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C.H. PETE COPELAND/The Plain Dealer/Landov
C.H. PETE COPELAND/The Plain Dealer/Landov

College-Era Comics from Bill Watterson

C.H. PETE COPELAND/The Plain Dealer/Landov
C.H. PETE COPELAND/The Plain Dealer/Landov

Note: This post originally appeared in October 2007.

Bill Watterson (pictured above in 1986) went to my college. Not with me, mind you; I graduated from Kenyon College, a cozy liberal arts enclave in Ohio, in 2001—Watterson, famous for creating the world's best comic strip, Calvin and Hobbes, preceded me by nearly twenty years. We've matriculated minor presidents (Rutherford B. Hayes), legendary poets (Robert Lowell), great scientists (Carl Djerassi, who developed the first oral contraceptive pill) and even some famous flossers (John Green). But perhaps no alumnus is as vaunted, especially by my generation, who grew up on Hobbes, as cartoonist Bill Watterson.

The oldest private college in Ohio, Kenyon isn't a place where change comes fast. So my college experience shared a lot of DNA with Watterson's: many of the same teachers and traditions from 1980 remained in 2000, and I instantly recognize our alma mater in the cartoons Watterson drew for the yearbook and the school newspaper, The Collegian, when he was a student. Lucky for Watterson fans everywhere, a contemporary of his scanned and posted some of these rare early works, which can be found here.

Allow me to contextualize a few of them.

ckenyon02.jpg

caples.jpgNine stories tall, Kenyon's Caples residence hall is the highest, and quite possibly the ugliest, building in rural Knox County, Ohio. It's an architectural anomaly in the Soviet-bloc style amidst a campus filled with graceful 19th-century buildings, and its warrens of tiny, freezing rooms are arranged around depressing, windowless common areas (known somewhat aspirationally as "suites"). February at Kenyon can indeed be depressing, especially if you've been sentenced by the Housing Office to spend it in Caples -- as the subject of this comic has. (By the way, fans of Hobbes will recognize this guy as an early version of Calvin's dad, who we can be fairly certain was meant to resemble Watterson himself.)

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Surrounded by miles of rolling cornfields and rural hamlets, coming to Kenyon could be a shock for students from big cities. ("What do people do?" "Where do you buy light bulbs and socks?" "Will hillbillies kill us?") They either transferred before the first semester was over, or became, as my friends and I did, converts to the countryside. As charming as our campus was, the lure of an idyllic bike ride down to the Kokosing river was a siren song that often overwhelmed the responsibilities of classwork -- especially on perfect Spring days like the one pictured above.

ckenyon19.jpg

I feel this one; ten months after graduation, I was working as a mortgage loan processor in a positively Orwellian corporate center in Beaverton, Oregon. Not exactly what I had in mind for my future as I was writing my English literature thesis (Faith and the Postmodern Awakening, if you must know). Kenyon tries to be sensitive to the plight of their many liberal arts grads (English is by far the most popular major), offering seminars with titles like "What can you do with an art history major?" (The answer? Teach art history!)

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The joke's not a gut-buster, but anyone who's been to Kenyon can name the landmark the ashamed student is about to pass though: the "Gates of Hell." A set of stone pillars which bisect the campus between its north and south halves, the Gates have a freaky lore and legacy all their own. From this month's Alumni Bulletin:

It is said that writer Anthony Burgess, who spoke on campus during the late seventies, later appeared on the Phil Donahue Show and told a national audience that Kenyon College was home to the Gates of Hell and the most intense evil energy that he had ever experienced. Hearing about this, the College requested a videotape of the show, but when it arrived there was no mention of evil at Kenyon, or of any hellish gates. Some cite this "excision" as eerily suggestive in itself. Others scoff, raising the obvious question of whether Burgess ever said any such thing at all. There are other tales. According to one, it was a psychic who identified Gambier as home to the Gates of Hell. Another insists that the evil portal is actually the old gated entrance to the Bishop's House, in the densely wooded lower reaches of Brooklyn Street. Whatever the case, superstitions have grown up around the gates. Some say that you shouldn't walk between the gates when the bells in the Church of the Holy Spirit are chiming midnight, or you might be transported to Hell itself.

