Here is the result of my first modeling tutorial. I think it's pretty cool. It took quite a while. I think it looks reasonably realistic. Many of the ones on the website looked like the sky was too dark.
I just finished formatting my fourth blog, and I'm beginning to think there is something wrong with me. Can a person have too many blogs? We all know the saying, perhaps, that a "Jack of all trades is good at none." Well, I hope that doesn't apply to blogs. Could it be said that a "Jack of all blogs is good at none"? Have I created an intellectual prism, through which my mental powers are divided into the individual colors that make up the whole? Either the brilliance of the beam is dispersed through the prism, or the seperation of colors makes for a pleasant medley of distinct tastes that make up something greater and more delicious than could otherwise be achieved through only one blog.
Normally, any entry here would be analytical and thought-provoking (I hope), but I'm in too melancholy a mood for that sort of writing. The only thing that feels satisfying is to fill some sort of emptiness - the emptiness of this page - with meaning. To give intelligence to the void is creation, and creation gives worth to self. But what to fill it with... what intelligence will be the substance? Should I detail all the thoughts and feelings of my heart, of late? Probably not; that would be inappropriate for this somewhat public place. Perhaps the happenings of my first week of school here at BYU Idaho... but I don't feel like writing of events; I never do. Events are cold. The workings of the heart are the true story of any event. I hardly have the skills to make events and the heart of one reality. Then why am I writing? Maybe it's that void thing. Or maybe writing makes me feel like my life is significant. I think we all seek validation in some form from time...
"It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors." Oscar Wilde said it. The art is nothing until it is translated into thought. The significance of the art has its roots in the spectator, and not in the surrounding world or in the art itself. We go through life with the supposition that reality is concrete, that it exists wholly independently as it's true self. The brick, the mortar, that makes up the wall of a home is simply a piece of fired clay stuck to other fired clay by some sand and cement. That is the impersonal reality of it. But is not reality - or what we know of it - just simply the general conclusions which we come to through observation? It is the spectator that gives identity or perspective to existence. Some persons may see the mentioned brick in different ways. One man says it is a brick, nothing more; but another man, an architect perhaps, comprehends the vital purpose that the particular brick - and every other brick - fulfils in the struc...
I'd love to know how you did this. Very cool.
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