Urban fantasy, MASKS style

This is hilarious. And fascinating.

I’m not a great fan of the “princess” novels of Jim C. Hines, where he reimagines fairytale princesses as action heroes. I’m just not into the princess thing; call it a matter of taste. But I almost suffocated laughing when he recently tried to replicate his main character’s pose on the cover of the first book … and then proceeded to try imitating the poses of other fantasy cover girls to point out how ridiculous they are. He’s in good shape, and he’s a good sport, but it’s just too snicker-worthy for words (more pictures at the link above): 

And then things got really interesting! 

You see, LiveJournal user Ocelott took Hines’ idea a step further, trying to replicate the poses herself (with the advantage of being both female and a former dancer, albeit with a bad knee) and then tried imitating male poses from the covers of well-known fantasy hits like Ariel and Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files novels. And as you’ll see if you read her comments on the photos, she found the female poses uncomfortable and impractical for fighting, while she found the male poses natural, strong, and sensible for the characters being portrayed. Harry Dresden really could use his staff from that position, either to throw fireballs or to crack somebody in the head. But what the hell does Mercy Thompson think she’s doing?

 

The point of all this, of course, is that female fantasy heroines are posed to look sexy first and strong second, if at all, while men are almost always posed to look just plain strong, and maybe a bit mysterious if they have time. They get more practical clothes, too. These are all points that have been made many, many times, and I at least have accepted them as part of life for as long as I’ve been able to read. Women on book covers look stupid; what else is new? 

But while I was looking at Ocelott’s photos, I got a fairly brilliant idea. 

In Masks, Rae is almost never posed for sex appeal, either on the cover or in my illustrations. This is partly because I’m not drawing to appeal to horny teenage guys; I’m trying to convey plot points and create a sense of drama. Mostly, however, it’s because I’m just not a very good artist! I have to sweat blood over even a two-figure illustration, and it still comes out looking sort of weird to my eyes, so I’m not going to try to throw sex appeal in there if I’ve managed to get the anatomy and physics mostly right. I have enough trouble making sure Rae’s eyes are on the same level—I can’t be bothered to try a swaybacked Wonder Woman pose into the bargain. So even when you see Rae’s butt, it’s because she’s throwing a shin strike at Trevor, not because she’s got such a great butt:

 (Fun fact? Both the figures in this shot used male models. Rae was originally a random guy on a martial-arts blog, and Trevor was my older brother, a martial artist who graciously let me throw a shin strike at his ribs and then take a picture of him blocking it.) 

Yes, you’ve discovered my secret: Rae looks like a real person because I couldn’t afford fake people, and it turns out using real people looks better. (At least, it does when you’re as lousy an artist as I am.) Rae’s pose on the Volume 1 cover looks natural and anatomically possible because I made it the old-fashioned way, by dressing up a real person and taking her picture. If you have that costume, and a patient woman of the right build, and a window for light, you can replicate that shot with very little trouble. 

 

All of which gave me an idea! 

I liked Ocelott’s gender-bending pictures so much that I decided to see if I could turn out some cool-looking Rae pinups based on her “male” poses. It was also a great chance to show off the new haircut Rae will have in Volume 2 (people who’ve read the end of Volume 1 know why!). Here’s my first attempt, based on a Simon R. Green cover and Ocelott’s resulting photo. I gave Rae a staff because she doesn’t really use swords, but I could easily envision her picking up a stick or a pipe:

 

Not bad, huh? She looks kind of badass! 

Then I tried the popped-collar shot, which made me smile because it means Rae has borrowed Trevor’s jacket. You can see him in the background there, wondering what on earth is going on. Good fun, this!

 And now I come to the shot that originally inspired this blog entry. I saw this photo on Ocelott’s page and my first thought was, “Damn, Rae has to do that. Even if she doesn’t have the chest for it.” I just loved the set of Ocelott’s head and shoulders, and I wanted to try it with Rae. First I tried it with the staff again:

And then—just for a stretch—I tried it with a coyote. Not Pocket Coyote, mind you—an actual coyote who appears in Chapter 29. He even (spoiler alert!) reappears, giant-sized, in Volume 2, so this is technically canonical. I had to change the position of Rae’s arm because she’s touching fur, not pulling a staff, but it still mostly works, I think.

Real people. Awesome art. Who knew? Oh, that’s right. Me. And you guys. 

Do we rock or what?

God hates ... Superman?

