mattfeltsportfolio

[mattfeltsportfolio]

Concept for a would-be special interest magazine about choruses. I had a lot of fun coming up with the font at the header. Abstracting something down to the base geometry is one of my favorite things about artwork.

Done in Illustrator.

[mattfeltsportfolio]

An old piece from before I formally learned to draw the human figure, depicting my favorite piece of American folklore - in the style of a boxing flyer. I wanted John Henry to look monolithic, like a statue of a Greek god or a comic book hero, hence the simplified figure and use of hatching. There may be figures, but this was first and foremost a piece of graphic design. Little things like the railroad border, the hammer dividing the figures, the style of the letters, the touching of the letters with each other and the white of the border, and the overlapping and combining of the “N” “V” and “Y” in “John” “Vs.” and “Henry” make this maybe one of my favorite design jobs.

Made with watercolors and Sharpie markers.

[mattfeltsportfolio]

A study of hands, cross-hatched in ink on 18x24 drawing paper. I leaned on contrast heavily for this piece - the hands are rich with detail while the inorganic elements are relatively clean. Old hands are so interesting - there’s something beautiful about those wrinkles and veins, everything they’ve done and weathered.

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A piece of graphic design abstracted from tire treads, a companion to my work on the gas mask collage. Made with acrylic paint.

[mattfeltsportfolio]

A collage made as commentary on refuse and waste. The materials include a yogurt cup, a button, broken 3-D glasses, a medicine bottle, a compact mirror, a cut-up reusable grocery bag, a plastic ramen bowl, and tire chips requisitioned from a local park, seized under the judging stares of soccer moms and four-year-olds.

[mattfeltsportfolio]

A piece of abstract 2-D design, mainly as an exploration of shapes and border options. Believe it or not, this was based off of an image of a horse: the remnants of what would have been its neck can be seen in the lower left corner.

Done in acrylic.

[mattfeltsportfolio]

This piece was actually inspired by a song - specifically, a song from one of my very favorite TV shows and biggest inspirations, Cowboy Bebop. The song is called Bindy, and each element of the composition corresponds to one of the lines of instrumentation: the percussion represented by rounded-off, staccato diamonds, matching the song in rhythm; the wind instruments by the curves of the flower stems and petals; and the atypical saxophone by the contrasting diamonds. The song is evocative of an Indian or Middle Eastern marketplace, so I wanted to create something that looks like it would belong in such a place. 

Fun fact: this was done with acrylic paint, on tile purchased from Home Depot, to get that nice, sandstone-esque texture.

[mattfeltsportfolio]

A study of my dad’s wrinkly, weird old man feet. Great to draw, because they have a lot of character.

Done in graphite.

[mattfeltsportfolio]

A portrait of my friend Claire, done in vine charcoal. Nailing the texture of her heather shirt was difficult but rewarding. She looks a little film noir, doesn’t she?

[mattfeltsportfolio]

A nude done in the painterly style, using charcoal and red and brown conte crayon. Probably the best work I’ve done in the shortest amount of time; it took less than twenty minutes to create but may be my favorite rendering I’ve done of the human figure.

[mattfeltsportfolio]

One of my favorite designs, in acrylic paint. The implied lines and illusion of depth call to mind the interlocking of fabric threads, or a chainlink fence. Creating this design required a lot of precision and I’m extremely proud of it. It’s a recurring element in my work - it shows up in the background of a portrait of my dad and as the frame in a tarot-inspired self portrait.

[mattfeltsportfolio]

Major Arcana #4 - The Empress.

Done in the painterly style, in order to exploit the contrast between the complexity of the skin with the simplicity of the dress, hair, and border. Water, charcoal, and conte crayon on drawing paper, 48x36.

[mattfeltsportfolio]

Major Arcana Number XIX - The Sun.

Another one of my favorite pieces, a self-portrait in the style of Shigenori Soejima. A marriage of figure, texture, and graphic design. Incorporating a previous design of mine into the frame, and signifying my obsession with the symbolism of the Major Arcana of the tarot and the sun itself. My clothes in the composition were made by scanning in the actual articles of clothing, to create a unique effect incorporating their patterns, textures, and colors in a simplified form.

Done in Photoshop.

[mattfeltsportfolio]

My old man.

Very happy with the light on his head and the texture of the leather cushion.

Done in vine charcoal on 18x24 drawing paper.

[mattfeltsportfolio]

Possibly my number one piece of work, and a deeply personal piece. The light in this cafe created an incredible opportunity to explore gradients and shading. The way the figure emerges out of an abstract background, combined with her pensive expression, creates a moody, sombre atmosphere. Like the portrait of Claire, it evokes film noir, though this piece is a bit more dreamlike. Done in vine charcoal, and the piece that cemented the material as my muse.

