The latest in handheld 3D printing, Lix is the smallest 3D printing pen in the world. This device allows you to write and draw in the air, without using paper. Lightweight (around 1.5 ounces) and easy to use, the pen fits the hand more comfortably than other, larger handheld 3D printers, allowing for more intricate details and designs. Even better, the tool can be powered by a wall charger or a USB port. The biggest challenge for the designers has been the reduction of the mechanical parts to fit into the 12mm diameter aluminum tube.
Though it was exceeded the amount of requested funding, Lix still has a Kickstarter campaign in the works, and you can check out even more information on their website. The pen is currently available for $155, including 5 bags of mixed colored plastic. (via colossal)
The Paris-based sculptor Elisabeth Daynès listens to bones, to the remains of our evolutionary ancestors that have lived up to three million years ago. Throughout her prolific 20 year career, the “paleoartist” has worked from the skulls of wooly mammoths to species of hominid to create vividly detailed figures. Based on 18 data points that mark the bone, she can use a computer to model facial features that she later shapes out of clay. She refers to research and other bone samples to determine the build of her subjects, and ultimately she creates a silicone cast, complete with delicate painted features: veins, goosebumps, blemishes.
In a final step towards humanizing her sculptures, Daynès includes prosthetic eyes, teeth, and hair, each of which is as historically and scientifically accurate as possible. Current research suggests that Neanderthals, for example, had red hair; for her uncanny hominids, that range from Homo sapien to Homo erectus, she uses a blend of human hair. In her mind’s eye, the artist draws an informed portrait of each subject she reanimates; from the bones, she can determine period, sex and age, along with finer details like culture, climate, diet, and health.
For Daynès, this process is as much an art as it is a science. Ultimately, she hopes to reconnect with our past, embarking on a forensic search of what makes us human. Dismayed by the ways in which early human ancestors are reviled as unintelligent brutes, she injects her creations with a powerful dose of humanity; their brows furrow with concentration, and their eyes are painfully gentle. She explains “missing” them when they leave her studio for a permanent home in a museum. Take a look. (via Daily Mail and Lost at E Minor)
Believe it or not, the tiniest comic strip in history has recently been drawn onto a single stand of human hair. The comic, titled “Juana Knits the Planet,” was initially mapped by the artist Claudia Puhlfürst; later, it was burned into a plucked stand with an ion beam, which is in essence a delicate and thin version of a laser beam. The narrative follows a girl (Juana) through twelve twenty-five micrometer frames, and the artwork is a promotion for a Do-It-Yourself conference in Hamburg, Germany called the Exceptional Hardware Software Meeting.
Purfürst’s illustration is a touching wordless story about about a lonesome little girl who seems to exist within a vacuum of a blank comic book frame; that is, until a ball of yarn rolls to her feet. From the thread, she creates a paintbrush, painting trees and music into existence. Ultimately, Juana writes code and builds herself her very first friend: an adorable robot. This parable of human growth and ingenuity is made all the more delightful for being engraved onto a strand of hair; the story of technological expansion returns, ultimately, to the human head, the site of its conception.
In this video, we can discover the astounding scale of the little comic. Strands of human hair are composed of hard proteins; the outer layer, or the cuticle, contains scales that form curves and ridges, and yet the frames of “Juana Knits the Planet” are perfectly straight and meticulously rendered. It’s pretty mind-blowing; take a look. (via HuffPost and Lost at E Minor)
The photographer Xavier Lucchesi doesn’t use a camera to capture his portraits; instead, he penetrates the human body with an advanced x-ray machine, revealing organs, arteries, and bones. The artist adds color to the medical images, highlighting the intricacies of the human body in electric blues and deep, bloody reds. For Luccesi, the act of seeing is active and passionate; a passing glance is insufficient, and to truly view another truthfully is to dissect and peel away exterior layers.
Lucchesi’s portraits are perhaps those of our deepest human core: when our superficial features are stripped back, a more primal self emerges. Lucchesi’s sitters are laid completely bare; though they might pose or strain, their bodies betray secret inner worlds and open them up to a profound vulnerability. A triptych presents a man in three stages of undress: clothed, then nude, then uncovered and unprotected by skin. As he lays with his arms crossed, the x-ray bears down on him, and he becomes increasingly naked, at the mercy of our eager, inquisitive eyes.
As we reach new levels of intimacy with our own bodies, they reveal themselves like brightly colorful and graphic foreign roadmaps; red blood vessels line the figure like highways, leading to pale geometric bone or grassy green lungs in either direction. Like an intricate maze of machinery or a small, delicate cityscape, the miraculous pieces of the human being—the flesh, the lungs, the ribcage— function autonomously, just beneath the surface of our gaze. Take a look. (via Design Boom)
When I first saw this inventive fusion of technology, art, and style, I thought it had to be something from a science fiction novel. This open cast, cleverly titled the Osteoid, is the invention of the designer Deniz Karasahin, who is known for previous creations of like a sleek, elegant vacuum cleaner and trendy yet comfortable lounge chairs.
Unlike traditional plaster casts, the Osteoid has ventilation holes and might easily be removed; while it is capable of holding the broken limb in place, it also conveniently avoids causing irritation, itch, and odor. Trail-blazing ultrasound treatments have proved effective in healing bone, but the technology is rarely used, as the plaster cast renders its benefits insufficient. With the Osteoid, it is possible to target specific sites with healing ultrasound systems, which can be inserted into the cast itself. If used for only 20 minutes per day, it could help bone to heal at a rate 40-80% faster than normal.
