With all the obituaries lately, the blog has acquired a rather dark penumbra. I feel like it may be an appropriate moment to emerge into the light, or at least into the ‘pale’ and what better way to do it than with my favourite tipple of the moment, Harvest Pale Ale from Nottingham’s Castle Rock Brewery.

Every Spring I try to find a good solid pale or golden ale with a bright character and strong dry hop. May seems such a good time to drink these ‘lively’ types of ale; they seem to echo the fusillade of new life that Springs ushers in and what’s more is that they provide good refreshment for those light and airy evenings after work. Harvest Pale fits the bill perfectly and it even won Supreme Champion award at the 2010 Great British Beer Festival in London. Not bad at all.

These days there are many pale-ales around with small British breweries all cashing in on the glorious (but steady) demise of crap lager. The crossover from sparkly pub lager to pale-ale isn’t so rocky and for many, they provide a good ‘bridge beer’ for the ale-curious. But with so many about, it’s easy to be swayed by the label alone. Luckily for us, Harvest Pale has both a first-rate bottle design and a rather special ale inside it. With its fetching royal-blue and daffodil livery and a 1940′s-style brewery shield device, I can’t help but feel just a touch of bias towards the styling. When several bottles are lined up together, the effect is overwhelmingly grand.

It’s rare that I remember to post about my ale misadventures and considering I adore drinking them (and even partake in a spot of home-brewing too), I can’t understand why I don’t do it more often. Perhaps from here on in I will keep my eyes open for brews that fit that the bill. In the meantime, head to Castle Rock’s site and see what else they’ve got fermenting. But do yourself a favour this month and give this one a whirl on a quiet evening when the last bit of the sun catches the chimney pots and a clean wind licks your face. Bliss.

It’s with a heavy heart that I find myself writing yet another obituary for the passing of another great illustrator. Perhaps it is indicative of the great generational tide that quietly washes up around our all feet at some point. Maurice Sendak would no doubt have been able to illustrate that thought perfectly in his usual whimsical style.

Maurice died a week ago and he was 83 years old. In his older years, he sported a faux-grumpiness and favoured spending his time in the sticks with just his dog for company. I’ve always maintained that some of the most imaginative illustrators have come from an old lineage of traditional story-telling and Maurice was no exception to this being born in Brooklyn to a Polish Jewish family. There is little  doubt in my mind that this (and a touch of Brother’s Grimm) had a great impact on his work.

As a kid (like many others) I was well versed in the lulling oddness of Where the Wild Things Are and for many, Maurice Sendak’s finest work will always be where he has written and illustrated the whole story himself. I personally prefer his visual interpretations for other story writers. That’s not to say his story writing wasn’t good, it’s just that I love the way that Sendak could decode the imagination of a writer and effortlessly visualise the world they were trying to create. He did all this with extraordinary flair and would modulate his style each time to fit the tone of the writers. Two prime examples of this are The Nutcracker by E. T. A Hoffmann and the jovial Open House for Butterflies by Ruth Krauss – “All aboard for bed”  is a saying I still often hear in the standard vernacular of many families.

He left behind a nostalgic legacy of great imagination, love for our childhood and honest storytelling that certainly won’t corrode into obscurity any time soon. Perhaps this honesty is what shines through in his work. During the most taxing times of his late wife’s illness, he wrote one of his more recent books, Bumble-Ardy as a way dealing with the emotional stress. I think we can close Maurice’s chapter with a quote that perhaps defines his sensibility:

“Once a little boy sent me a charming card with a little drawing on it. I loved it. I answer all my children’s letters — sometimes very hastily — but this one I lingered over. I sent him a card and I drew a picture of a Wild Thing on it. I wrote, “Dear Jim, I loved your card.” Then I got a letter back from his mother and she said, “Jim loved your card so much he ate it.” That to me was one of the highest compliments I’ve ever received. He didn’t care that it was an original Maurice Sendak drawing or anything. He saw it, he loved it, he ate it.”

RIP Maurice Sendak.

