Sean Parker
BA (Hons) Illustration
London College of Communication
(+44) 07985 773109


Dralking and Lifty Things.

Basically, I was walking and drawing.
Then I drew some cranes whilst waiting for a bus.
Please, don't judge me.



Hugh and I signed up to the Letterpress course a couple of weeks before Christmas. We finally got our chance to get all typosexual last week, and it was amazing. A time-consuming process, but one that instigates a high level of precision and and eye for composition.
Not the most exciting project you have ever had to look at, but a landmark in learning for both of us. We had to, in groups of three, come up with a phrase that included a number and then create a copy (a hand-drawn layout) which we then proofed and pasted. We chose purple to represent gluttony, whilst the italicised text inside the diamond provided a dynamic contrast to the bulbous numbers.
On the left is the proof, on which we printed our first runs and debated any compositional alterations. I feel this provides a dynamic contrast to the finished print, right.
In the event I choose the Typographics pathway, I would but complain if I could do this everyday.

Grey Sunday.

I was just fannying about with my 50mm, a lamp, and my housemate, trying to create 'dramatic lighting'. Most of them were turd yet necessary for my project, but we agreed that some of them actually came out rather nicely.


Less Common More Sense

This is an article I have done for University of the Arts magazine, the issue is orientated around the subject of 'Green'. I would have liked to Photoshopped the shit out of some grass, but I think someone got there first.

Green is far more than just part of the colour wheel. Green is ecology, green is nature, green is recycling. Now, I'm not trying to make out that I am some sort of ambassador for Mother Nature; all I'm saying is that I like to do my bit for the environment. Apart from separating the cardboards from plastics at home, and occasionally putting a can in those special bins, I really am no saint. But, over the past few months I have come to realise that I actually lend more to the cause than I first led myself to believe. It was something that slipped under the radar, modest and undervalued: charity shopping.
Charity shops are a hub of society; they form communities and bring together generations. They are eclectic treasure troves dressed as humble meeting places for our seniors: a cunning disguise. I have been looking through charity shops for a couple of years now, ever since I overcame my snobby perception of second-hand goods as soiled or damaged. The temptation of rummaging around a basket of trinkets, in the hope of coming across something strange and beautiful is now often hard to resist. There is no guarantee one will find anything of great monetary worth, but it is sometimes equally valuable to dig out something that jogs nostalgia or pulls at your sentimental strings. For me, the experience of charity shops is not just in the unpredictability, but also the memories from childhood it brings back about visiting the bootsales with my parents on bitter November mornings in the local farmer's fields. Friendly competition, bartering, the exchanging of anecdotes; the sense of goodwill is what attracts me to this kind of place.
The majority of my pocket money used to get spent on Pokémon cards and Pogz, which were pretty much standard toys of preference in the mid 90s. I am actually convinced that I still have a holographic Charizard somewhere. Recently, I have grown up a bit and moved onto matchbooks. Collecting things is a habit I picked up from antique collectors from the bootsales, except my compilations aren't worth nearly as much Royal Doulton tea sets or samurai swords. In fact, I'm a bit of a hoarder. In my room I even have a drawer specifically for ordnance survey maps. Like, if we ever got lost in Gloucester or Islamabad, I'd be the man everyone turns to. Honestly, I keep everything. Just in case. I decided to save the tags from some of the clothes I bought in charity shops just as mementos, I guess.
Now, these labels are not particularly amazing exhibitions of graphic design, neither are they hugely inspiring as a collection, but they record a specific moment in time, data translation. They relay to us the volunteer's valuation of an object at the moment of contact, an individual's personal assessment of the monetary worth. To the charities, this is money that can be filtered into funds for medical equipment, excursions, even something as simple as a bed for a night. But to the environment, this process of recycling is invaluable.



Basically, just a reason to do something a bit different, and to use my new crayons.
100 for £1. What a ridiculous bargain, I said to the vendor. He remained emotionless.

I'm just trying to play on my naive tendencies for a while, hoping something good
will come of it. I'll do some more when me and my housemates smoke some more.

Best day out of 2009...(so far)

First time out the house in 2009, three, yes three, whole days after celebrating the new year.

In the time between getting wasted and recovering, our house became somewhat of a squat, with random wasted people sleeping down corridors, food piles extruding from the bins, and a congregated phobia of daylight. After overcoming the unnerving task of opening the curtains before dusk with a combination of tea and oversized sunglasses, we decided leaving the house was now an option, as unwelcoming as the frosty bastard was. It was the only way.

Deptford market seemed like a reachable target, due to its vicinity. On our arrival, shivering and complaining like our elders, we discovered there was a chance to kill a pair of avian fellows with one proverbial lump of rubble. Our collective senses had taken a turn for the worse, like an asthsmatic with no ventolin. The market provided us with the perfect remedy for all five traumas.

+ A heavy dose of trippy colours, radiating from the eastern european fruit stalls. We purchased some passionfruit and bananas, and continued to look at them for some time.
+ The sonar battle between stall holders, the friendly competition of reeling in customers with enchanting, sometimes melodic deal mantras.
+ Fine organic fabrics beckoning us with waving tassles, then covering our skin, material protection.
+ Streams of fish aroma undulating past our noses, not terribly pleasing, but restoring our smell all the same. As a thankyou, we regretfully purchased red mullet.
+ A FAT FUCKING FRY-UP. Whoever Jenny is, she deserves a medal; best damn veggieburger in the south-east.