"Some people care too much. I think it's called love," says Winnie-the-Pooh.
Image: Wisdom by Winnie the Pooh. Art by me, Chris Olson. The role of Pooh played by the handmade and much-loved Honey Bear. Feel free to Pin it on Pinterest with a link back to this post. Thanks!
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What happens to all the books on the shelves after the bookstore lights go out at night? I believe books come to life. And why not, when I read to my kids at bedtime our books seem to have special magical powers that transport us to new places.
A whimsical stop-motion video, The Joy of Books, takes us to the wonderful TYPE Books in Toronto where the books seem to have loads of fun after the owner goes home each night. The video was created by Sean Ohlenkamp, an associate creative director at the Toronto advertising agency Lowe Roche. To make videos like this, the creators must shoot each image frame-by-frame. Creating a stop-motion video is extremely time consuming. Each video in this format is truly a labor of love. According to an article in TheStar.com about the creation of the The Joy of Books, "Each second of the piece uses approximately 10 frames, so in all the almost--two-minute work used about 1,200 frames."
One of my favorite lines from Nora Ephron's movie "You've Got Mail" probably sums up the magical power of books best:
"When you read a book as a child, it becomes a part of your identity in a way that no other reading in your whole life."
Grab your kids and together enjoy this lovely stop-motion video The Joy of Books featuring Toronto's TYPE Books.
Kudos to my friend Laurie Hertzel, @StribBooks, for telling me about this video!
Photo and video: The Joy of Books.
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Warmest wishes to all of you on this holiday weekend. The following story is a chapter from my novel I recently finished thanks to my fabulous instructor at MediaBistro.com and my wonderful classmates.
Thanksgiving dinner and the white plates
“Did you remember to call Mom yesterday?” my brother Tony asks over heaping portions of comfort food at the Atwood Cafe. “It was her sixty-fifth birthday.”
I stir my golden corn niblets into a pair of mashed potato domes.
“You can’t just pick up the phone and call her,” I say.
“Why not? Mom only had a stroke, not a lobotomy.”
“But she can’t talk. Why call her?”
“Because Mom still likes to hear your voice.”
My brother leans back, tipping his chair so far I grab him and blurt out, “You're going to crack your head open.”
As soon as I say it, we both know it. That’s exactly what Mom would tell Tony too.
“You sound just like Mom,” he laughs still leaning back.
“A curse.”
“Well, if it is, then this curse of yours is definitely a good thing.”
• • •
When I step outside the Atwood Cafe, I start to cry. I never used to cry in public. Before my daughter Betsy was born five years ago and I went on estrogen overload, I was in control of my emotions.
I dip my chin deep into my scratchy wool scarf to hide my tears as I walk down Michigan Avenue. I feel like my sister. She’s the emotional wreck in my family with overflowing laundry baskets, a chronically broken washing machine, a pot roast burning in the oven, and three kids holding her hostage in her own home. Read More
Illustration: Chris Olson © 2010.
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