First Rough 3D Character designs for my final University project. Playing around with characters.

A tester head for a 2011 animation. Klean Klay moulded on the end of a pen. 
Rejected materials for animation. 

Final outcome for ‘Canimation’ Red Bull Animation competition 2011. 

My Lino Prints displayed for Sale in Leicester’s ‘Pedestrian Gallery’ in November 2011, now on their way to be exhibited in ‘Harley’s’ in Chesterfield. 

DON’T LET DINOSAURS MAKE YOU CRY.

I made a stop-motion animation for a nation-wide competition ‘Red Bull Canimation’.

The animation had to include a can of Red Bull, but the rest was up to the participant.

It took roughly 3 weeks in total to make, including making the armatures, the models, the props, the clothes, the set and filming it.

I would have liked perhaps a week longer for editing, so that it wasn’t filmed in such a rush, but it was still a great experience.

Voting Closes Midnight 29th November. And the winners are announced on 15th Dec.
If you fancy looking at my entry click here or on the image above:

 www.vimeo.com/32172144

In recent years I’d gradually become less and less a fan of Damien Hirst. I think this was spurred on by a documentary about his ‘staff’, poor art graduates, soon to be like myself, who would be behind the labour of his work, and would never receive the acknowledgement for their enormous input because everything was branded with his name. It seemed as though he had successfully manufactured his own factory line of exploitation.

However, I will admit that despite what I personally view as a few ‘hiccup’ pieces of art (such as the diamond encrusted skull), there are a few items of his work which I will happily stare at for a good long twenty minutes or so and will openly say; ‘This piece took skill and talent to make and conceive’. 

Every year my mum and myself (occasionally accompanied also by Bailey, our dog) visit Chatsworth House’s Gardens, which is located close to our house in Derbyshire. The gardens play host to an annual exhibition of sculptures, courtesy of Sothebys, the auctioneer in London. The sculpture range differs greatly every time, and there’s really been a bit of everything so far, more than likely to suit the vast audience that visits the Duke and Duchess’s home. 

This year we visited at the end of September, coincidentally on one of the hottest day of the year. This obviously made walking around the vast gardens, looking at sculptures amongst spectacular landscapes, all the lovelier. No surprise then that it was one of the busiest days of the year at the house, with everyone else having the same idea upon opening their curtains that morning.

I had not looked into who was exhibiting this year, and didn’t know what to expect when I saw Damien Hirst on the Garden’s map. Previously he had exhibited pieces there, such as Saint Bartholomew- a bronze life sized sculpture of a man wielding a pair of scissors, with his skin hung over his arm. It shows perfect anatomy, with all the muscles delicately sculpted all over the body. Being deeply interested in the human body and anatomy, it was my favourite sculpture of that year’s exhibition, despite my attempt to dislike the artist.

His work this year consists of two sculptures, ‘Myth’ and ‘Legend’. ‘Myth’ is a ‘life size’ unicorn, while ‘Legend’ is a winged horse. Both stand side by side at the end of the long lake, situated behind the main house. They both stand on tall white plinths, and we timed the days just right, as the sun was situated directly above them, making them seem whiter-than-white. Whilst half of the creatures were also painted white, the other half, like Saint Bartholomew, had no skin. This half is painted in various muscle pink tones and despite being metal based sculptures, the paint applied to these muscles are so well done, that they look almost of a sponge or foam-like texture. 

Cutting this short, I really recommend viewing these sculptures, and getting down to Chatsworth house this year to do so. The setting makes all the works so much more appreciable. 

If I haven’t swayed you to visit with this waffle, then you might like to know the ice-creams they sell in the gardens are the size of a human head. 

I keep dreaming about rabbits, now they are merging with people in the dreams, I decided to doodle what I could remember.

Everyone’s heard the phrase ‘Daddy’s little girl’, usually it conjures up images of a spoilt brattish child with pigtails, sporting a pink floral dress of sorts, with chocolate smeared all round her mouth.

I’d like to think I was my Daddy’s ‘little girl’, but the above image is as far removed from my childhood as I can stress. My dad has three daughters, myself being the middle, I imagine if confronted he’d say we’re all his ‘little girls’, then make some form of joke relating to our mental ages or retardation of some kind to emphasise he’s ‘no softy’. I’ve always been close to my dad for as long as I can remember, he was my first ever role model. My mum’s great too, don’t get me wrong, I love them just as equally. However, I have these memories that, only now when I speak about them, and watch my friends reactions, do I realise how much of a great guy he is. I was never a girly girl, and this is probably what brought us closer when I was younger. Having no sons, my dad probably saw my tomboyish side and thought ‘Great! Someone to teach about cars after all!’ Unfortunately I’m not a brilliant driver, but that’s irrelevant.

