Tuesday, January 31, 2012

The Livescribe Smartpen

Note - This is a product review of a new toy I'm using.  If this review gets you all wildly fired up to buy one of these things, you can buy one from this link and I'll get a few bucks of credit and you'll get 15% off, which is nice savings on a gadget that can run $100 to $200, depending on how fancy you want it.  I was not given a free pen or anything else to shill for these folks, I just happen to think it's a cool gadget and I needed a blog post subject this week - Ergo, a hardware review.

Over the years of writing this blog, I've commented on some various unusual workshop tools, and here is another one that's fast becoming an essential part of my working process.  I don't know how other pipemakers keep their records, but I am an inveterate scribbler - My work station is usually overflowing with small notepaper scraps that I've covered with pipe designs, ideas, and reference instructions for various processes.  In the past, this stuff would typically get lost or tossed out, leading me to the frustrating problem of often having to RE-figure out how to accomplish an effect that I'd already figured out a year or two previous, but hadn't done in a while.

The first step in handling this was to create my own little "grimoire" in the Mac app Notebook.  That's an extremely useful program that allows one to assemble piles of mixed media - Audio, video, drawing scans, text, etc - into a notebook format that can be easily annotated and added to.  I started scanning my sketches in and made a point to type up the step by step guides that I made for our workshop reference.  It worked well and I quickly assembled a fairly comprehensive "Book of Pipemaking", a cyber-tome that includes such errata as staining guides, toolmaking tips, HTML and website info, writing ideas, design ideas, and even a blacklist of known bad seed buyers to avoid selling to.  This worked pretty well but for one flaw - My scribbling typically runs far ahead of the info that I have taken the time to enter into the notebook, so there were plenty of times I would throw something out instead of bothering to scan it and enter it.  Also, just typing out notes is time-consuming and written text doesn't always convey the nuances and asides that I might have had at the time.

Enter the Livescribe "Echo" smartpen, a 4 gigabyte "pen" that can literally record my drawings and handwriting into itself as I scribble, and transfer that directly to the computer when plugged into a USB port.  This is freaky, especially to a guy like me who grew up when a techno-gadget was the ratcheting motorized antenna dial in the box on top of the TV that rotated your antenna between channels 2, 8, and 12.  The Echo literally "reads" my handwriting and drawing as I make it, and feeds it to the computer in the form of PDFs, PNGs, text-to-speech, or even animated videos that record the sequence of a drawing as it is done.
It's every bit as freaky as it sounds.  The real advantage, for me, is that it also records audio as well as writing.  Picture this typical workshop scene - You're sitting down planning out how to do something complicated, say a bamboo-shanked churchwarden with decorative rings at each end and a handcut stem, and you want it to be a contrast-stained bowl.  You want to get all the steps in order so you pull out this insane intelligent pen and start writing in what goes when.  As you're writing, you can just talk, commenting on additional thoughts or ideas at each step that are too complex to write out in detail...  Talking is always faster than writing.  What you're writing AND saying is all getting slurped into the pen for easy reference later, and the thing is even time-synched - That is to say, you can tap your pen on different steps you've written and it will play back what you were saying at that time.  For instance, imagine the sequence below, the steps involved in making one of the 2011 Yule pipes:

The rough pen writing is as simple and crude as most of my notes, but the file has the advantage that I can simply tap the pen tip on step #7, say, and it will play back my synched audio of comments about that particular step... which are likely to be much more involved than the actual written step.  Pages of text & diagrams can be saved as PNG files or combined visual/audio PDF files, and tucked into my Notebook app as individual subjects and chapters.  Ergo, "How to achieve a two-toned sandblast with black recesses and gold highlights" can quickly go from a scrap page of notes to become its own chapter title in my collected grimoire, complete with full audio playback of my comments about the process.

It's pretty awesome.

It's also been handy in drawing the cartoons for my gradually-developing Kentucky Fried Popcorn webcomic.  The pen does not read existing pencils, so I can do rough sketches and poses and wireframe figures with pencil, then carefully use the smartpen to ink over my pencils and produce a polished, finished ink drawing without any erasing needed.  It's the high tech version of drawing roughs with non-photo blue pencil.

It has limitations.  The biggest is that it requires custom paper to "read" from - You can either buy notebooks and sketchbooks from Livescribe or print your own paper from free templates if you have access to a 600dpi laser printer.  Also, its ability to read complex shading and crosshatching is limited - Too many overlapping fine lines will cause it to leave blank spaces in the computer scan version where it lost the ability to track the lines.  What it really prefers are strong, elegant, controlled lines in drawings.  I'd love to see its abilities as an art tool developed further, because right now the only other similar tool on the market is the Wacom Inkling and it lacks the Echo's audio recording and synching abilities.  Battery life has been excellent, but the occasional firmware updates are annoying - As a traditional media artist, I am not accustomed to having to apply software revisions to my pen.  Other than those caveats, though, it is a pretty impressive piece of kit, and I'd definitely recommend one to anyone whose job involves a lot of note taking.

Sunday, December 18, 2011

A Christmas Story

The following is a true story from our last Christmas in France.