In 1967, media analyst, Marshall McLuhan was a worried man. His view on the perpetual rise of mass media was eating away at his mind. His view was that new technology was reshaping society at such a rate that it would soon transform our perceptions and expectations forever. He began to analyse the course of this change and after teaming up with Graphic Designer, Quentin Fiore they produced a book together that would stand up as a visual commentary on modern communications.

The basic concept of The Medium is the Massage is a sort of graphic collage that in some ways parodies the very information channels it tries to expose. The Author’s writings are cleverly delivered in the book by use of both established and experimental graphic design techniques, many of which the emerging media industries used successfully at the time. Alarmingly, these techniques have evolved with us into the digital age, which makes the book’s early predictions of the ‘global village’ and non-stop news broadcasts all the more surprising.

Admittedly, this isn’t an easy read. The text is at times difficult to process and there’s a general tone of doom about the book that can be off-putting. But leave it on the side somewhere easy to pick up and its cutting graphics and provocative passages will have you ploughing through it in no time.

I admire the dexterity and foresight that it took to create this book in the way they did. There’s everything from experimental typography layouts to rasping shock-quotes in here. I can only imagine the blindness of a society that was hungry for change when it was published and in some ways, it makes me sad that many of McLuhan’s uglier predictions have hatched out in nicely in the warmth of our rather torpid world of digital media. A quick run through this book might just make you think twice about your information diet.

Here’s a classic interview with McLuhan from 1977 on ABC, but it’s really not a substitute for the curious graphical banquet that the book is.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Yesterday, they lit up the Crystal Palace antenna in a light-show celebration for the advent of the digital TV switch-over. Television in Britain has finally cut its analogue shackles free and we are told that the future of broadcasting will be impressive. But the switch-over has prompted a culling of the more antiquated broadcast services that were still operating. The BBC’s teletext information service, Ceefax (phonetic for ‘See facts’) was one of them.

Ceefax was always a curiosity to me. Some have called it a precursor to the internet. Others were simply mesmerised by its acid graphics,  and freakish glitches. In the 1990′s when Ceefax was at its peak it was natural for people book holidays, check the news and weather, and even drift off to the sickly music after a night out with Bamboozle on screen (now available as an app). Undoubtedly, many people are so transfixed with the internet these days that they may have experienced more shock from learning that Ceefax was actually still going, than that it was closing this week.

As a child, I was sure it would be the only thing still broadcasting had the Cold War destroyed Europe. A kind of push-button BBC World Service. Sure it was a relic of 1970′s broadcasting technology, but by the late 1990′s Ceefax was clear proof that the public was ready for the internet. I often wonder how much of its operational life has informed the way that the BBC has developed its online profile in the last decade.

It seemed to me that Ceefax had taken on it’s own personality – a little like ‘Hal’ in 2001 or GERTY in Moon. Even right up to the final lap Ceefax remained truly loyal by ironically serving its visitors with information on the digital switch-over. How sad, I thought, Ceefax is ushering in its own demise. It has accepted its fate like some kind of servile android about to expire.

Indeed, whilst taking a solemn bus journey home tonight, I reflected on the now quite BBC Ceefax studios powering down the noisy racks of equipment. Perhaps there was a trolley in the corridor waiting to pile up the condemned machines and cables. I even imagined the hypothetical ‘Head of Ceefax’ turning the lights off to his nicotine-blown office for the last time, before quietly heading to the staff party in the BBC bar.

However the close-down went, the skeleton of Ceefax lives on in the BBC’s Red Button digital service and some random pages that only appear when normal programming has finished. Most of us won’t notice it’s gone, most won’t care, but some of us will remember it fondly as the first on-demand information service – a testament to the innovation of the BBC. Here’s a nice ‘obituary‘ (of sorts) from the Guardian and a little video for that 4am feeling one last time. Sleep tight Ceefax!

Click here to view the embedded video.