One of my earliest memories is of mornings when I was probably around 6 years old. My dad’s job required him to get up around 5.30, and I clearly remember waking up hearing my dad getting ready and creeping downstairs to join him most mornings, well I think it was most mornings. While other parents would probably usher their child back up to bed and demand them to sleep longer, my dad used to make me a replica of his cup of tea in my miniature mug, chat with me whilst eating his Weetabix, ruffle my hair, give me a kiss and tell me to have a good day before heading out.

The mornings where I wouldn’t wake up before he left, I would head downstairs for breakfast to find four little post it notes spread out on the table. The first stating ‘A’ and a kiss, the second stating ‘J’ and a kiss, the third stating ‘E’ followed by a kiss, and finally the last with another ‘A’ followed by, yes, a kiss. These notes must have been my dad’s way of ensuring we knew he’d said goodbye to each of us before leaving for work. Sometimes these initials would be accompanied by doodles related to what that person would be doing or what was happening that day. For instance, if it was snowing, you might find a skier braving a treacherous slope in the corner. If I had a school trip, I could expect a little caricature of myself sporting a big smile on my face and a pair of wellies, jumping in a muddy puddle.

Thinking back now, I don’t know how my dad had time to squeeze all this doodling into his morning routine. Before I start work I’m lucky if I have enough time to jump in the shower, and half the time I’m left running out the door with wet hair and an empty stomach. Not only did he draw these notes, but he prepare our individual packed lunches, ‘our’ being my older sister, my mum and me, later on it included my little sister too once she started school, so this wasn’t light work. The initial theme was carried on here too. If you were to open the fridge in the mornings you could expect to see sandwiches lined up side by side, with our initials inked onto the cellophane wrap. Inside the bread my dad would only put fillings he knew we liked. I wasn’t a really fussy eater as a child, but I picked up my dad’s eating habits. One day I heard him say he didn’t like strawberries, I’ve not eaten a strawberry since. The same goes for tomatoes. They’re probably not that bad, in fact, if I tried them I’d probably quite like them, but somehow I don’t think I ever will.

Growing up my first ever best friend was a boy. A couple of years ago, whilst having one of our reminiscing sessions he mentioned a memory of his which I had obviously failed to retain. In this memory we were about 5 years old and attending infant school. Apparently it was a reoccurring incident, where my friend would ask me if I would marry him. This was long before we knew about the complications of relationships, and merely thought that marriage was when a girl and boy just were allowed to live together and play with Playdough or something as much as they wished. Each time he proposed I would decline, prompting him to ask why. Apparently the reason for my denial was because I was going to marry my dad. Pure and simple. Today that is a gross connotation of incest and everything else. But when I think back to the fact I was so sure of it at five years old, reiterates how highly I must have thought of my dad.

One Christmas I received an Etch-a-sketch, or a similar magnetic drawing board. At the same time I was going through an obsessive Elephant stage, Dumbo being the source. Without fail, for about 3 months, my dad would patiently draw me elephants on the board before bed. He’s good with bargains like that - he knew that no elephant would mean no bed time. But rather than hurriedly draw a circle with a pipe nose, he spent time showing me line by line how he compiled it. My dad isn’t an artistic man, but I’m pretty sure these memories are part of the reason why I’m studying Illustration today.

You’re probably expecting him to have calmed down now, having taken retirement, finally taking time out for himself. This is far from the truth. He still amazes me with the effort he puts in to me and my sisters today. If I go home I can expect a meal of bangers and mash arranged in a smiley face, just like I did ten years ago. I’ve received food parcels at uni with faces drawn on the veg accompanied by a little post it note with a doodle. Even a food parcel, which I’ve walked 2 miles to the postal sorting office to pick up, to find it filled with a bag of lolly pops.


My dad’s better than your dad. I hope he never grows up.

I work in retail, retail of the video game variety to be precise. My job title is ‘sales assistant’, which basically means I assist with sales. No shit.

I got my first job when I turned twelve, delivering a local paper. Technically it was my sister’s job, but having reached the ripe age of fourteen, she had decided to move onto the brighter (and warmer) pastures of waitressing, leaving me with, what I thought was, a brilliant opportunity to buy more pick and mix and sillystring than I would ever need. Basically, this ‘job’ involved my far too generous mother spending two hours with me on Friday nights inserting at least ten different varieties of leaflets into countless newspapers, only to then endure a further two-to-three hour uphill treck, through all seasons, with two trollies and a bag each crammed with these papers to deliver door-to-door.

At the time, I could not think of a job more important. I used to gasp is horror at stories of paperboys being caught having dumped their ‘work’ in dustbins; how on earth would the people on their rounds learn about that cat being found tied to a school bus? What if a resident had been waiting months to find a used footspa, for there only to be someone advertising one in the issue they would never receive?
No, I was a real papergirl, I would give my people what they expected, come snow or rain. Much to my mum’s disappointment.

