Showing posts with label Lies Van Gasse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lies Van Gasse. Show all posts

February 4, 2014

Graphic Design Festival Breda


We are ready for the flight!
This design will be submitted for the Graphic Design Festival in Breda.
We are heading to the deadline on the 7th of february and our 'Eendenkind'
wants to participate in this election.
More practical info about this festival you can find here :
GRAPHIC DESING FESTIVAL BREDA 2014
Cross your fingers for us and our Duckchild ;)

January 30, 2014

Eendenkind / Posterdesign for a poem by Lies Van Gasse

Proud to present you my posterdesign I made inspired on a poem written by my friend, collegue, writer and poet Lies Van Gasse. It all started on the first minutes of 2014. While me and my family were watching the fireworks in the little village of my parents, close to many creeks and rivers and some tiny natural reserves,( Belgian, so very very tiny!) we heard something crashing onto the concrete. An adult duck, a boy, was laying on his back and moved one leg, watched hopeless into my eyes and let life flowing away of his full and more then attractive body...he died in front of us. Some blood on his beak told us he must had crashed somewhere haunted by the horrible sound of the fireworks.

This story inspired Lies, and some weeks later her poem was born.
I had still the image living in my memories and almost immediately I saw an image for the poem.
I worked only with ink and pencil and it turned out that I could combine finally my calligraphy and my illustration. I can tell you, that feels so good!
So this is the result!
It's called :
 what means in dutch, Ducks Child,...
I'm so sorry, I will not dare to translate the poem into english but I can tell you that it is very touching, about a city of lace, about loosing, pain, but also some hope and further horizons.


Op nieuwjaarsnacht valt uit de lucht

een eendenkind.


Zout schuimt om haar lippen.
Huiswaarts is een woud,
de armen van een kanten stad.

Mistbanken liggen op land
als een drijvend eiland.

Onderin de buik
een vlechtwerk van twijgen,
een stoet van dode dichters,
steen waarop men rollen zou.

Aardplaten verschuiven.
Regels beheersen ons leven.

Ik ga de hoepel af.
We steken in betonnen dozen
en verlangen naar de uitgang.

Volgzaam kijk ik, als een hond,
naar de tamme val, 

haar bek als een scheermes,
het zachte vlees van de nacht.

Sindsdien bijt ik op glas.
Er valt een muur van licht,
wij moeten in die volheid slapen.


Here some pictures of work in progress.