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Now go read our interview with Watterson, which appears in the December 2013 issue of mental_floss magazine!

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iStock
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Art
The Simple Optical Illusion That Makes an Image Look Like It's Drawing Itself
iStock
iStock

Artist James Nolan Gandy invents robot arms that sketch intricate mathematical shapes with pen and paper. When viewed in real time, the effect is impressive. But it becomes even more so when the videos are sped up in a timelapse. If you look closely in the video below, the illustration appears to materialize faster than the robot can put the design to paper. Gizmodo recently explained how the illusion works to make it look like parts of the sketch are forming before the machine has time to draw them.

The optical illusion isn’t an example of tricky image editing: It’s the result of something called the wagon wheel effect. You can observe this in a car wheel accelerating down the highway or in propeller blades lifting up a helicopter. If an object makes enough rotations per second, it can appear to slow down, move backwards, or even stand still.

This is especially apparent on film. Every “moving image” we see on a screen is an illusion caused by the brain filling in the gaps between a sequence of still images. In the case of the timelapse video below, the camera captured the right amount of images, in the right order, to depict the pen as moving more slowly than it did in real life. But unlike the pen, the drawing formed throughout the video isn't subject to the wagon-wheel effect, so it still appears to move at full speed. This difference makes it look like the sketch is drawing itself, no pen required.

Gandy frequently shares behind-the-scenes videos of his mechanical art on his Instagram page. You can check out some of his non-timelapse clips like the one below to better understand how his machines work, then visit his website to browse and purchase the art made by his 'bots.

And if you think his stuff is impressive, make sure to explore some of the incredible art robots have made in the past.

[h/t Gizmodo]

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Tessa Angus
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Art
Surprising Sculptures Made From Fallen Feathers
Kate MccGwire, Orchis, 2012
Kate MccGwire, Orchis, 2012
Tessa Angus

Kate MccGwire is a British sculptor with an unusual medium: feathers. Her surreal, undulating works often take the form of installations—the feathers spilling out of a drain, a stove, a crypt wall—or stand-alone sculptures in which antique bell jars, cabinets, or trunks contain otherworldly shapes.

MccGwire developed her obsession with feathers after moving to a studio barge on the Thames in 2006, as she explains in a video from Crane.tv recently spotlighted by Boing Boing. The barge was near a large shed full of feral pigeons, whose feathers she would spot on her way to work. "I started picking them up and laying them out, collecting them," she remembers. "And after about two weeks I had like 300 feathers." At the time, concerns about bird flu were rife, which made the feathers seem "dangerous as well as beautiful."

When not supplied by her own next-door menagerie, the feathers for her artwork come from a network of racing pigeon societies all over the UK, who send her envelopes full every time the birds molt. Farmers and gamekeepers also send her fallen feathers from birds such as magpies, pheasants, and roosters.

The cultural associations around birds are a big part of what inspires MccGwire. “The dove is the symbol of peace, purity, and fertility," she told ArtNews in 2013, "but it’s exactly the same species as a pigeon—which everyone regards as being dirty, foul, a pest.”

The same duality is present in her own work, which she frequently shares on her Instagram account. “I want to seduce by what I do—but revolt in equal measure. It’s really important to me that you’ve got that rejection of things you think you know for sure.”

You can see some pictures of MccGwire's work, and watch the video from Crane.tv, below.

Kate MccGwire's installation "Evacuate"
Evacuate, 2010
J Wilde

Kate MccGwire's sculpture "Convolous"
Convolous, 2015
JP Bland

Kate MccGwire's installation "Gyre"
Gyre, 2012
Tessa Angus

Kate MccGwire's sculpture "Gag"
Gag, 2009
JP Bland

Kate MccGwire's sculpture "Writhe"
Writhe, 2010
Tessa Angus

Kate MccGwire's sculpture "Quell"
Quell, 2011
Tessa Angus

Kate MccGwire's sculpture "Taunt"
Taunt, 2012
Tessa Angus

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