Amusing Vid (Otaku, maybe?)

These bits of frivolity always get me -- link.

Constraints on Production: Tools or Essentials?

A creative and charismatic friend of mine is fond of saying, "Poetry without rhyme is like playing tennis with the net down." (which was probably lifted from Robert Frost). That's another way of saying that art without constraints is not art. As Google VP Marissa Mayer put it in a podcast (iTunes link), "Creativity loves constraint."

I tend to rebel against my friend's formulation of this philosophy. I'm not absolutely sure why, but I know there's something about putting a constraint on the definition of art or creativity or innovation that pains me. With art, I'm inclined to agree that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Maybe there is some objective definition of art that I can get behind, but I haven't yet encountered it. I think of constraints more as tools to be used or discarded as necessary, more than as defining characteristics of the pursuit. I think Marissa is on the right track here.

Do you require or benefit from rhyme, or a rectangular frame, or 72 dpi web safe colors, or an 8MB memory footprint limit, or a 2 week deadline? Then use it. If not, toss it out.

Improvisational comedy is an arena in which constraints (often in the form of offers or audience input) can provide a catalyst for great results. Imagine the difference between being commanded, "Improvise!" and being asked, over imaginary beers, in a sly manner, "Dude, is she looking at me?".

f(“onomatopoeia”, “vestibule”, “succotash”) = ...

With that boring introduction, I now offer this short interview, thanks to constraints provided by Cute Kate:


"Keblang! Kerpow! It's amazing how long it takes to ink an onomatopoeia that lasts a single panel. So slow to create, yet it goes by so fast." Clive Jenkins is a comic genius, and yet we know so little about him. Jenkins got his start tagging old rail cars at the train depot during a stint as a hobo, but he got tired of all the convoluted arrows and fonts that noone could read. Well, that and seeing his masterpieces rolled over in flat gray once a month by some transit authority wash-out.

As we walk through the comic-adorned vestibule of his studio-cum-tudor flat, I can't help feeling a little giddy, what with being the first journalist allowed an interview in over 10 years (and no, I won't share my secret bribes!). After all, finding out how Jenkins crafts such gemological characters as 'Mr Snoffles' is one of the great unanswered questions in the field. Today I aim to find out.

"Inking is actually my favorite part," Clive says with a tug of his pipe. "I've got the sketch lines already there, and I have to commit to the work; it's crossing a threshold, if you will. You're reaching for that golden ring, and there's no return." With his left hand in the air holding an imaginary stylus, he motions through sketching, then inking, a magnified panel of 'Cleevus the Agonifier' slamming hoof-first into a protruding roofing nail as he talks.

Eager to get to the goods but hoping to time my question perfectly, I wait until I've suffered through two bowls of his succotash, a horrid dish he became fond of during his train-hopping days.

"So, from whence comes inspiration?", I ask, just as he lights up his after-dinner tobacco.

"Oh, mostly from dreams," he responds not a second later. Something's fishy. I push. "Dreams, eh?"

"Yeah, you know that Van Halen song?" Egad! Deflected! Well, maybe the world will never know his secret.

Improv class #2

Well, last week I attended the second night of our improvisational comedy classes. Last week's post is here. This week saw new games and more fun.

A major theme for this night's class was learning about extending and accepting offers. Part of this was learning about blocking and how to avoid it.

Highlights from the games included: improv interpretive dance and improv paired drawing, in which partners take turns drawing features of a face, and then title it by taking turns with the letters. No speaking between partners is allowed. The masterpiece you see in this post is the handiwork of Jovial Jeff and yours truly.

Zoinch! Zoinch? And The Art of the Circus Bow!

The games. Boy, the games. They were hilarious.

Tuesday evening was a first for me. Improvisation 101, my first class. Going in, I was both excited and nervous. I love to laugh and I love to make people laugh. I knew this was going to be fun. But I was worried that I wouldn't be able to pick it up -- that I wouldn't be able to think quickly enough.

Why take improv? Well, besides loving comedy, an article I read over Christmas break about improving communication for technologists suggested taking improv classes (I wish I could find the link). A week or so after that, I was talking to my friend Tim, and he mentioned that he was taking a highly recommended improv class in Austin. That was it -- I was in.

The classes are at the State Theatre School of Acting. Our teacher, Shana Merlin, or "Shapely Shana", as she came to be called in our alliterative adjective name game, led the class in a series of games designed to challenge common tendencies that are barriers to developing improv skills.

A big one is the fear of failure. Early on, Shana gave us a technique to deal with this, called the circus bow. You raise your arms, exclaim, "I have failed!", and take an extravagant bow. It's great for turning failures into celebrations, and the class would burst into laughter and applause every time. And there were many times, though I never obliged, partly because I kept forgetting.

One of the early games was the invisible ball. Everyone is in a circle tossing around a make-believe ball that makes a sound when you throw it. The thrower makes up a sound and throws it, and the catcher has to repeat the thrower's sound upon catching it. Then the catcher becomes the thrower, and must voice the ball's sound as it is thrown. It may sound simple, but it's surprising how easy it is to mess this up. Bows abound. There's also that desire to plan out your sounds, instead of reacting in the moment. That must be tempered in order to develop spontaneity.

Slow-motion samurai got us moving around. Each person's first two fingers are samurai swords, and their outer forearms are shields. A sword to any other part of the body means instant death. Oh, and everyone moves really slow. Lesson learned: It's hard to fight the temptation to speed up to dodge or block an incoming blow. This was about learning generosity: by dying, you're playing a part in the scene. Instead of making it about competition, it becomes about contributing to the scene -- dying becomes a great chance to express yourself and make people laugh!

And how can you not crack up when someone says, "Slow motion -- it's a bitch!", or someone else lets fly the first "fucktard"? There were quite a few games, and it was interesting to see the class grow more comfortable with failure and commitment with each one. I found myself thinking, 'If all we do is play these games, then this is a great time.' But Amateur Andy's developing mad new skillz at the same time!

Shana's Rule #1: Have fun. No problem!