Well it certainly has felt like a long stretch but I think it’s safe enough now to admit that Winter’s cruel throttle has finally been relinquished and that Spring  is hopping on the doormat, waiting to be let in. It’s also been an embarrassingly long time since I plucked a Ladybird book off the shelf to sacrifice on the Colourschool alter. So what could possibly be more fitting than a copy of What to look for in Spring for the occasion?

There’s all the fun of saccharin cherry blossoms, bursting buds gallivanting sheep and erratic looking birds in this book. It manages to capture the surge of energy in our surroundings at this time of year and I love the references to 1960′s farming techniques, which subtly frames the age of it.

Now if you have a copy of this particular Ladybird book you might notice a slight variation in the style of illustration from that of other Ladybirds. This is because the distinctive style is that of Charles Tunnicliffe, a prolific naturalist painter of British birds and other wildlife. His book illustrations (usually in watercolour) depicted a sort of  restless dynamism in nature that is both exciting and perhaps overwhelming for some. Undeniably though, his style worked well for Ladybird books, in which he produced the illustrations for the entire what to look for… set.

My copy was printed in 1961, but I’ve seen a couple of later versions knocking around on ebay if you’re interested in trying to get a copy for yourself. The What to look for… set of  Ladybird books make an admirable collection and their seasonal observations are as relevant to adults and kids today as they always have been. For instance, after reading this book, I finally discovered the best time of year when to find the absolutely bewildering coconut scent of gorse bushes that has eluded me so often. Regardless of the illustrations, that alone is a good reason to own a copy.

The Moon and the Sledgehammer is a charming lo-fi documentary directed by Philip Trevelyan  in 1971. It follows the everyday lives of the Page family who lived in their secluded woodland in deepest Sussex. Old Mr. Page has two sons and two daughters. They are Jim, Pete, Nancy and Kath and they earn a living by doing odd jobs locally and mechanical work. Through some very candid filming they slowly reveal their characters, their fears and their hopes in a disarmingly honest way.

The 20th Century appears to have passed them by rapidly. They run steam traction engines to solve problems and live humbly without gas, running water or electricity. Nature is all around them and when it is not reclaiming their hoarded scrap, it seems to shield and protect them as long-term guests in their home. In return, they take only what they need from it. As Mr. Pages says in his welcome, “I never go where the cock never crows, and I wouldn’t advise any of you to go where the cock don’t crow.”

The star of the film for me is head of the family, Mr. Page. He’s a mirthful old character from another era who is old enough to remember hot-air balloon missions to the moon and smokes endless roll-ups through non-existent lips. His discordant wheezings on the harmonium (pumped by an obliging Kath) are curiously synchronised with the surroundings and the old trees around the house seem to bend over as if listening in. The effect is such a merry cacophony that it is sharply reminiscent of the scenes from Bagpuss when the mice sing a ditty around the organ.

With all its greasy mechanisms, dappled woodland and simple patchwork charm, it’s hard not to feel slightly envious of the Page’s lifestyle. They saw the world in the way that is impossible for most of us to see it in. Their world appears to be one that is liberated from the messy complications of modern living, where ironwork, timber, music and roses rule the day. “Steam will come back in” affirms Pete at one point. He may not be as far from the truth as we might think.

The film has been shown at various festivals, broadcast on TV and recently it has even had an official DVD release too. But it still remains largely elusive to the mainstream and to the few who own it, it is highly prized. I’ve been after this charming documentary for ages and ages. In fact, I became so tired looking for it, that I gave up a couple of years back and consigned myself to never being able to see it. But two weeks ago my quest was reignited when it came to light that my old mate Andy knew plenty of about the film and even had a VHS version (taped from an old TV broadcast) to see. (I owe you an ale Andy!)

You can order a copy of the documentary for about £17 from the official site (a bargain for this gem), but keep visiting the site to see when the next screenings will be too. Oh, and don’t bother looking for a torrent of it, because there aren’t any out there and Youtube only has the trailer to see. No… This is a ‘hand in the wallet’ job and it’s worth every single penny. I would be as bold as to say it’s in my top documentary slot of all time and you can’t say it fairer than that, can you?

