to galloping off to a hunt wearing outlandish costumes, to simply disappearing for long stretches of time. The young Henri never became very close to him.

Unknown at the time, Henri suffered from a genetic condition that prevented his bones from healing properly. Fatefully, at age twelve, he broke his left leg. And at age fourteen, he broke his right leg. Both legs ceased to grow, while the rest of his body continued to grow normally.
At maturity, Lautrec was 4 1/2 feet tall. But his great misfortune was a sort of blessing in disguise, at least from our perspective. After his accidents he was no longer able to follow his father in the typically aristocratic pastimes of riding and hunting. Instead, he focused on sketching and painting."



"Deprived of the physical life that a normal body would have permitted, Toulouse-Lautrec lived completely for his art. He dwelt in the Montmartre section of Paris, the center of the cabaret entertainment and bohemian life that he loved to depict in his work. Dance halls and nightclubs, racetracks, prostitutes - all these were memorialized on canvas or made into lithographs.
Toulouse-Lautrec was very much an active part of this community. He would sit at a crowded nightclub table, laughing and drinking, meanwhile making swift sketches. The next morning in his studio he would expand the sketches into brightly colored paintings.

In order to join in the Montmartre life - as well as to fortify himself against the crowd's ridicule of his appearance - Toulouse-Lautrec began to drink heavily. By the 1890s the drinking was affecting his health. He was confined first to a sanatorium and then to his mother's care at home, but he could not stay away from alcohol. Toulouse-Lautrec died on September 9, 1901, at the family chateau of Malrome."


"Amidst the early days of this merriment(in the moulin rouge), a frequent occupant of a front-row bar stool was an unusual little gentleman named Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. Eccentric in appearance and in manner, he was also a genius. Regularly accompanied by two companions -- a glass of wine and a sketch pad, with the deft strokes of his pencil he captured the intimate movements of the dancers, their suggestive gestures and expressions, the bellowing red faces of the drunken applauders -- in short, the gaiety of the moment. Soon, his sketches became posters and the reputations of the artist and the dance hall became forever intertwined.
In ensuing decades, the Moulin Rouge reigned as one of the predominant halls featuring famous comics, singers, dancers and lavish production numbers."


"Lautrec's lifestyle could not be sustained. In 1899 he entered what we would today call a detox clinic.

In September, 1901 — just over one hundred years ago — he passed away at the age of 36.

As he lay dying, his mother and a few friends sat at his side. When his father, the rarely-seen Count Alphonse showed up, everyone was astonished — except Henri. He said, "Good Papa. I knew you wouldn't miss the kill."

During Henri's last hours, Count Alphonse behaved as strangely as ever. The count suggesting that they cut off Henri's beard in accordance with certain Arabic customs that he'd heard of, and that they use Henri's shoelaces to flick at noisy flies. Henri's last words were addressed to his father: 'Old fool.'"

The first half of the 1952 Moulin Rouge movie

"Andrey Bely wrote in his 1906 letter to Alexander Blok about the 'Tavern of Hell' at Moulin Rouge, where lackeys were dressed as devils:

'Sometimes I would venture from my sepulchre to the jazz of night Paris, where having gathered the colours, I would think them over in front of the fire. I could be seen walking through a funeral corridor of my house and descending down a black spiral of steep stairs; rushing underground to Montmartre, all impatience to see the fiery rubies of the Moulin Rouge cross. I wandered thereabouts, then bought a ticket to watch frenzied delirium of feathers, vulgar painted lips, and eyelashes of black and blue.

Naked feet, and thighs, and arms, and breasts were being flung on me from bloody-red foam of translucent clothes. The tuxedoed goatees and crooked noses in white vests and toppers would line the hall, with their hands posed on canes. Then I found myself in a pub, where the liqueurs were served on a coffin (not a table) by the nickering devil: "Drink it, you wretched!" Having drunk, I returned under the black sky split by the flaming vanes, which the radiant needles of my eyelashes cross-hatched. In front of my nose a stream of bowler hats and black veils was still pulsing, foamy with bluish green and warm orange of feathers worn by the night beauties: to me they were all one, as I had to narrow my eyes for insupportable radiance of electric lamps, whose hectic fires would be dancing beneath my nervous eyelids for many a night to come.'"