[mattfeltsportfolio]

Eulogy

     The last man stood in darkness, amid the wreckage of humanity. A candle burned in his hand. He was in a great concrete basement, surrounded by pillars and crates and shelves. Piles of detritus lay about him, paintings, discs, photographs. There were portraits and landscapes done by legendary masters and fledgling neophytes; drawings and sketches of men and women from time long gone; magazines filled with once-vogue fashion, once thought fleeting and transient, now precious, final; scrapbooks of family photos and portfolios of professionals; film on reel, television on tape, music on vinyl. And above all there were books, heavy texts of history and mythology, dogeared journals, pristine novels, stories and songs, fact and fiction, on shelves, in boxes, spilling out of their appointed places into towers of tales, carpets of culture, all rescued from the empty and silent world.      It was his life’s work.      There was an ache in the man’s chest as he looked over it. He wondered who, if anyone, would find it, or if it mattered. One day the building would collapse, or the basement would flood; or rot would take the paper and the discs, and all here would be swept away. He had known that even when he started, but he did it anyway.      He took a battered, wooden chair with a tall back and a red velvet cushion from the edge of the room, amid a pile of sheets and boxes, and dragged it into the center of the murk. He thought to say aloud, Well, that’s that, but thought it a poor eulogy; instead he thought of something he had read a very long time ago, and said: It is finished.      With that, he snuffed the candle and sat the throne, and waited in darkness for darkness to come.      The last man awoke. He was startled by a terrific clamor that came bouncing from the stairwell, down through his door, to his makeshift throne in his makeshift library. At first he thought some animal had somehow come charging into his home, but no: they had vanished years ago. As his ears strained to listen he heard the rhythmic clatter of footfalls on the metal steps.      Then, from the dark, they appeared.      The man’s head swam as he struggled to behold them in the shadows. He had not seen another person in years, but observed with a sort of removed indifference that he was too weak to raise his hand and greet them. Two they were, or seemed to be; a girl and boy with matched faces. The boy quailed at the threshold; with urgency the girl waved him forward, but he shook his head and hid behind the door-frame. She looked at him, hardly, for a moment, brow knit; then without a second glance at him strode swiftly and surely between the pillars of paper and plaster to where sat the last man.      The girl seemed to waver in the darkness as she came to him. As he blinked stupidly at her she by turns appeared to be young, fresh-faced, full of vigor; or a small girl with dimples in her cheeks and mischief in her eyes; or an old woman, wizened and wrinkled but warmly, softly smiling. She was sometimes black, and sometimes white, and every other color of the innumerable peoples of the earth; sometimes he was looking at a girl, and sometimes a boy who appeared like her brother, or someone who appeared to be both or neither at all; but finally when she bent down and blew light into the candle the figures coalesced into a young woman again and he knew that what he saw was impossible.      Are you God? he asked.      The corners of her eyes crinkled and she smiled at him. Not exactly, she said. I’m here to ease your pain.      She looked around in the dim at the moldering wood and the yellowed parchment.      This is really quite lovely, she said.      The man stared at her in shock.      No, really, I mean it. This is a really meaningful thing you’ve made here. You did good.      I did my best, he replied. Then he looked around at all he had gathered, and all he had not gathered; he thought of all the things that time and decay would steal, all the things that would go forgotten in the night, and never again be known; and his eyes burned, and he wept, and all he could say was: I did my best. I did my best.      Shh. I know. I know.      She went to his side and held tightly to his shoulder as he shook. He cried, and the tears passed his stringy hair into his ragged old beard, and she held him. At length his shuddering slowed; his gasping ceased, his face calmed, and then he moved no more. She looked at him, frowning. After a long time had passed she took her hand from his shoulder, blew the candle out, and said, sadly:      Well, that’s that.      You should have watched, the girl said to her twin. End of an era.      You shouldn’t joke about things like that.      I wasn’t.      They two walked out into the gray, misty daylight, into the faint shadows cast off by the overgrown trees and the crumbling skyscrapers. It was warm, and a gentle rainfall was kissing the earth and the asphalt, the grass and the leaves. Despite the muted air, the foliage around them was bright, verdant and full.      The boy wouldn’t look at her. He kicked at a loose pebble of gravel on the ground.      I didn’t want to watch anyway.      His sister gave him a look. Just because you don’t want to look at something doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.      He said nothing and remained staring obstinately at the ground.      It was a good thing he did, even if it won’t last.      Yeah.      Do you know what I think?      What’s that?      I think you’re actually pretty upset.      What if I am?      She shrugged. Do you want to just sit for a while?      For a moment he looked at her, pensive.      Yeah. You know what, I think I would really like that.      They sat with their arms around their knees to watch the blue pearl spinning  beneath them in the void. She wanted to look at the thing in its entirety. All about them was vast and empty, save for the light given by the solitary star nearby. It washed warmly over them and the quiet sphere below, halfway caught between light and shadow. The boy was staring at it like he had pain from a phantom limb.      The girl put her hand on her brother’s shoulder and said, tell me what you’re thinking.      He turned to look her in the eye for the first time that day.      Just. Was it worth it?      I think it was, yeah.      All those miserable people.      Yeah. Even so.      All the bad stuff they did.      I think the good stuff outweighs the bad stuff.      He sighed deeply and turned to look at it again, shaking his head.      Everything that happened and nothing to show for it.      She scrunched up her face at him and replied, that was never the point.      It is, though. One day that little rock will be gray and cold and still. And after that that star over there will burn out and take everything with it. It’ll be like nothing ever happened.      She turned from him to look below them, and was silent for a moment; then she said, firmly and quietly:      But it did happen.      He sat for a while, watching the world turn, saying nothing; but eventually replied: Yeah. I know. His sister hugged him very tightly and did not let go for a long time. Then, together, they stood up and set off walking into the long dark. They stole one last glance over their shoulders as they went.      It’s just like a story, his sister said. You can’t have a good one unless it ends.