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• 人体解剖浅看

  作者：yhl420 发布时间：2018-04-23 20:34:14

  首先这是一本图文并茂的人体解剖学书籍。主要的面对方向是艺术用途和了解人体：书中作者 艾略特·古德芬格 运用素描线条的方式和模型的方式告诉了我们人体在各个关节和人体结构上的主要构造，展现了如何透彻的了解审视人体，对如何观察和画好人体骨骼，头部，胸廓，骨盆，双手和双脚，提供了独特的机巧和极具想象力的见解。作者详细的对于每一块肌肉，每一块骨骼都分开细致的对于它们的运行方式进行了分析。加上结构图的分析，能让初学者清晰的理解入门知识，也能帮助学者横向巩固与从不同的角度来了解人体。此外这本书还包含了众多切面图，将人体各个部位一一展现，同时还收录了人体各个部位表面形态的独特画面像是脂肪垫，静脉血管和外生殖器。可以说它适用于各个层次的艺术家。

  同时如果拿本书进行横向的对比，那么也能发现这本书也有一定的不足之处，书中没有模特的照片略显少了一些，对于新手者对于纯人体的理解有明显的障碍。对于艺用的学生来说，如果不能简练出足够的线条来表达人体。希望作者也能够用一些素描的表达方式来反馈出，线于结构之间的关系。

  裸体形象的力量-人类躯体的丰富表现力-总让人们心驰神往。希望这本书能让大家受益良多。也感谢作者给我们呈现出这本书，成为我们的一大借鉴点。

• But Now, I Know That Our Time On Earth Is Finite

  作者：Welfare 发布时间：2017-05-17 18:14:20

  This is a deep, touching cartoon memoir! The author went long history of her family and their survival during WWII and the VietNam War. The French fought with the Japanese for the VietName colony in the 1930's. Then after Japan surrendered, a new regime (Ho Chi Minh) that was both Nationalist and Communist declared the independence of the country. But the French didn't want to give it up; they came back to re-colonize it at least the South VietNam, hence had to fight aginst the communists from the North in the 1960's. The French weren't capable of doing this and here came the Americans to deter the Vietnamese communists in the 1970's.

  

  The author's grandfather is a son of a landowner who rebelled his class and became a high official in the North communist area. But his son, the author's father, rebelled too and rushed to the South capitalist city Saigon. The author's parents were public school teachers trained by French schools in the old time. Once after the South VietName government surrendered, their actions were monitored and their safety threatened by the new communist government due to the class of their original families. They had to escape via the sea to Malaysia. There, they lived in refugee camps and finally flew to the USA under the aids of Red Cross, human rights organizations, and their relatives settled in the USA earlier.

  

  Many years later, when the author gave birth to her son, it leads her to reflect, understand, and empathize with her father and mother --- because of her, her mother had the responsibility to fulfill hence never had the chance to become the person she dreamed to be when young. The time she could be with her mother is finite on this earth. Through all those wars and refugee camps, their later generations can enjoy a safe, free life. That is the best they could do.

  

  

  ---------------------

  Cite:

  pp23 Somehow large responsibilities such as having a child lead to more responsibilities like a steady job and mortgage.

  pp31 Proximity and closeness are not the same.

  pp33 In VietName, my parents, would be considered very old in their seventies. In America, where people their age run marathons or at least live independently, my parents are stuck in limbo between two sets of expectations...and I feel guilty.

  pp38 I suppose for my mother, "I love you" sticks in the throat.

  pp39 How di we get to such a lonely place? We live so close to each other and yet feel so far apart. I keep looking toward the past tracing our journey in reverse over the ocean through the war, seeking an origin story that will set everything right.

  pp 185 Revisiting this game of war and strategy, I think about how none of the VietNamese people have a name or a voice. My grandparents, my parents, my sisters, and me --- We weren't any of the pieces on the chessboard. We were more like ants, scrambling out of the way of giants, getting just far enough from danger to survive.

  pp211 There is no single story of that day, April 30, 1975. In VietNam today, among the victors, it is called Liberation Day. Overseas, among expats like my parents, it is remembered as the day we lost our country.

  pp 221 Life in South Saigon occupied by the North communists: It meant constant monitoring, distrust, and the ever-present feeling that our family could, at any moment, be separated, our safety jeopardized.

  pp 224 The daily fight to survive wore her down.

  

  pp296 I am always amazed at the amount of stuff some people collect in their lives. My family kept sparse records of our existence.

  pp 312---329:

  "That first week of parenting my son was the hardest week of my life, and the only time I ever felt called upon to be HEROIC. However much my body wanted to rest, a force pulled me onto my feet with the clear and simple directive --- KEEP HIM ALIVE!

  

  When the hospital finally released our son it still took both of me and my husband holding him down to get him to nurse. In the last moments at the hospital, as I waited for my husband to get the car, alone with my son and feeling COMPETENT, I relaxed and started to speak to him: "Child, it's mother," in Vietnamese. I could hear echoes of my mother's voice speaking to me in my own childhood...but I could feel the voice coming from my own throat.

  As a child, I thought my mother's voice was beautiful. She hated it, but I loved its raspiness. "We are about to go home. We ARE going home." When my mother spoke to me, she spoke softly, the tone of Vietnamese giving it music --- not high and reedy, but scratchy and bluesy. I always wished I had her voice.

  I'm no longer a kid...am I? Having a child taught me, certainly, that I am not the center of the universe. But being a child, even a grown-up one, seems to me to be a lifetime pass for selfishness. We hang resentment onto the things our parents did to us, or the things they DIDN'T do for us ...

  To accidentally call myself Me was to slip myself into her shoes, just for a moment. To let her be not what I ant her to be, but someone independent, self-determining, and free, means letting go of that picture of her in my head. You can't always get what you want. When I was a child to have spending money. There was one year I saved up so many coins that, with my new-year money, I had one hundred dollars --- which I was going to proudly present to my mother for Mother's Day. To help her out. It was going to be amazing. But when Ii counted the coins, I found that my match had been all wrong and that I was quite a bit short. Instead of a triumphant gift, Mama got a wet shoulder from my tears; she said "It's okay. You keep it. It's enough that you thought of me." What if all my mother remembered was that I came up short? How do I let go of all the anger I have put away?

  

  I wasn't ready to lose my mother when I was thirteen. But now, at forty (and she's in her seventies), I know that our time on earth is finite. What becomes of us after we die? Do we live on in what we leave to our children? How much of ME is my own, and how much is stamped into my blood and bone, predestined?

  

  I used to imagine that history had infused my parent's lives with the dust of a cataclysmic explosion. That it had seeped through their skin and become part of their blood.

  

  That being father's child, I, too, was a product of war... and being my mother's child, could never measure up to her. But maybe being their child simply means that I will always feel that weight of their past. Nothing that happened makes me special. But my life is a gift that is too great --- a debt I can never repay.

  

  At least I no longer feel the need to reclaim a HOMELAND. I understand enough of VietNam's history now to know that the ground beneath my parents' feet had always been shifting...so that by the time I was born, VietNnam was not my country at all. I was only a small part of it.

  What has worried me since having my own child was whether I would pass along some gene for sorrow or unintentionally inflict damage I could never undo. But when I look at my son, now ten years old, I don't see war and loss or even my husband and me.

  I see a new life, bound with mine quite by coincidence, and I think maybe he can be free."