Some great animation:
From the director/animator:
Conte AnimatedAis a personal project of mine that combines several art forms into one exhibition. These concepts include the following:
-The exploration of the drawing the human figure in a variety of creative approaches. AThis stems from years of teaching creative gesture drawing.
-2d Animation. AThis process of animation revisits the passion in my early career as a 2d animator. The illusion of life!
-Contemporary dance. AAlthough I am not a dancer, I appreciate the talent and dedication that goes into a beautifully choreographed piece. AA graceful moving human form can communicate more emotion that any length of dialogue.
-and finally, the exploration of experimental processes and concepts contributes to my own personal growth as an artist. AHaving worked commercially for years, this project has allowed me to stretch beyond my former understanding of art.
View Ryan Woodward’s siteAhere.
Thursday night, Aloe Blacc played at the Trabendo. He had projectors, he had a mic on one foot, a platform for the battery. The sound was good, the audience riled up, guys filming with their iPhones in the first row. All for a show, and a show was had. Aloe was wearing a vintage leather vest, bellbottoms, a small cap. He stepped up his dancing, teased the crowd, improvised medleys at the end of songs, danced, shouted, and the crowd responded. All confirming what we had stated two Sundays before: Aloe Blacc playsAfor the audience. He needs them. We'd had a different Aloe. Still classy, but of a silent class.
It was a grey Sunday, but we had recorded a beautiful, stripped down version of his song 'I Need a Dollar', accompanied by finger snaps and growls, in the restaurant of the Comptoir General. Up to this point, Aloe had barely said a word, standing tall and silent, scanning what was happening around him like a general silently counting his fortune and his conquests. And when he sang, he sang for himself. No showboating, just a smile to show his happiness. Two songs, a brunch, and we left.
In the metro, we asked him to play a song. He refused: there weren't enough people. We were on line 5 and we had to find a place with a guaranteed audience, on a nasty Sunday. This ended up being the corridor in the St-Michel station.
Aloe still wasn't speaking, and, without saying anything to anyone, he distanced himself from his musicians, leaving them looking like buskers with a guitar case at their feet. He was on the other side. Hands in his pockets, leaning against a corner of the wall, he sang without drawing attention to it, like he had picked up an overheard tune and carried it along. A few tourists took the time to understand that they'd heard this song before, on the street and in the garden. Once the song was finished, his hands stayed in his pocket, he said nothing. And a few levels up, outside, in front of a closed bookstore, he played the same game to an audience of passerby wishing for the end of the downpour - the man who