Inspired by the poem The Forest by Susan Stewart
Music Cloudback by Podington Bear
The project was initially only a set of style frames for a possible lyric video for song The Forest by mirah. A year later I decided to incorporate many elements from the style and theme into a fully animated work.
I found the poem The Forest by Susan Stewart and was inspired to revive my initial concept. I loved how descriptive and magical the poem was and decided to focus on the theme of exploring through the memories of a place that no longer exists. The animation would act as a visual interpretation of the some of the vivid descriptions of the forest seen in the text.
The Forest
Susan Stewart, 1952
You should lie down now and remember the forest, for it is disappearing--no, the truth is it is gone now and so what details you can bring back might have a kind of life.Not the one you had hoped for, but a life--you should lie down now and remember the forest--nonetheless, you might call it “in the forest,"no the truth is, it is gone now,starting somewhere near the beginning, that edge,Or instead the first layer, the place you remember (not the one you had hoped for, but a life)as if it were firm, underfoot, for that place is a sea, nonetheless, you might call it “in the forest,"which we can never drift above, we were there or we were not,No surface, skimming. And blank in life, too, or instead the first layer, the place you remember, as layers fold in time, black humus there, as if it were firm, underfoot, for that place is a sea, like a light left hand descending, always on the same keys.The flecked birds of the forest sing behind and before no surface, skimming. And blank in life, too, sing without a music where there cannot be an order, as layers fold in time, black humus there, where wide swatches of light slice between gray trunks,Where the air has a texture of drying moss, the flecked birds of the forest sing behind and before:a musk from the mushrooms and scalloped molds. They sing without a music where there cannot be an order, though high in the dry leaves something does fall,Nothing comes down to us here. Where the air has a texture of drying moss, (in that place where I was raised) the forest was tangled, a musk from the mushrooms and scalloped molds, tangled with brambles, soft-starred and moving, fernsAnd the marred twines of cinquefoil, false strawberry, sumac--nothing comes down to us here, stained. A low branch swinging above a brook in that place where I was raised, the forest was tangled, and a cave just the width of shoulder blades.You can understand what I am doing when I think of the entry--and the marred twines of cinquefoil, false strawberry, sumac--as a kind of limit. Sometimes I imagine us walking there (. . .pokeberry, stained. A low branch swinging above a brook) in a place that is something like a forest.But perhaps the other kind, where the ground is covered (you can understand what I am doing when I think of the entry) by pliant green needles, there below the piney fronds, a kind of limit. Sometimes I imagine us walking there. And quickening below lie the sharp brown blades,The disfiguring blackness, then the bulbed phosphorescence of the roots. But perhaps the other kind, where the ground is covered, so strangely alike and yet singular, too, belowthe pliant green needles, the piney fronds.Once we were lost in the forest, so strangely alike and yet singular, too, but the truth is, it is, lost to us now.
Storyboard