The cost of having cherished ideas is periodically having to check them to make sure they still make sense. Wake me in the night and ask me if I believe in free speech; yes, I will say, absolutely, because as long as you can think for yourself, no idea is more dangerous than ignorance, no utterance worse than censorship.

And then you hear about stupid people like this, and you have to double-check.

Today I was informed that representatives of the Kansas-based Westboro Baptist Church are planning to protest Comic-Con in San Diego on its opening day—Thursday, July 22. For those of you fortunate enough to be unfamiliar with these wretched souls, I will explain, briefly, but not torture you (or gratify them) with a link to their disgusting website.

The members of the Westboro Baptist Church (which is not affiliated with any larger Baptist organization) believe that God hates … well, everybody who isn’t them, basically. But especially gays. And Jews. And Catholics. And the citizens of pretty much every nation on earth (the church sponsors a website called, I kid you not, “God Hates the World”). WBC founder Fred Phelps and his followers first came to national attention by picketing military funerals, screaming epithets at mourners and family members of dead servicemen, shrieking at widows and bereaved friends that their loved ones had died because America tolerates homosexuality and that “God hates” a word I won’t use on this blog but that rhymes with “flags.” They also travel around the country picketing celebrity funerals, high schools, and seemingly random institutions (including, recently, the San Francisco offices of Twitter). Their stated goal is to “spread God’s hate”; it’s also quite likely that they just like being on television.

Now, I have to say I am delighted by the response to these public outpourings of venom. Among others, a biker brigade consisting primarily of military veterans has taken to attending funerals at the request of the bereaved families and revving their engines to drown out the WBC yahoos. Other counter-protestors have taken to playing Israeli folk music and Lady Gaga songs very loudly, or running surrealist protests of their own; the WBC protestors left Twitter after about 20 minutes, perhaps because the news media were training their cameras on well-dressed surrealists smiling and carrying placards with slogans such as “I Have A Sign,” “I Was Promised Donuts,” and “God Hates Retweets.” (The surrealists stayed a while longer, posing for photos with passersby.)

Phelps et al. have apparently decided that Comic-Con needs a good screaming-at because “[Fans] have turned comic book characters into idols, and worship them they do!” Never mind that these people don’t seem to have noticed that Comic-Con isn’t primarily about comics anymore—it’s long been about pop culture in general, including movies, TV shows, anime, books, cosplay, etc. If all goes according to the WBC plan, there will be a ragtag group of crazies standing outside the convention center with brightly colored signs, shrieking their heads off about how much God hates pretty much everyone in the city of San Diego.

And you know what? I’m okay with that.

Granted, I would not want my three-year-old niece exposed to the vile poison these morons are spewing—she tends to repeat random words, especially naughty ones. I consider the WBC’s activities an affront to the faith I practice—but that faith requires that I correct them in love, and then, if necessary, shun them. But I believe now, as I did before I began this entry, that any idea worth believing can survive an occasional intellectual challenge—and if it can’t, it’s not an idea worth believing. I believe in free speech, that people should be allowed to say whatever they like, no matter how nasty or vile, as long as that speech does not directly interfere with the rights of anyone else.

That means that as long as the WBC protestors are not, for example, physically blocking the entrance to the convention center or trying to crash the con without a pass, I’m willing to let them scream whatever they like from a public sidewalk. I support the right of WBC members to scream obscenities—and I support the rights of motorcyclists and surrealists to drown them out and steal the attention they so desperately crave. If by some miracle they’re still going at it on Sunday, when I and my friends will be making our way to the con, I will pass them by, secure in the conviction that anyone with half a brain knows how stupid these people sound, and that anyone without half a brain won’t survive at Comic-Con long enough to spread the poison.

I think this was an ill-considered decision on the WBC’s part, actually, and I feel just a bit sorry for them. Imagine, if you will, a little band of attention junkies with multicolored signs, screaming their lungs out in front of the San Diego Convention Center … all while surrounded by people dressed up as superheroes and vampire slayers and anime characters and Jedi Knights, people who will be laughing and shouting and singing and generally having a fabulous time because, for a few days out of the year, they are with their tribe. How on earth do Fred Phelps and his followers think that anyone will notice them in a crowd like that?

Prejudice intact. I can rest easy.

Oh, and I’m taking submissions for the best counter-protests, on the off chance they’re needed. So far the leading candidates are “God loves death rays” and the Backpack Coyote holding a sign saying, “I was promised roadrunners.”