Mitchell Scholar Blogs

When most people think of Dublin, industrial brick and mortar are probably the most prominent images that come to mind. Visitors often forget that Dublin is a city by the sea. I am guilty of this too. 

Dublin is an industrial city through and through, but its sandy beaches and pebbled shores are not to be overlooked. As the weather has warmed up and lockdown restrictions have loosened up, I’ve been able to explore some of Dublin’s finest shores. It’s not often we experience weather warm enough to spend a full day seaside. So when those rare moments do arise, I’m sure to take advantage of them.

Howth

I visited Howth with a group of international students at UCD. Just a 28 minute DART ride from UCD Campus, Howth is the ideal day excursion from Dublin. Howth is most famous for its cliff walk. On a clear day, it’s a lovely scenic route that takes you along the coast with awesome views. Although Howth is a relatively easy walk, it is steep at times and you will be walking over some very uneven ground. The hike is most enjoyable when you aren’t in a hurry. Also if you’ve got a nice pair of Bluetooth speakers, be sure to blast music on the go!

Bray/Greystone

If you’re looking for a manageable challenge, the cliff walk from Bray to Greystone is very enjoyable. On my trip, I experienced typical Irish weather (i.e. 4 seasons in a day). We did get some glimpses of sunshine.  But towards the end of the hike, we were faced with cloudy and damp weather. However, that didn’t seem to take away from the beauty of the beaches. Multiple layers of blankets and fish & chips brought all the warmth we needed. 

Sea Point / Dun Laoghaire Pier

Seapoint is located near the port town of Dun Laoghaire in County Dublin. The beach is flat and shallow and the area is suitable for swimming at high tide. There are many rocks. To the south of the beach, the sea covers some of these rocks; you should take extra care swimming in these parts. On a recent trip, Kyle, Joseph, and I bravely hopped into the water. They lasted 10 minutes. I lasted about 10 seconds.

Blackrock Beach

Blackrock is a 12-minute ride from UCD’s main campus in Belfield. Outside campus, I probably spend most of my time in Blackrock. There’s a spot on the water, right behind the train station, that has more or less become my reading nook. Rain or shine, you’ll find me there. 

Perhaps the most important tool in digital animation is the onion skin — the ghost of your previous drawing overlaid onto your current frame. In traditional hand drawn animation, light boxes allow animators to layer their drawings on top of each other to observe and draw the minuscule changes that over time create motion.

The first frames drawn in most animations are the keyframes — the highs and lows of motion, the tops of arcs, the landing of jumps. When first layered on top of each other, the distance between them can feel uncrossable.

Looking at one or two consecutive frames can also feel infuriating; a step so small, that it seems to bring you no closer to your desired destination.

Over a hundred frames laid one on top of the other, however, and a strange and wonderful palimpsest emerges — a different kind of story than when they are played as an animation.

The keyframes are typically considered the most important and defining drawings of animation and are typically drawn by the most senior animators, while all the frames in between (helpfully named “inbetweens”) are left to the junior artists. Yet, when all the frames are exposed at once, it’s almost impossible to identify which are keys and which are inbetweens. Most importantly, when animated on one’s and exposed 24 per second in order to create motion, each frame is on screen for the same amount of time.

With less than a week to go before the phased reopening of Belfast, and vaccinations on the horizon, I’ve found myself reflecting on the past eight months, and looking forward to my coming ones. The days have gotten longer, the weather warmer, and the virus increasingly contained. Looking back on this year, my education in animation has been deeply intertwined with my experience of living in lockdown. The growth and change I discovered through both have informed each other in ways that I am sure will be the basis of my art practice.

Animation has given me a framework to tackle the passing of time in lockdown. As a medium, animation is at times monotonous, relentless, and exhausting. The final products can at times feel a Phyrric victory when days of work culminate in seconds of film. Similarly, the milestone days in a pandemic feel few and far between. This year, it has been tempting to write off each day as an “inbetween” something less than a real day. Laid back to back, the changes imperceptible, the infection curve seemingly static forever, and “normality” hundreds of frames away. Yet, I feel immeasurably lucky to have had my my art to inform my life and vice versa.

It was the day-to-day talking, cooking, and drawing that has built lifelong friendships. And the daily walks that have made the Belfast cityscape feel like one I’ll know off the back of my hand. And most importantly, these months were the foundation on what I’m sure will be a fantastic summer of (safely) exploring more of Northern Ireland.

To celebrate what has become my second home, I offer six impactful lessons Northern Ireland has taught me.

1. “Warm” is relative.

Changed from my Tennessee roots, I now become ecstatic at any weather over 55 degrees and sunny. To celebrate, I go to Botanic Gardens, with what looks like everyone else in the city, to eat cheesy chips and Boojum and feel the sun on my face.

