How Did The Illustrator Render The Wild Robot Background Art?

I'm obsessed with getting cartoon art to pop off the page, so removing a background is one of my favorite little makeovers. For a precise, nondestructive workflow I usually open the file in 'Photoshop' (but Photopea or GIMP work similarly). First I duplicate the layer, then use 'Select Subject' or the Magic Wand to grab the character—cartoons often have solid fills and clean outlines, so that selection is surprisingly accurate. I switch to 'Select and Mask' to refine edges: increase contrast slightly, smooth a bit, and use the edge-detection brush on hair or stray lines. Always output to a layer mask rather than deleting pixels; that way I can paint the mask back if I overshoot. Next I tidy the outlines. If the character has a bold black stroke, I sometimes expand the selection by 1–2 pixels to avoid haloing, or use 'Defringe' to remove color spill. For soft shadows, I duplicate the layer, fill the mask with black, blur and lower opacity to create a realistic shadow layer. Export as PNG (or PSD if I want to keep layers). If you prefer free tools, Photopea mimics these steps and remove.bg gives great auto results for quick jobs. I love how a clean transparent background lets me drop my cartoon into any scene, and tweaking masks turns a rough cut into something that feels hand-polished—satisfying every time.

The author of the 'Nagash' book is none other than the talented Josh Reynolds, who is well-versed in the Warhammer universe. It’s fascinating to think about how he transitioned from writing horror fiction to diving deep into the realms of Warhammer lore. Reynolds has a knack for bringing characters to life, and 'Nagash' is a testament to his ability to weave intricate plots while staying true to the dark and brooding atmosphere that Warhammer is known for. Reynolds is not just a one-trick pony, either; he's penned various works across different genres, often focusing on dark fantasy and horror elements. His writing reveals a passion for immersive storytelling, delving into characters with rich backstories and complex motivations. In 'Nagash,' for example, he explores themes of death, power, and the relentless pursuit of immortality within the framework of a compelling narrative. I love how Reynolds allows readers to see the world through Nagash's eyes, complicating the typical villain archetype and inviting sympathy even for the darkest of characters. Additionally, Reynolds has contributed to various Warhammer projects, adding depth and nuance to the extensive lore. His work reflects a genuine affection for the IP, and you can feel it in every confrontation, spell, and grim tale. If you haven’t checked out 'Nagash' yet, I highly recommend diving into it, especially if you're into stories that explore the darker sides of fantasy while still holding onto an epic scope. The combination of Reynolds’ storytelling with Nagash’s iconic status in Warhammer makes for an unforgettable read.

It's fascinating how a single book can sail through different times and spaces! 'Wendell and Wild,' written by the ever-so-creative Neil Gaiman, originally hit shelves back in 2022. From what I remember, it embodies that signature blend of whimsy and deeper themes that Gaiman is renowned for. The story dives into the adventures of two demon brothers, Wendell and Wild, who enlist the aid of a teenage girl to escape the underworld, and honestly, it’s both enchanting and slightly eerie. The illustrations in the book, done by the talented Chris Riddell, are nothing short of magical. They complement Gaiman's words perfectly, drawing the reader into this unique world. While the book might seem like a lighter read at first glance, it's packed with thought-provoking ideas about family and confronting one's fears. It’s a charming blend of dark fantasy that captures the essence of Gaiman’s storytelling perfectly. I often think about how it ties into the animated film adaptation that followed, highlighting the brilliance of transitioning from page to screen in a way that respects the source material while also broadening the visual storytelling. If you're someone who enjoys a bit of whimsical darkness, this one’s a treasure worth diving into!

Wendell and Wild' stands out in storytelling for its incredible mixture of dark humor and lush, vivid imagery. From the get-go, it draws you into a world that's both whimsical and unsettling, beautifully balancing light and shadow in its narrative tone. The authors, particularly in their portrayal of the titular characters, skillfully blend the everyday with the fantastical, creating a storyline that feels fresh and relatable yet completely original at the same time. The book's shift from the mundane to the supernatural is something I genuinely appreciate. The protagonists, Wendell and Wild, navigate a realm of mischief and chaos, which mirrors real-life challenges of growing up but in a totally unorthodox way. Plus, the story dives into themes of identity, responsibility, and friendship, making it resonate deeply with readers of all ages. Then there's the art! The illustrations are an extension of the story, enhancing the emotions conveyed through the words and immersing us even further into this magical universe. It’s not just a read, it’s an experience, one that lingers in your heart long after putting it down.

