Make Up Effects

Out of pure curiosity of wanting to no how to use Derma Wax, during a very slow day I decided to have a play. I opened a pot of Grimas Derma Wax, Black, and Red water based face and body paint, and a tube of Film Blood B and I started to play. 

The Whole idea of using this product seamed to come very natural to me. I love it, the only thing is, is cleaning it of your skin, as it takes a little time. 

 

The next to images of a cut wrist effect, I also used a little liquid latex and tissue paper to help create a ripped flesh look. Good effect for a machine wound.

The knife through the hand is created using a toy sliding dagger, Derma wax and spirit gum to stick the blade and the hilt to my hand. with a lot of blood.

Slit wrists. created with Derma Wax black and red paint and film blood B

A stapled hand. Braking up a strip of staples and using 2 stuck together, I pushed them in to the Drema Wax after creating the cut line with the end of the paint brush, then painting around it and in the cut grove. 

Lovely gruesome stuff

Why use Red Paint?

The red paint is lighter then The Film Blood B. The paint drys while the blood dose not this helps to create different shades of drying blood.

Why not use Film Blood A and B you may ask?

aAs the blood dose not dry if you put one then paint on the other they are going to mix and you don't get the same effect.

And the black paint?

The black creates the clotted blood look. Makes it look less a fresh wound and makes it more gruesome and a little more real.

Oranges & Lemons

“Oranges and lemons" say the Bells of St. Clement's
“You owe me five farthings" say the Bells of St. Martin's
“When will you pay me?" say the Bells of Old Bailey
“When I grow rich" say the Bells of Shoreditch

The slow echoing chanting of children's voices.
Slow echoing chant quite in the early night illuminated by the moon darkness that she brings upon the world.
Strange moving shadows, cast by the low lifeless fog that sits on the ground.
moving slowly as if it were covering a bed of serpents.
The light rustling of the remanding leaves that cling tightly to the dead limbs of the trees.

"When will that be?" say the Bells of Stepney
"I do not know" say the Great Bells of Bow

The low mist parts with each step that you take on the damp ground, through the forgotten abandoned playground.
Over shadowed by the back silhouettes of the church.
Spinning around on your heels. The sound of a laughing child. Yet nothing  is there.
The squeaking of the swings un oiled rusted chains move back and forth with its phantom rider, or so you hope.
The laughter again and this time to the round about you turn your gaze. It turns slowly and then stops. Again the laughter. But this time a grey figure runs past the gate heading towards the church and out of sight.
Curiously and reluctantly you walk towards the gate. Its black steel skellington, cold and ruff to the touch from rust.
Pushing the heavy gate open it screams painfully from years of neglect.
Looking to the church tower, the moon hanging low and full behind, in the pitch black blue sky. 
Clouds of dark black grey lay upon its darkness with shimmering  stars spread thick and far like spilt glitter pots.
Your eyes play tricks on you in the night creating something hat is not there.
Tomb stones of the long forgotten line the path of lose pebble stones crackling beneath your feet.
A weeping angle lies over a grave with wings and teas spread over the concrete incased corps.
Strange shadows full along the path from crosses and standing angle figures marking the dead.

"Oranges and lemons" say the Bells of St. Clement's

A whisper on the wind sends a cold shiver through your body.
hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
 the tingling feeling of goose bumps cover your body… 
And the feeling of someone watching. 
The nose of rustling leaves upon the ground and as you look to you feet the fog moves and forward as thought someone stands behind you.
Your hear races faced and faster. 
fear.
The cold feeling of a breathe on you neck. 

Do you dear look behind…


© sarah jane patel 2014

Rainbow

Rainbow droplets fall from the sky. And caught in my cup and saucer tuning the water to pink undrinkable rain.

Note Book Of A Girl: Entry 3

A field of green, fenced by tall trees and old brick slender own houses. All once were one, now parted to many.

Restful soles sit and lie upon a green rug of dry cut grass. Soaking up the last of the summer rays, of this late Indian summer in late September. Summer dresses with trainers, jeans with flip flops, every one showing off and embracing their own style. 

It has been a long summer hot and sticky.

Restless nights and tiring days and lazy evenings.

Walking the back streets home  on a slow sunday evening. he day light fading to a pink, blue and silver sky above London, silhouetting the roofs, the un used chimes and redundant TV aerials. 

The peaceful roads of a chaotic city A silence, a strangeness.

With the dead powered ipod in pocket. with no song playing n my ear. I realise how quite and peaceful he city can be.

When you say that you live in London, people think of the busy centre, Covent Garden and Oxford street, yet 10 minuets away is the quite suburber of town houses surrounding green squares, coffee shops and news agents and green grocers. 

Its like a world of serenity with would of chaos. 

Where once I world walk the too with head held low watching the pavement, grey and black. marked with gum and stains, and littered with unwanted waist. I find myself looking the buildings. Converted buildings, now with shop fronts. 

With the fading lighting I begin o see the movement of the people who reside within the red brick houses, painted all shades of colour. turning the lights on after a long day.

The slim phasic of a man at a window with a drink in hand.

I wonder if he lives alone, is he single, married, gay or straight.

From the faded features that could be seen, through the white net curtain hanging at the bay window, he looks like the kind that works out the kind you see in trousers and shirt what every the event. I wonder what he might do, manger, a banker, a doctor, a teacher, or may be just a good old shop worker.

I can but imagine.

a

The turning leafs from green, to with yellow tips. to red, to gold, to floor they fall, burnt golden brown decaying upon the ground.

The city squirrel runs along the wall. a leap of faith from all the tree, up it runs to is home. 

Birds fly in formation across the twilight sky. 

Singing birds sing the sun a good night.

The little white flower braking throw the concert. determination and skill, this little thing has.

Shadows of women at windows, laying tables and cooking. what strange layouts each house may have.

l

The sound of the traffic grows louder as the light grows dimer. I turn from the side street onto a main road. Where a que of traffic lines the road. Heading into the heart of the city a stream of red lights moving slowly almost to a stop. It would be quicker o walk. It would be quicker to cycle. rather then sit on this unmoving artery that feeds this city. 

The dull drone of engines the constant scream of beeping horns, screaming over nothing. 

All the things you see when your ears are free to see.

a

© sarah jane patel