2. Embrace change.

I appreciate my routines. But Belfast has taught me to make the best out of any situation. Not only is her weather constantly changing from my pleasant walk to Tesco to my unpleasant return of unpredicted sleet, followed by warm sunshine, but she is also teaching me to constantly embrace changing expectations, changing experiences, and taking some of the comfortable control I like to use on life away.

3. I need a wee bit more “island living” in my non-island life.

I came to Mitchell during one of the busiest times of my life. I was Student Body President; I was pursuing a double major with graduate coursework; I was leading fights to physically and culturally adapt a university to accept students with intellectual disability. I worked all the time, and I loved it. But Belfast has taught me to slow down. She has reconnected me with my genuine love of learning and reminded me to take a day off and get outside when it’s sunny—you never know if that one sunny day will be followed by a week of rain.

4. Peace is fragile and valuable.

These past few weeks have seen violence tear through parts of Belfast not seen for many years. Young teenagers running through the streets, cheered on by their communities, petrol bombs in hand, I am reminded of how precious peace is. I also find new respect for those who fight to preserve it. Belfast has taught me about the lasting implications of destroyed peace, and it has taught me how to rebuild once peace is stolen. These lessons are relevant for diplomats, and personal lives, alike.

5. Education holds answers.

Following my coursework, I believe now more than ever that Northern Ireland has something profound to offer the rest of the world about the impact of education for social ends. Last week I got an email from someone in Tennessee looking to improve race relations and disability inclusion in her local schools; she heard about what I was studying and asked me how Shared Education could help her.

6. People make a place.

My classmates at Queen’s have made a wonderful impression on me. They have given me hope for the future of education. They have made me wrestle with challenging questions. They will be who I return to when I come back to Belfast, and I can’t wait.

These are some of my lovely classmates for a socially-distanced “hello” on a walking trail along the River Lagan.

I was in the kitchen making dinner the other night. During finals season, my schedule takes a horrific turn, and since I get more work done in the evenings than the mornings, I often find myself staying up into the wee hours of the night and waking long after the sunrise. One unfortunate result is that I most often begin making my dinner after 10PM, and as my suitemates prepare themselves for bed or put together an evening snack, I am working away on some potatoes. I’m peeling skins when one of them comes in the room, asks how I’m doing, how was my day, what have I been working on—in the manner of conviviality and good fellowship. I tell him that I had been working on an essay all day (my energy comes in bursts; I don’t work for two hours every day the whole semester; I work for days in a row, twelve hours a day; I’m a sprinter, not a distance runner). After asking what my topic was, I launch into a diatribe about the 1641 rebellion in Ireland, which started in Ulster among the elites of that age but was quickly taken up as popular insurrection, folks from all swaths of Gaelic and Old English society finding themselves wrapped up in the action, balancing economic and religious and political motives, and…

I stop myself. I realize I was explaining a prominent subject of Irish history to an Irish man, and a well-read one at that. I apologized profusely. I hadn’t meant to be condescending. “Oh, not at all, at all…” he tells me, and continues, “In fact, that’s one that they skip over in schools.”

That’s the first thing that struck me: that this land is so full of history that school administrators are forced to choose which events are most salient, which are most important, which had the most lasting impact. Perhaps by virtue of occurring during the early modern period, the 1641 rebellion does not command the same general awe as the 1798 rebellion, or the Irish War of Independence (notably, many of the “rebellions” could have been called “wars of independence” had the Irish won; something to think about).

But what struck me later as I got back to work arguing for the material interpretation of events over the ideological, was that I have gained something of an understanding about the social and political history of this place—or at least some of the greatest hits. I’ve read the lamenting poems of Feargal Óg Mac an Bhaird after the Flight of the Earls after their defeat in the Nine Years War. I was there, in a sense, with Theobald Wolfe Tone as met with the conspirator William Jackson—and I saw Jackson collapse on the floor dead after eating poison on the day he would be sentenced in the first ever trial for high treason in Ireland. Then of course there’s James Connolly. I came here to learn more about myself and the land that my family is from—I take some small amount of pride in knowing what I know now, about a land that has come to mean so much more to me than an abstract sense of ancestry.  

The first time I ever truly encountered the world on my own was when I moved to New York City for the summer while I was nineteen. I was in town for an internship ahead of a semester abroad in Hong Kong, which, for logistical reasons, I’d depart for in August straight from LaGuardia. In other words, I showed up to my Brooklyn apartment in May with a suitcase and the knowledge that I wouldn’t see home until the end of December later that year. Having never left the Midwest for a city any bigger than Minneapolis, I was a ball of nerves when I stepped into my bedroom.

