Polish Coastal Ferry Papercraft

It always amazes me how the designers of card model ships are able to achieve so much detail in their models. This 1:100 scale paper model of a Polish coastal ferry is one such example. Roman Detyna of digitalnavy.com designed this model to commemorate the tenth anniversary of his website. Detyna chose to create this particular ship because of a fond memory he had of sailing on such a ship as a young boy. The template for the ship may be downloaded here.

Taking off the Mask

Prehispanic Mask

God has given you one face, and you make yourself another. ~William Shakespeare

It seems I haven't written a personal essay in a very long time. My life has changed in subtle ways since my year-long essay-writing binge on this blog. I am consumed more than ever by my activities on the internet, with less time to let my mind "go blank" or empty itself.

Mostly, I am preoccupied with Escape into Life, the online arts journal I founded about a year ago. Working with programmers and designers, attracting writers and readers, and editing submissions on an almost daily basis wears me down. Some days I would just like to disappear from the online world.

Being connected to a vast network of people online is both a blessing and a curse. One day you realize there are hundreds, maybe thousands, expecting something from you. And this is what I've always wanted, I've always wanted an audience. Because it is my nature to write for an audience, and nothing appeals to me more than having those readers.

My participation in the online world has given rise to a persona, a mask I wear. I am constantly promoting Escape into Life on Twitter, and always hoping to gain more readers and more followers. At the same time, I feel my energy is being drained as a writer. The most important thing for me is to have a certain amount of silence, or emptiness inside. Too often in the last several months that emptiness has been crowded with fears and concerns.

When I first read the novel, The Obscene Bird of Night, I became fascinated with Jose Donoso's philosophy of masks and disguises. At the time, I was using drugs and my parents were getting a divorce. If you want to know the truth, I was actually in a psychiatric ward when revelations about the novel were becoming a kind of fixation for me. You have to understand that I had a very cynical view of things, I was being "locked up" in some hospital, and my family life was broken. But I seemed to find a lot of empowerment in the idea that we all wear masks, and beneath each of those masks is yet another mask.

This frightening premise ignited my adolescent imagination. Jose Donoso was influenced by the works of Carl Jung, specifically his alchemical studies in psychology. The meaning that Donoso ultimately came to, which his novel puts into dramatic form, is that beneath all of those masks is nothing. The human identity is made up of layers of masks, and underneath those layers is a vast emptiness.

The artist, the writer, deals intimately with both masks and emptiness. We feel constrained as writers when we bind ourselves to what we feel we ought to write, rather than responding to what arises naturally in our changing interests. The result of writing what you feel like you should write is simply putting on another mask, and the consequences can be disastrous, like pretending to be someone you aren't . . .

I admire writers, and all artists, for the courage they have to continually take off the mask. You are not truly creating anything until you are revealing a layer of yourself you didn't know was there. While the ideal of shedding the mask remains important, along the unexpected course of life, I find myself strongly gravitating to its opposite. I want to be someone. When I look at my small accomplishments thus far, and see I've not earned myself a single title in anything, I despair. I am still unknown. I am still without an identity.

This may be my greatest advantage, however. Because if the work of a writer is to take off the mask, again and again, not being anyone is actually a better starting point for creating art. Listen to this passage in The Obscene Bird of Night:

There are so many of us who go around collecting, here and there, whatever castoff enables us to disguise ourselves and feel we're somebody, be somebody--a well-known person, a picture in the papers with your name underneath; we all know one another here, in fact we're almost all blood relations . . . to be someone, Humberto, that's the important thing, and the lamplight flickers and the table wobbles under my sister's elbows as she holds her face in her hands like in Las Bertini's latest postcard photograph . . . my sister's too is a mask, La Bertini's mask, because her own face wasn't enough; as one goes along he learn the advantages of the disguises being improvised, their mobility, how the last one covered the one before it.

I am a character in my Novel of Life, and I am also a character playing many roles in this life. How is it then that I feel I am not aligned, and at other times, more aligned with my true self?

I strive so hard to cement my reputation in everything I do; but ultimately, this leads me to betray myself. I've lost touch with the current of my natural instinct. I become fixated on a social role, playing up to the expectations of the audience. I've been reduced to a puppet.

It seems we are driven by these social masks. First we seek to attain them, striving for a distinguished role, a podium on which we can stand out; and then, somewhere in the process, we begin to question who we really are, if this is really me, this role, this persona, this mask.

The sociologist Erving Goffman studied human behavior from the "dramaturgical" perspective. He saw each human's action as a performance, as a theatrical effect, in order to preserve social survival. Goffman wrote that the self

is not an organic thing that has a specific location, whose fundamental fate is to be born, mature, and to die; it is a dramatic effect arising diffusely from a scene that is presented, and the characteristic issue, the crucial concern, is whether it will be credited or discredited (qtd. Glenn Ward).

