This blog was created as a tie in to my graphic novel(la) series Threshold, an ongoing project first initiated in the final year of my BFA. This series, and contextual material surrounding it, is currently forming the bulk of my MA practice. Central to the series is the city of Threshold: a topographically unstable and ever-shifting morass of in-between and tranistory spaces that silts into existence at narrative peripheries.

The intent is to create a space where the city of Threshold, and the conceptual basis behind it, can be fleshed out in greater detail than is possible in the graphic novel format, and to tie in some of the other projects involving the city that are only alluded to elsewhere.

All completed installments of the series can be viewed on this blog, while printed copies are available at http://stores.lulu.com/arcanestudios or through APE Games at http://www.ookoodook.com/.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

Story Circle: Hall

The hall is long, paneled in dark, rich wood that seems to drink in light. The carpeting is a thick burgundy, slightly worn in the center from the passage of many feet. The lighting in the hall is that peculiar sort of dimness where everything can still be seen clearly, yet seems ever-so-slightly unreal.

The hall is lined with alcoves, and in each alcove is a bust. The busts are exquisitely detailed; shoulders, necks and ears as true to like as can be. The faces of the busts are blank; as smooth and featureless as eggshells.

I often wondered, while walking through the hall on my way to somewhere else, whom the subjects of these busts were. I would make up names and stories, occasionally writing them down and holding them next to the featureless heads, trying to see which one the story fit best. I wanted very much for the busts to have faces, so that I could listen to what they had to say.

One evening, I entered the hall with a box of clay. I set to work on the busts, pulling features out of the smooth eggshell faces. I moved back-and-forth between them all, adding eyebrows, cheeks, eyes, and chins in clots and dabs. After a time, I stepped back, stood in the center of the hall and looked about.

The busts stared mutely about; I had not yet given them mouths. I became very frightened. Their gazes penetrated me, sharp and accusatory. I was terrified of completing the figures, dreading the horrific secrets they might reveal.

I left the hall and returned with a bucket of plaster and a handful of rags. Dipping the rags in the plaster, I fashioned gags around each of the faces. And in the susurrus of muffled whispers that filled the hall when I was finished, I could hear anything I wanted.

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