Christmas for expats is the loneliest time of the year.  You're far from home, no family, few friends...  I'm not a very social person by nature, but the feeling of being locked out in the cold is inescapable.  It's Christmas Eve night, 2008, and we're going out for a midnight walk through our small village of Herbignac.  Around me, the stone walls of our house encompass a little pocket of warmth - The den is decorated with lights strung through the ceiling beams, holly on the mantle, and our Christmas tree stands in the corner decked out in the best we can manage, with LED lights doing their slow fading, color changing dance.

I'm waiting for my wife to get ready.  Christmas Eve midnight always seems like the coldest night of the year, and it's impossible to dress too warmly.  While she bundles up, I stare thoughtfully at the tree, thinking about Christmas and where our lives are going...  We're not staying in France, we can't afford it.  Crippling taxes have crushed the life out of our business and we're done - We know there's no way we can carry on into 2009, and we'll be returning to the states one way or another.  I watch the lights, thinking about the house around me.  Home for seven hard years.  We did our best to bring it to life and shape it into something good, but I know in my heart that this is the last time I'll be standing in this den in this foreign land... Still strange and alien, in so many ways, even for all the time we've been here.

When Emily is ready, we're out the door into the frigid night.  There's no snow here, but the cobblestone streets glisten wet from the unending rains and reflect the colorful holiday lights above.  The whole village is strung with decorations, their colors echoing a human defiance of the brooding grey winter all around.  It's like that here at Christmas...  The town is empty and dark after sunset, no people ever seen, but the lights shine on through the night.  You'd think it was a ghost town, or some deserted European village set from a 1940's Frankenstein film.  Sometimes the streets and stone buildings seem carved from one single gigantic rock, a hollowed out chunk of impervious granite.

We cross the rond-point and start the walk uphill to the center of the village.  I know the church has a midnight service but that's not what draws us. It's more a strange, wistful longing just to see someone...  Another human being, people with families, friends wishing each other goodnight and happy holidays, all the warm social connections we've felt so apart from for so long here. 

Overhead, flag cables clang against their poles with that mournful ringing that always sounds so much like ship's rigging.  I know this bell sound is something I'll carry for life, it and the faint sea salt smell of the air, whenever I close my eyes and remember this moment.  Up the hill, the immense church looms against the black sky and our footsteps echo on the sidewalk stones.  The emptiness is so strange, something I still can't wrap my head around...  Walk downtown at midnight in most US cities and if you don't get mugged, you'll find open restaurants, clubs, bars, and all the signs of civilization as nighthawks jostle past you living their after hours lives.  Here, the evening village looks like a child's playset with all the dolls removed...  Perfect, scenic, quaint, "action figures sold separately".

The street into centre ville runs up past the church and opens into the center square, lit up with green and red lights that cross over the road like paths of stars.  The church service is just letting out and it's a unique experience - Literally the only time in our seven years that we've seen anyone but ourselves out on the sidewalks at this hour.  On the church steps, friends and family talk, argue, and say their goodbyes.  We slip through them and step inside and for a few moments, we're almost warm.  The vaulted ceiling won't ever let it be cozy in here, but at least we're out of the freezing wind.  We wander idly around the entry, invisible to the locals immersed in their private lives and closed circles.  It's a beautiful church on the inside but I can't help but wonder, "Where is god in all this grandeur?  People have made this a building worth seeing, true, but is it to impress a higher power or just ourselves?"

No easy answers.  "I'll never see any of this again", I think, and try to absorb the entirety of the scene somehow, pulling it in through my skin and freezeframing it in my memory, even the bits that cut.  After a while it starts to empty out and we'd best be on our way.  Outside, it feels even colder now, but at least the wind has stopped.  The last cars are driving off and that preternatural Breton stillness is descending.  It won't be long before the village is empty again, a deserted movie set with all the crew gone home.  Silent night.

Our footsteps echo quietly as we cross the square to head back toward home.  Unexpectedly, there's someone else on the sidewalk ahead of us.  It's startling...  We never meet anyone out walking like this, not in seven years.  It's an elderly lady in a heavy coat.  She stops at the edge of the sidewalk, waiting.  As we pass by her, she looks up at us and speaks in a tired but friendly voice.

"Joyeux Noël", she says.

For a second I don't even know how to respond... I was expecting her to ignore us like the people at the church did.  Then we both recover and answer, "Joyeux Noël" in return, in sync.  She smiles, we smile, and then we're past her, walking down the hill.  I'm tempted to turn and look back.  Will she still be there, I wonder, or will she have vanished like some Christmas ghost?  Is the street behind me empty?

I don't turn and look.  I'd rather not know.

At the bottom of the hill is our house, lit up by the streetlights and serenaded by the clang of the flag rigging.  I wonder where I'll be sleeping this time next year.  I wonder what the new year will bring.  And I look up into the black sky at the million stars overhead and think to myself, "Merry Christmas."


Thursday, December 01, 2011

Repairing a Delrin Tenon

I recently did a repair job on one of our Ligne Bretagne tenons, replacing one that the owner had melted with a new one, and I thought it might be worth photographing to show the process involved in even such a simple repair as a tenon replacement.  This is an excellent explanation for why $50 factory pipes aren't worth the labor costs to repair, not compared to the replacement cost, unless there is some strong sentimental attachment involved.  Click each page pic below for the full-sized version!