Glenn Ward further explains that Goffman

writes of the self as a series of facades erected before different audiences. These facades only appear to emanate from some intrinsic self inside the social performer. In fact, the self is an effect, not a cause, of the facade. It is also not something you individually own. It arises from interaction with other actors on the social stage.

There seems to be a lot of truth to Goffman's discoveries. I can see how I would be writing for my social survival. Perhaps long ago I deceived myself into thinking that I was a writer by destiny, and instead I conditioned myself to become a writer because it was a social role I knew I could act out. It was someone I knew I could be.

Our histrionic natures have long been documented in literature and art. Read Shakespeare who says, "All the world's a stage/ And all the men and women merely players." We know we wear social masks, we know we play roles. In contemporary times, an index of reality TV shows will give you the full evidence of our histrionic natures.

Yet as writers and artists we are compelled to uncover the truth, not obscure it. Life is confusing enough as it is. At least in art, we can effect some level of control, create some kind of meaning in the world. And so, we learn to write by repeatedly taking off the mask, by giving it up, and finding something deeper and more powerful beneath the surface. It is by reaching into our innermost selves that we are able to constantly transform and improvise.

I know I am performing when I write, but I also know that I am honestly searching. And the search, the mystery, cannot be faked. I love what I do because it has an unknown factor. Any project I take up in my writing is with a destination unknown. This gives me faith that I am not only pretending to be someone, but also deeply trying to find myself.

More Essays . . .

Star Trek Papercraft: Hazard Team Helmet

I finally finished another papercraft model from the Star Trek Voyager Elite Force video game. This is the helmet that the members of Voyager's Hazard Team wear when they are sent on missions into hostile environments. In the video game the playable character wears this helmet on a mission in space and also on a mission to the engineering wing of Voyager during a radiation leak. This model is large enough to be worn. The opaque pieces of the visor may be used as a pattern to cut a visor out of transparent material. That way you might actually be able to see where you are going when the helmet is on. ^^ Details of the template are:

Scale: 1:1 estimated
Finished Size: 13.4"(34 cm) x 12.2"(31 cm) x 15.7"(40 cm)
Number of sheets: 15
Number of parts: 25
Difficulty: 2/5
Download (includes a PDO plus lined, unlined and untextured PDF's)

Some Previous Star Trek Elite Force Posts:
Medical Tricorder and Scanner

Terran Empire Knife

Hypospray

Rainbow Colored Torus Knot Papercraft

In mathematics a torus is defined as a geometric shape created by revolving a circle in three dimensional space about an axis coplanar with the circle. Some examples of objects with torus-like shapes are doughnuts and inner tubes. Torus shapes can be deformed into "knots", that is closed, intertwined geometric forms with no beginning or end. This colorful papercraft torus knot is the work of Matthias Baas of Germany. The knot's template is interesting in that it is designed to be printed double sided so that the printed fold lines all occur on the inside of the model. The PDF template for the knot is located here.

Escape into Life: Issue no. 12

Pierre Bonnard, The French Window (Morning at Le Cannet) 1932

We've decided to publish new content to Escape into Life on an ongoing basis. This way you should be able to check the site every day or so and always see new poetry, essays or reviews. In addition we publish 6 new artists a day to Escape into Life, which you can always find on our Artist Watch page.

We have another marvelous issue for our readers this week. Here are some of the highlights:

Pierre Bonnard: The Intimiste . . . Read Tony Thomas's superbly written account of the life and work of French painter, Pierre Bonnard.

Poetry by Kathleen Kirk . . . These poems come from Living on the Earth, Kathleen Kirk’s forthcoming poetry chapbook.

Interview with Julian Duron: Art, Humor, Enlightenment . . . Escape writer, Chip Schwartz, gives an outstanding interview with New York city artist Julian Duron.

The Talented Miss Highsmith . . . Gretta Barclay reviews Joan Schenekar's biography of crime writer, Patricia Highsmith.

Art and Poetry by Ernest Williamson III . . . Ernest Williamson III is both a poet and a visual artist. Enjoy his creations!

What is Escape into Life?

EIL is a publication based on the concept of citizen journalism. The goal is to create a journal of poetry, essays, and art from writers who are already publishing on the Web and who would like to gain more exposure to their blogs. The artists we feature are the very best we can find, and the writers have a background in writing and a passion for the arts.

