Tuesday, February 9, 2016

20160209 Tuft Term Forsaken 

I have had my Coleridge moment. My insurance agent was toe pain, and my Xanadu is incomplete. I hurt my foot, and my pain stole a perfect word from me. I was placing synthetic tufts of fake grass on my miniatures, and I found an evocative phrase that rolled of the tounge beautifully. It completely explained in two concise words the artistry of placing tufts in order to tell a story. I was hoping to evoke a yearning in each artist present to go off and find the storytelling potential in the least of your details.

If a millimeter wide tuft of painted and pruned polymer can tell you a story of pain and suffering, the passing of giants, the crushing of friends so near, surely each of us can find something to tell our story, or emote the story of another. The giant talon of a steam powered monstrosity may never excite or inspire us, but a well placed, and crushed, piece of grass can say more words that we can imagine.

Tig is much better at colour than I am, so she lead me to choose the best of the tufts, and while I was placing them at the feet of my miniatures, a story and an overarching theme developed. I had a beautiful bright green to really make the red pop, and then I decided I would use a more yellowed tuft underneath the steps of the steam and magic driven engines that define this game.

Towards the front of the figure, in the direction of travel, the tufts are brighter, larger, higher and happier. The ones that have been missed by the stomping boots are still bright, but shaped away as if in fear, and the ones underneath the oppressive tread are crushed and defeat.

I had a perfect phrase to summarize this feeling, to paint a picture that even the non aficionado could draw warmth from the vision. Alas, it it is hidden alongside the lost pleasure domes, whatever may be decried or decreed.

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