The invention is as fashionable as it is groundbreaking; with its eyelet holes and jet black hue, it situates itself firmly within the 21st century. If Futurist artists like Giacomo Balla or Umberto Boccioni, with their lust for speed and mechanical ingenuity, could see us now, 100 years later, they would surely be beaming with pride. I shattered my elbow a few months ago, and I can now say, from an honest and personal space, that a magical bone-healing machine would have suited quite nicely. Take a look. (via Demilked and Geekologie)
For the Surrealist digital artist Alex Andreyev, reality gives way to the nightmarish and imaginary; his grotesque urban landscapes are dominated by giant spiders, snakes, and eyeballs. Much like the world of The Wachowshi Brothers’ 1999 film The Matrix, Andreyev’s dreamscape is dystopian, seemingly operated by frightful machines that lurk in dark alleyways and within murky, polluted puddles. Like Neo before the rabbit hole, the artist sits at his computer, delving into his nightmares in search of psychological truths that transcend the laws of reality and escape the revelation of daylight.
By maintaining a graphic comic book aesthetic, Andreyev’s images compose a suspenseful, quick-paced narrative; clearly rendered with computer technology, his subjects appear like online avatars, their experiences symbolic of the human condition without directly mirroring it. Like the Surrealists Odilon Redon and Rene Magritte, the digital artist uses the image of the eye to subvert reality; as eyes wearing grotesquely tall top hats chase a helpless man down a dark, dank underground, we viewers are made to perceive our own eyes as villainous, to assume that what they record might not accurately reflect the world around us. Another sketch presents a man slicing his eyes open with a razor, the implication being that to truly see and to understand, we must endure pain and strife.
In this realm where the inner eye takes precedence over superficial vision, a wondrously dark and lonesome creative space begins to emerge. The spider, a symbol which harkens back to the work of Redon in particular, is used here perhaps to represent the isolation of introspection and of the endlessly complex imagination; as a man retreats into his computer, an arachnid nests in the darkness next door. Similarly, man and beast walk alone in the rain. Take a look. (via TrendHunter)
The animator and designer St. Francis Elevator Ride’s delightful animated gifs read like the 21st century’s response to the Pop Art masters of the 1950s; using vintage ad imagery, the artist marries retro aesthetics with modern technology. The 1950s moon landing even makes a subtle appearance! Using the seductive visual powers of color, form, and motion, he explores the endless allure of kitsch appliances, electronics, and other pop culture or commercial materials.
Like Richard Hamilton did with the iconic collage Just what is it that makes today’s homes so different, so appealing?, the mixed-media artist focuses much of his attention on domestic consumption. A chipper 1950s nuclear family is shown to be enjoying a night of bonding over screens, and a woman with perfectly coiffed hair replaces her eyes with dollar signs. The human body and sex drive become fused with images we intellectually associate with the media; as with the work of Roy Lichtenstein, flesh is rendered in polka dots, and women’s tears are represented in dramatic comic book-style shapes.
The body of work, dripping in a charming sort of irony, is made in a way that parallels its content. Like the Cleaver-esque family before the television, the viewer is seduced and transfixed by St. Francis Elevator Ride’s images. The eye is manipulated by an expert understanding of color; opposite colors like green and magenta alternate and flash at break-neck speed, forcing a sort of optical illusion that commands attention (this technique was widely employed by Andy Warhol). As technology and media integrate seamlessly into our home lives, our sense of identity shifts in challenging new directions; from these charming gifs, we might draw insight into the changing definitions of personal agency, selfhood, and intimacy.
The painter Casey Baugh’s vibrant images are so astoundingly realistic that they could easily be mistaken for photographs if not for the eery, impressionistic brushstrokes that are only visible at close range. In rich and moody blues and blacks, the artist imagines a social and psychological landscape dominated by technology, a world where humans and machines coexist in a heightened state of tension and theatricality.
With conventionally beautiful women serving as his subjects, Baugh seduces the viewer; the photorealistic flesh glistens in soft, dreamy blues. Technology becomes a fetish object of sorts as wires coil about the curves of the female body, entangling and binding her while her sensually lit face surrenders to a strange sort of ecstasy, her body reclining suggestively.
Despite the powerful allure of technology, Baugh’s work also serves as a warning against our surrender to it. The remote, mechanical aspects of our modern lives— electronics, social media—entrap the human self with their metallic sheen and magnetic glow. A woman is seemingly choked by a collar made of industrial piping; the piece, titled Ammonoid, suggests that the foreign object has in fact integrated itself into her anatomy. Similarly, a girl is bound in glistening cellophane and confined to a cell, hooked up to televisions without chance of escape. Sadly, Baugh’s women, drawn to the irresistible blue screens, have become as much machine as human being.
The form of the work mirrors its thematic content; at first, the images look like photographs, captures of real events, but upon second glance, it becomes clear that the scene is an expertly-painted illusion. How much of our experience with technology is real? At what point do we sacrifice a truthful mortal existence for the entrancing (and ultimately fleeting) world of technology? (via HiFructose)