More information here

Star Wars A-wing Origami

Every once in a while I feel the need to post some origami. :) This Star Wars A-wing starfighter was folded by Jens-Helge Dahmen and is a modification of a folding pattern originally created by origami artist Adam Black. All that is required to build the A-wing is a 20x20 cm square of paper that has color on one side only. Gift wrap paper might work nicely. Dahmen's folding pattern for the A-wing is available for download here (look for the link near the bottom of the page).

A Noise from Lethe's Room

Ceiling Fan

Donte and the Senora were engrossed in watching NASCAR. The lights were off, the Senora always watched TV with the lights off, and the television screen glowed in the center of the room. Donte sat with his hands in his lap, as if he were praying. He kept his back straight out of habit, and never sunk into the cushions. The Senora perched on the edge of the couch, hunched over an ash tray that was gradually accumulating a small tower of ash. Her night robe hung loosely off her shoulders as she poised a cigarette between her two fingers, hovering close to her mouth. When her cigarette was finished, she lit another one.

It was a tense race. Donte never cared much for car racing, but watching it with the Senora seemed to change his opinion. He enjoyed her enthusiasm for the sport, she was the last person he would expect to be a NASCAR fan, and the whole thing was now mildly entertaining to him. The longer he watched the cars go in circles around the track, the more he began to appreciate the sport. It seemed like such a masculine activity, cars, engines, men driving, but the crashes were unexpected and exhilarating. The Senora said she looked forward to a “good crash.”

And then, suddenly, the Senora asked, “Where’s Lethe?”

Donte checked his wrist watch, an old Timex. “I think he’s in his bedroom.”

“Tell him to come in here and watch the races with us.” Her attention went back to the TV screen.

Donte didn’t exactly like to meddle in Lethe’s business, but he could see that the Senora wanted him to do her this favor so he stood up abruptly, with purpose.

“I’m worried about him. He hides himself in his room too much. We need to keep an eye on him.”

Donte walked to the end of the hallway. His footsteps were audible throughout the entire apartment. It was an old, creaky floor.

Before knocking, he heard some sounds coming from inside of Lethe’s room. It sounded like furniture was being pushed against the walls. Donte tried to regain his composure by straitening his back and shoulders, then he waited a moment longer, and knocked.

“BUSY,” Lethe said.

“Maria Angeles wants you to watch TV with us.”

Whatever noise had been coming from the other side of the door, stopped.

“I don’t know why she watches that ridiculous sport. It’s like an obsession with her.”

“Maybe she just wants you to sit with us.”

“NOT FEELING UP TO IT!”

The shouting startled Donte and he stood by the door uncertain what to do next. Then the sounds began again, except louder. There was thump and a bang which caused Donte to jump and let go of the door knob he’d been holding.

Finally he said, “What’s going on in there?”

“JUST HAD TO MOVE SOME THINGS AROUND. I’M FINE NOW. THANK YOU.”

“But what about the Senora? Does she know about this?”

“NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS DONTE.”

Donte sighed heavily, leaning his weight against the door. “The Senora’s coming to see what’s wrong. She heard the noises. Are you okay in there?”

What followed was a long silence and no immediate answer from Lethe. The Senora’s presence was approaching in the hallway, but then she turned and went into the kitchen.

Lethe said: “I’M FINE. JUST TOOK A LITTLE SPILL ON THE BEDROOM FLOOR.”

Then the door opened slightly and Lethe’s figure appeared toward the back of the room. “I tried to hang myself tonight.”

“What?” Donte looked up in astonishment and saw a bedsheet tied around a fan. The fan was turning wildly and the sheet was flapping against the ceiling.

Donte's shoulders sagged forward, and his mouth hung out. “The Senora can’t know about this Lethe. She’s on the phone with her daughter right now. If she finds out, you might have to leave.” And he shut the door behind him, as if that would seal things, as if that would keep it a secret.

They stood face to face in Lethe’s bedroom. Donte’s forehead showed a line of sweat dripping down the edge of his cheek. He was clearly shaken up by Lethe’s antics, and there was a sort of self-pity in his eyes. But Lethe hardly noticed, he looked like he had no emotions. He was pure steel.

“I’m not going to tell the Senora.” Donte said, reassuringly.

“Why are you trying to protect me?” Lethe shouted.

“I’m not trying to protect you. I just can’t believe you tried to kill yourself tonight. She’s an old woman, Lethe! You’ll give her a heart attack.”

Lethe was so out of touch with reality at this moment that all he could do was turn around and walk out to his balcony. He stood overlooking his balcony for about five minutes, without a word or a sign that he was even there. Donte collected the debris on the floor, which had fallen from the ceiling.

The balcony doors were pushed open by the gentle night breeze. Lethe lingered in the open air, smoking. "I’m worthless,” he said. “I can’t even kill myself properly.”

Scenes from the Novel of Life