I followed my sister at the age of fourteen to go and work in a pub restaurant. I don’t know what my mum did on her first free Friday night in four years, I’d like to imagine it involved wine by a warm fire, created from shredded Advertisers. It wasn’t until I left my post as ‘papergirl’ that I realised how unimportant that job had been. I quickly learnt that my dad went out to the shop and actually paid for a newspaper every week, despite receiving the one I used to lovingly deliver. My paper was a mere freebie, something no one asked for, I could have easily dumped them in a bin and 90% of my round wouldn’t even notice it missing, and the other 10%’s pet dogs would have chewed them to shreds before they saw them anyway. I doubt this 10% even knew they were meant to receive a free paper.

Shockingly my new job actually paid less than the previous. At £3 an hour I knew I wouldn’t become a young female Alan Sugar equivalent, but pick ‘n’ mix and sillystring were still on the cards, so I was more than happy. At first the novelty of working inside was exciting, I could come home from a five hour shift dry as a bone, save for the odd splatter of chip grease and cranberry sauce. Having only previously worked with minimal communication, other than with my own mother, speaking to strangers in a customer service manner took some getting used to. I used to mumble reminders to myself as I walked from kitchen to restaurant floor; ‘Are you ready to order, would you care for a beverage, do you require any sauces.’ For the first couple of months these reminders didn’t help. Customers struggled to understand the mutterings of an apparently partially insane young teenager asking ‘Are you beveraging any sauces?’, whilst wondering whether they should leave a larger tip in the form of a charity donation.

After about a month of this gibberish, I talked two of my friends into working there too. I’m not sure how I managed this, I’m pretty certain my speech must have included a financial equation about sweets. This trend spread and in a matter of weeks a total of six of my friends were part of the tiny work force, in fact, I think me and my friends were the work force. After about a year, the magic of working inside wore off and I began to realise my sister was on almost double my wage at her new job. Repetitive complaining about sibling fairness must have lead my mum to phoning my boss one night. I waited excitedly as I heard phrases such as ‘shocking child labour’ and ‘abusing their age’ being used. Following the phone call, my mum sighed and said ‘Sorry Em, she’s only raising your wage to £3.50’. I couldn’t understand my mum’s sorrow, maybe she didn’t realise a 50p pay rise worked out at an extra 100g of sweets an hour, providing I bought them from Woolworths. It was the most exciting news I’d received since learning the Harry Potter books were being made into films. So the work continued.

At sixteen, I got my first ‘real’ job. By ‘real’ I mean, with payslips, holiday pay, a minimum wage and a stupid hat. Technically I have my older sister to thank again for this. Heading to University she left a vacancy at a local Supermarket Cafe. I jumped at the opportunity, I’d only heard about her pay packet, but if what had been said was true, well, life would be good. Dreams of mountains of pick ‘n’ mix had quickly been replaced with the prospect of affording large quantities of Alcohol and trips to Alton Towers. My position was to stand on the till for five hours on a Saturday taking orders.

I have to say that, although I wouldn’t have ever admitted it at the time, I probably enjoyed chatting to the pensioners at 8am more than I did attempting to rival my friends drinking into oblivion whilst listening out for parents arriving home early. Dare I say it, but I’d even go as far as calling some of the oldies ‘friends’. I mean, if I was on their Christmas card list every year, that’s got to mean something. That was nearly four years ago now though, so there’s a high possibility they’re dead. Sad. Very Sad.

I’ve had various jobs since then, heading to where I am now. I spent a couple of years working in a hotel, here I learnt I would never work anywhere that was open twenty-four hours a day again. £2 tip for working Christmas eve and Christmas day, fair wages my arse. Following that I spent about 3 months working for an uptight lady who referred to herself in third-person, who ended up firing me when I got conjunctivitis and wasn’t able to work one saturday. Then there was the gypsy, who hired my for his pub at a random wage of £20, regardless of whether I worked two or four hours. This job was cut short when the brewery who held joint ownership of the pub realised he was more interested in drinking the stock than selling it, and took it away from him. He was a very interesting man, I’ve never been sure whether the tales he told me were true, but I pretend they are. He also promised me free fish and a whippet puppy if I ever wanted it. Not sure where he’s disappeared to. Losing this position lead me to pick up another job at a very popular chain bar. There was only so much sick sweeping and 6am finishings I could take. I lasted two shifts before quitting.

This leads me to my most recent job, the one that started this babbling mess, working in video game retail. I’m not going to bore you with more mundane details, other than it’s a fun job, it’s like revisiting my till at the Supermarket Cafe. If I ever leave I will, without a doubt, miss it. My pay checks aren’t big, and now I have ‘grown up’ things to spend my money on, but one day, I’ll just go out and buy pick ‘n’ mix and sillystring.