Whenever I pick up my sketchbook to draw Miles, the first thing I think about is story: do I want a portrait that screams mood and style, or a moment that screams motion and place? If I’m doing a close-up bust or a stylized poster, I’ll often keep the background minimal — a simple gradient, a few graphic shapes, or even a textured paper tone. That keeps all attention on the suit’s sleek blacks and the punchy reds, and lets me play with lighting on his mask without the background competing. I’ll usually do a quick value thumbnail first to confirm that the silhouette reads clearly; if the silhouette gets lost against the background, I bring in contrast or simplify the backdrop. For action compositions or pieces that need context — Miles swinging through Brooklyn, perched on a stoop, or facing off under rainy neon — I commit to a background early. Not necessarily detailed right away, but a block-in of perspective, major shapes, and the light source. That way the environment actually affects the character: reflected light on the suit, rain streaks that emphasize motion, or a billboard that echoes the color palette. I cheat a lot with implied detail: suggested brickwork, a silhouette skyline, or a few well-placed graffiti tags can sell a place without taking days. If I plan to print large or crop differently, I leave extra room in the composition so the background doesn’t get awkwardly chopped. Technically, I toggle between building the background under the linework and painting it after — depending on mood. For gritty, atmospheric pieces I like to paint loose backgrounds beneath clean line art so colors bleed under the inks; for graphic, comic-style panels I’ll ink first and then paint the background on separate layers so I can experiment with color separation. Tools that help me decide quickly: silhouette tests, one-value thumbnail, and a saturation pass to make sure Miles pops (dark suit + bright red webbing = easy focal separation if I keep surrounding colors cooler or desaturated). Inspiration-wise, the color language in 'Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse' taught me how a background can be part of the character — neon signs, motion blur, and graphic halftones become storytelling tools rather than mere scenery. Bottom line: add a background when it strengthens mood, clarifies place, or enhances motion — otherwise keep it simple and let Miles do the talking. I always enjoy how the right backdrop can turn a good drawing into something cinematic, so I tend to experiment until it feels alive.

Growing up with a record player always spinning ska and rocksteady in the corner of my tiny apartment, I picked up Audrey Hall’s voice like a warm, familiar radio signal. She’s Jamaican — born in Kingston — and her roots trace straight into that island’s rich vocal tradition. She started singing young, soaking up gospel and local church harmonies before slipping into the thriving studio scene in Jamaica during the late 1960s and 1970s. That foundation gave her a softness and control that translated beautifully into reggae and lovers rock. Over the years she moved between roles: solo artist, duet partner, and trusted backing vocalist. She became best known for lovers rock-tinged singles and for working with some of reggae’s most respected session musicians and producers, which helped her voice land on both radio-friendly tunes and deeper reggae cuts. I always find her recordings to be comforting — like a rainy evening wrapped in a favourite sweater — and they still make playlists of mine when I want something gentle and soulful.

Picture a crowded saloon in a frontier town, sawdust on the floor and a poker table in the center with smoke hanging heavy — that’s the image that cements the dead man's hand in Wild West lore for me. The shorthand story is simple and dramatic: Wild Bill Hickok, a lawman and showman whose very name felt like the frontier, was shot in Deadwood in 1876 while holding a pair of black aces and a pair of black eights. That mix of a famous personality, a sudden violent death, and a poker table made for a perfect, repeatable legend that newspapers, dime novels, and traveling storytellers loved to retell. The unknown fifth card only added mystery — people like unfinished stories because they fill the gaps with imagination. Beyond the particulars, the hand symbolized everything the West was mythologized to be: risk, luck, fate, and a thin line between order and chaos. Over the decades the image got recycled in books, TV, and games — it’s a tiny cultural artifact that keeps the era’s mood alive. I find the blend of fact and folklore endlessly fascinating, like a card trick you can’t quite see through.

I’ve been turning this over in my head ever since the manga started going its own way, and honestly, there are a few practical reasons that make total sense once you step back from fandom rage. Manga and novels tell stories in fundamentally different languages. A novel can luxuriate in internal thoughts, long explanations, side histories and subtle shifts in mood over many pages; a manga has to show everything visually and hit beats on a page-by-page schedule. That means pacing gets rewritten: scenes that meander in the novel become tighter, some internal monologues are externalized as actions or new dialogue, and occasionally entire subplots are trimmed or merged so the panels don’t stall. Serialization pressure plays a big role too — editors often want cliffhangers every chapter, or art-friendly set pieces that will sell tankōbon, so plot beats are reshuffled to maximize those moments. Beyond mechanics, there’s editorial and market influence. The mangaka and editorial team might shift tone to match a demographic or to make characters more visually striking and marketable, and sometimes the original author allows (or even asks for) changes to improve the story in a visual medium. That can result in new scenes, altered character arcs, or different villain motivations. I don’t always love all the changes, but I appreciate how the manga translates some emotional beats into unforgettable imagery — it’s a different experience, not necessarily a betrayal, and I’m curious to see where those choices lead next.