I've added 4 new Crash Bandicoot icons to my collection of Little icons I'm making. Feel free to download any you like from the link below
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An Halloween piece I did for the year of 2021. Was the first time I drew Mr. Crumb and certainly wont be the last!
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Ballard and Ishiguro
“In the future everyone will need to be a film critic to make sense of anything.”
(Dick - The Kindness of Women, JG Ballard)
On the second day of the succession of Sundays Easter Weekend represents I woke early to no WIFI and a dog keen to go out at the earliest opportunity. I drank Chai and took the sliver of amphetamine that is enough to kick start my brain, but not so much to kick off breakthrough migraine.
In the chill of the sun we beat the bounds of the park while I listened to Ballard’s autobiographical work. To me, the endless descriptions of the car crashes he became obsessed with as a symbol of the twisted modernity of the 60s, were one of his least compelling narratives, and, as my brain awoke I wondered if this was because it was borrowed from the mind of his Shanghai boyhood and lifelong friend, David?
***
It occurred to me that the months leading up to my Ballard/Ishiguro season had created my sudden deep dive to this Yang and Yin of authors. Ballard’s violent extremism, Ishiguro’s repressed, internal violence. I wondered if they’d ever met? If they’d read each other?
One of Ishiguro’s novels abandons his usually Pacific tone to explore the chaos of Shanghai. It takes place during the days of the opium trade which the International Settlement of Ballard’s childhood created, then moves to London for an inter-war pause for the protagonist to grow up and become a detective. While the foreshadowing of World War Two is playing itself out he returns to Shanghai to find his probably long dead parents, with the enthusiasm, simplicity and hubris of a boy. And it is in Shanghai, already staging a violent struggle between the Chinese and the Japanese, we find the arrogant English treating the bombings as a kind of fireworks show, and a backdrop to their incessant social lives. The trail is, of course, cold, and he is about to leave when he gets drawn into a search for his parents in an area which Dickens would recognise as a Rookery. This is where the Chinese factory workers live. There are no streets, but shacks built against other shacks in a formless anarchy. What he finds there is an hallucination of a boyhood friendship with a Japanese boy. I think, if Ballard had written When We Were Orphans it would have been celebrated, but apparently this book is a duff and an aberration from Ishiguro’s pen. We prefer him to talk about ignored violence, while we accept any kind of excess from Ballard without question.
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My version of the character many of us were waiting for this Halloween in Crash Team Rumble , Evil Crash ⛈️
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