Today I was thinking about how to write a web app that draws comic bubbles. There are many parts and solutions to the problem. It’s one of those things that gets complex quickly, unless you’re willing to remove some of the harder features.

I need to spend some time thinking about compromise, as a perfect solution is unlikely given the tools available for web applications.

Some of the problems:

• Embedding special fonts
• Resizing irregular bubbles
• Adding/positioning bubble parts
• Positioning fonts based on irregular edges
• Clipping bubbles to strip edges
• How/where to render (client or server, svg, js, raster, etc.)

I can see a few different approaches. Each solves a few of the hard problems, and each has its own rough spots.

One approach would be to perform the rendering on the server side. Something like Inkscape could be pared down to run as a web service. Comics would be stored in SVG, but rendered to GIF/PNG to embed in the web pages. Comic authors would edit their strips using rich Javascript approximations (edit boxes over the rendered form), and readers would see the already-rendered strips. This allows for high quality rendering, for authors who wanted to go to press with their strips.

Another approach would live within the limitations of xhtml/css/javascript. Fonts would be limited, and all rendering would be done client-side. Features could be added to this as browsers matured, but would depend heavily on browser vendors and compatibility. This approach would initially limit things like clipping, available fonts, etc., but would likely be easier to build.

There are dozens of other approaches too. Flash or the canvas widget could be used, or something written in Java. Luckily I don’t have time to start today, so I’ll have to let my subconscious gnaw on it for a while.

I cleaned up my art cupboards this morning, something that’s always a reflective time. I found several lino plates and a whack of sketches that I forgot about, and I uncovered a mountain of unused lino.

A decade ago I bought a roll of flooring linoleum at a work auction. Flooring lino is a lot like art lino, except that the surface has a bit more texture, it’s a bit thinner, and it’s not mounted. But being the cheap bastard that I am, I saw the roll as a great opportunity, as practicing on the $20-a-sheet art-grade stuff is daunting. And in the end the floor-grade lino stands up better and produces similar results.

I left the roll sitting in various closets over the years, mostly unused. Art is one of those things that only works in the right state of mind, approached with a healthy amount of obsession. Getting motivated to work on art projects requires more habit than inspiration; I need everything ready before my muse is ready go, or my muse gets bored and buggers off. Leaving my linoleum in a roll in the back of a closet kept me at arm’s length from one of my passions for many years.

Just before I got married a good friend gave me a set of art-grade linoleum plates. It took me years before I was ready to use these supplies, mosly because I didn’t want to mess up the expensive material. These supplies became my motivation to use the cheap-bastard lino, though, as it was a way to prepare for the real thing. Over the years my wife added to my inventory of art stuff until I was eventually fully stocked. Even after having all of the right equipment it still took me years before I was carving regularly.

There are many reasons that I wandered away from inspiration and expression, but more interesing is that the journey back was mostly a matter of intent. Over the last few years I’ve started to make room for my art stuff, in places where I’ll actually use it. I make time for it now and consider it a way to recover from life and work. I also spend a lot of time looking for inspiration, reflecting, and relaxing. I have to do these things–all of them–or I find reasons not to bother expressing myself.

A few years ago before we moved from the island I took my roll of lino and split it all into smaller, more managable pieces. The roll, after having been stuffed in a closet for most of a decade, had warped badly and I assumed that most of it was ruined. I cut it and left the pieces in a pile in a cupboard for a few years, and their collective weight returned the lino to a usable state. Today I found that pile, and a few piles of never-warped pre-sized plates.

There are hundreds of plates worth of the stuff waiting to be carved up, and even a large piece of the art-grade stuff waiting for a special inspiration. Knowing that I won’t run out for a while is motivating, as it defeats the cheap-bastard-reasons for not starting another art project. It’s also cool to see that something I bought on a whim 10 years ago for a few bucks has been so much fun.

I made my first panorama today, stitching together a few pictures I took hiking last weekend. I used the hugin panorama tools, which are freely available for Linux, Microsoft Windows, and OSX.

The panorama

This is a wider view of one of our favorite hikes in the area. The raw image measures 4,800 pixels wide (after cropping), which combines the two 2,400 pixel source images. I only used 7 control points in this test, so a few of the seams are slightly visible. Had I doubled the number of control points (or used a tripod), the image would have been seamless.

The wider view was created by stitching two hand-held digicam shots together. The process allows any number of images to be merged, but I only had two useful shots that overlapped. Here are the source images (scaled down a bit):

panorama_part_1.jpeg	panorama_part_2.jpeg

The process

First off, I suggest you read the tutorials on the hugin panorama tools home page. It’s a complicated tool, and it took me a few passes before I understood what it was doing.

1. Take some pictures that overlap (by hand, or on a tripod). Copy the images to a temporary directory.

2. In the tool, add each image and tag with the overlap information. Use as many points as you can find between each image, as the tool works better with more control points.

3. Process and wait. 2 images, on my 2Ghz laptop takes about 3 minutes to process.

The software does a great job, and can stitch hundreds of images together. I’m going to try a few more complicated panoramas on the next hike, and maybe a few with my tripod at home.

My time away from this blasted machine has been a good thing. While it has only been a few days, it reminded me that there is more to life than pointless surfing and sarcastic banter. I spent the down-time relaxing, reading, and remembering how much practice it takes to become good at anything.

Speaking of real life, I prepared several dozen linocut printing plates on the weekend. The preparation is a zen-like activity, not really a means to an end. You can buy art-grade stuff to avoid the grunt-work, but I actually enjoy the process. And, ages ago I bought a roll (3 meters) of real-live linoleum flooring at an auction, which means I’ll use it even if it kills me. The commercial art stuff, in comparison, is thicker, softer, and is backed with burlap to hold it together (read: easier to use). I prefer the less-traveled road, though, as the trip is really what it’s about.

The preparation is simple: flatten and back the linoleum with something washable. For the backing, I’ve been using old T-shirts and contact cement (three of my fingers are glued together as I type). To flatten, I prefer gravity, time, and mass (5 kilos of popcorn seeds today).

There is really nothing like preparing every aspect of something. It’s like writing your own software libraries — you get exacltly what you want — it just takes longer. The activity of preparing the groundwork provides a sense of ownership and security — and complete customization. Plus, there is much to be learned from the effort. And, learning is good.

Print-making is really my favorite form of artistic expression. It’s organic, entertaining, and something that I don’t butcher every time I attempt it. It takes long enough that I have to think out the design before committing to a plate. The process is tedious enough that I am forced to work at a zen-like speed — as there is no sense in rushing knife work. And, the effort gets more interesting in the second stage, when I can start playing with inking and printing. I spend as much time messing around in the print stage as I do carving the plates — which makes it twice the fun. It is like generic programming, where the big win is in the re-use.

I also spent some time reminding myself how watercolours work. I failed at in my first few attempts — so I resorted to practicing basic skills. It seems that I forgot that black has to be watered down many times more than most colours. Failing to remember this left my paintings with a sad, whore-like quality. I later found a few mild successes, like the foliage on the left … but I really have a long ways to go. I’ll take a few small victories when I can get them though — and will practice regularly over the next several months. Perhaps I’ll attempt painting something larger than my thumb when I know it won’t suck ;-)

I’ve been pondering what I’ll carve for my next set of plates. I was considering a multi-plate nature thing, for the colour possibilities … but my sketches were frustrating (painting them failed). I played around with a few pattern sketches instead (right) — something I fall back on when nothing real is working. The patterns hold a lot of promise actually. I might try a 2 colour set of pattern plates — and attempt some colour variations (to learn from). If nothing else, a complex pattern will be challenging to carve.

The real world is too much fun.