Click here to view the embedded video.

Illustration and concept art has very much been on my mind since the passing of Ralph McQuarrie earlier this month. Over the last two weeks I decided to evaluate my statement in his obituary that Ralph’s work continues to inspire today’s concept artists and illustrators. After some enlightening research sifting through online portfolios, it didn’t take long for me to encounter the work of the talented Finnish artist, Tuomas Korpi.

A peek at his online portfolio will reveal a large vocabulary of personal works, production illustrations, mattes and concept art, many of which have been used commercially in animations and computer games. What I love about his style is that it draws on so many influences and ideas; each one based on infinitely detailed observations of both real and imaginary surroundings. From work- stained star-freighters anchored to floating repair bays to the classic, mist-shrouded vales of an ancient forest planet – it’s all there to see.

A characteristic of a good concept artist is the ability to shift focus and visualise a plethora of situations, environments and conditions, which pose just enough credibility to rouse the imagination even further. Everything I’ve seen from Tuomas’ portfolio does this effortlessly and I’m left feeling reassured that work of the Ralph McQuarrie level is more than still with us… It’s thriving!

Head over to Tuomas’ site to marvel at the breadth of his work. You can also pop over to the Helsinki-based animation outfit, Pinata (where Tuomas works) to see the splendid things they produce too. Tuomas seems a very decent sort of chap. He’s even good enough to let you have his treasured collection of personal Photoshop brushes for nothing… Now there’s illustration altruism in action for you.

The ‘oscars of the design world’ is a rather hefty statement to live up to, but that’s the way the Design Museum describe their annual awards, which showcases some of the year’s most innovative international talent under seven design disciplines. The Design Museum is currently holding an exhibition to allow visitors to see the nominations before the winners will be announced this April. I decided to take a trip down there for a peek.

I find this sort of thing a little overwhelming to be honest. When multi-discipline design work is put together without a common theme,  it’s fairly to easy rove around aimlessly until something distracts the eye. The layout of this exhibition is actually akin to a large circuit, so aimless rovers like me will take solace in the fact that they will eventually come back around the pieces again and again until they something interesting or the stairs back down.

There’s so much skill to behold in the space and so much of it is squeezed together that I felt that the story, process and toil behind a lot of it is somehow diluted. I recognised some of the entrants and pieces and was very heartened to see so many home-grown names. In particular, the pleasingly effervescent ‘thixatropes‘, designed and built by London-based Troika are spinning in the space. These illuminated kinetic sculptures are designed and built by Troika, but also draw on the skills of local engineering companies to produce unique parts for the mechanisms. I know (and admire) this fact, because I was at a conference recently where the co-founder, Eva Rucki explained the challenging process behind the work. But I didn’t get the true magnitude of the working process and all who were involved in the project from this exhibition. I think that’s a shame because it’s projects like this that help to allay some of the fears about the state of the design industry at the moment. Still – It’s nice to see them spinning off on their magic trip like they do.

The Olympic torch is there also. It’s planted upright a little out of the way and it sort of blends into the architecture there because of its shiny golden finish and drilled surface. Up close and away from the influences of certain website comment streams, you can see the all the beauty in its rather simple form. I like it there too – It has to work hard so far from the glorious backdrop of what it was made for.

When you put on an exhibition that pitches the designs of the Olympic Velodrome together with Kate Middleton’s wedding dress what does it mean? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps it’s just a question of space and all this will be solved when the Design Museum shunt along the river to their cavernous new home in museum land at. But I was left feeling sad that if this was a celebration of the best of our Design, then why did I leave feeling that I missed a lot of it?

Get yourself down there though – there’s some outstanding work to see and if anything, the feeling of creative buoyancy in the industry is renewed somewhat. The exhibition is on until the 4th July and although it does cost around a tenner to get in, you can heal any wounds afterwards by seeing the Terence Conran exhibition too. Which is a mildly nepotistic affair for Terence (being a founder of the museum) but actually rather captivating too.

As the great combine-harvester of time savagely cuts on I seem to be writing more and more obituaries of famous illustrators and designers. It was with a dizzy mixture of nostalgia and sadness that I discovered that the American concept artist Ralph McQuarrie passed away on the 3rd of March.

Most people know McQuarrie’s name for the concept illustrations he produced for the original Star Wars trilogy. But his work covered many successful sci-fi films of the 1980′s including: the robot designs from Batteries not Included; the mother-ship from Close Encounters of the Third kind, various scenes and the spaceship design from ET; concepts for Jurassic Park and even elements from Cocoon.

Ralph was in the Korean war. He survived a bullet wound to the head before going to study at the prestigious Art Center School in LA. His early career saw him working for Boeing in aeronautical technical illustration followed by a stint creating illustrations for CBS News on the Apollo space program. Undoubtedly this unique blend of experiences would fortify his credentials for the concept work in science fiction films he was about to embark on.

The first film that Ralph worked on as a concept artist was Star Wars with George Lucas. It is not an understatement to say that the entire Star Wars franchise owes the most to this man. Without him the style of the films would probably never had made it past the screen test. Blending a style that was akin to popular 1970′s Sci-fi novel cover art with his technical knowledge and incredible imagination, he paved the way for the settings, spacecraft and characters that we know and love from the trilogy. George Lucas must have been overwhelmed by his interpretative skills. Indeed, when you understand his background, you start realise why Ralph’s designs were so eloquently viable. They were, in-fact, an extension of the real technology he had been exposed to. To be a concept artist of his calibre requires a multi-faceted knowledge of many extra-curricular subjects… Architecture, botany, physics etc…

On inspiration Ralph once said:
“I used to try squeezing work out, but it’s like toothpaste in a tube that will only come out so fast … There’s no point pounding my brain – the best thing I can do is collect my thoughts as soon as I’m told what’s needed. Then I lie down and let it gel unconsciously. I sort of semi-sleep, and somewhere along the way of going to sleep or coming out of it, I get exactly what I need – it’s just there, rising like the bubbles in champagne from somewhere inside.”

Ralph was truly a visionary. The ideas in his head undoubtedly pushed the envelope of some of the greatest sci-fi films of the past. He will be missed, but I don’t think I’m alone when I say that his work has (and continues to) inspire many of the concept artists out there.

RIP Ralph, old chap.

I find it intriguing that almost every King Penguin I’ve come across seems to be a perfect blend of elegant academic wonder and mind-blowing illustrative talent. Although they are highly collectable, I have seldom chased them down. I have only a few of these books but keep an eye peeled for the odd one in charity shops and creaky bookshops by the sea.

My Grandfather, Mr Charles William Hooley, was a geoglist and geographical surveyor before he retired. His mineral and stone specimen collections were completely mesmerising to me as a child. They conjured images of treasure troves in the belly of a distant Maharajah’s palace. Each sample was  perfectly hewn, polished, arranged and labelled in such a way that when the light caught them all simultaneously, it was really quite overwhelming. I couldn’t help feeling the same excitement when I saw this King Penguin.

Mrs Wooster of the Brooklyn Crystallographic Laboratory at Cambridge University wrote the text for the book and it was published in 1952. Her writings beg us to reconsider the value of these kaleidoscopic, but under appreciated gifts from the Earth. She highlights the fact that in China, pure Jade is more valuable than most precious stones. There is also the ancient connection to folklore through astrology. Somehow, a large Emerald might feel rather vulgar if it were used in a Druidic ceremony to celebrate the Winter. I personally prefer the curious allure of a cloven rock filled with sparkling amethyst to a tiny diamond.

This guide is superbly written and instead of following the trodden path of a field guide, it reads more like an insightful article; challenging our perceptions of what can be seen as a rather cheesy, gift-shop hobby in today’s vanity obsessed society. The stunning illustrated plates of the stones by the great flea illustrator, Arthur Smith are evocative, florid and incredibly true to form. There’s still plenty of these around in the ether, so you might want to grab one if you like the look of it, because there’s won’t always be.