My welcome to New York City was given to me in the first Irish accent I had ever heard. Emmet Lyons, my new roommate, had just moved from Dublin with a dream of breaking into the broadcast journalism industry after graduating from University College Dublin. In true New York City fashion, Emmet hustled through a series of odd jobs in the media and film scene while working at the gift shop in NBC Studios. We lived with a rotating cast of strangers in a room that held a set of dual bunk beds while paying an exorbitant amount of rent that, frankly, I’d rather not print. Perhaps due to the regional warmth that both of our homelands were known for, we quickly became good friends and spent most of our summer nights on the roof wondering what in the world we were going to do with our lives. It was one of the best summers of my life.

When our time together neared its end, I vowed to myself that I’d one day make good on my newfound dream of visiting Emmet in Ireland, though I wasn’t quite sure how that would happen. I never would’ve imagined that I’d retell our story three years later in the Mitchell interview that would send me to Dublin and Emmet’s alma mater. In a stroke of pandemic-induced luck, Emmet ended up moving back home from London and we recently had the chance to reunite, making good on a promise we made in pure aspiration.

I could barely wrap my mind around the odds as we stood together and shared a couple of takeaway pints on a beautiful spring day in Dublin. It was nothing short of the kind of magical experience that we’ve all sorely missed in the pandemic era. Although the future turned into a reality we never could’ve dreamed back then, I’m happy to report that our goals remained intact – and then some. Emmet now works for CNN and has an Emmy under his belt while I’m planning on moving back to New York City in the upcoming fall. At fate’s current rate, it seems like I may not be able to see Ireland in the way I had hoped to a year ago. Nonetheless, I’m reminded in moments like this that life still goes on in ways that always have a chance to be a beautiful surprise.

As I flew to Washington D.C. for my Mitchell Scholar finalist interview, I daydreamed about the possibility of traveling the Irish countryside, absorbing the breath-taking scenery and chatting with local residents about their rural communities. I wanted to witness firsthand how Irish rural communities are handling the side-effects of rural decline and urbanization. Given the Covid-19 restrictions that have been commonplace throughout our year on the island, turning that daydream into a reality has been difficult. 

Feeling a bit anxious and rebellious last fall, I started a tradition I coined “Friday Frolics.” On Fridays, I would hop on a train or bus and go see a new site. Public transportation routes made it a bit difficult to reach rural places, but one particular Friday Frolic took me to Westport in Co. Mayo. As I hopped off the bus, I realized that I might have found the small rural community that was featured in my daydreams. 

The city has several incredible features. First, a river that flows through the heart of the city that served as the perfect setting drive my morning coffee and read the Irish Farmers Journal. Second, the Great Western Greenway wraps around the city on an abandoned railroad track that was built on a raised elevation above the city’s streets and rooftops. It was full of walkers taking in the incredible view of the city and surrounding countryside. Third, The Westport House is a stunning 18^th-century home located on a large piece of property on the outskirts of the city. 

My favorite Westport site, however, wasn’t on Google’s list of must-see sites. After leaving the Westport House property, I grabbed some ice cream at a local shop. As I walked out of the shop, I noticed a rather large hill a few blocks away surrounded by a pasture of sheep. I was not disappointed when I finally reached the top, although the thick grass that blanketed the hill was wet enough to soak my socks. From this vantage point, I could see the entire city and surrounding countryside. I sat in a large rock in awe of the view for nearly an hour.

While my Friday Frolics haven’t taken me to the number of rural communities that I had envisioned, that trip to Westport will certainly stand out as learning moment about why rural communities in Ireland continue to survive despite the odds. Rural Ireland has a distinct advantage over the rural communities that I am accustomed to in Indiana – beauty. With each turn that I made in Westport, I was impressed. From the orange glow of the bridge spanning the river through the heart of the city, to the sheep munching on grass below my perch at the top of the hill, Westport had so much beauty to offer. One day, when its hotels are open to visitors, I will frolic back to Westport and take in its beauty again.  

When my first semester of classes finished in late January, a classmate and I decided to contribute to pandemic-conscious-population-dilution by renting a small cottage in Wicklow from a lovely woman named Mary. Back in August, when Trina was describing these blogs, she said we were encouraged to include pictures, but jokingly pleaded with us “please, no sheep pictures, we see enough!” Just to be safe, I have censored all sh*** from my photos and from here on out will refer to them only as “The Neighbors.” In Wicklow, social distancing is comically easy as our closest neighbor is a ten to fifteen-minute walk away. Our closest Neighbor, however, frequently bumps into the trash bins at night while making cartoonish bleats.

A key feature of Mary’s cottage is that there is only internet connection in one window sill. During the past couple months, it has been easy to waste away hours watching the news, reading long form analyses of the news, or reading many short form summaries of the news in rapid succession. But now, I finally have the isolation needed to connect with real Irish culture — the Father Ted DVD box set my friend brought with us as the sole source of digital entertainment. And who is there more understanding who could guide me through the existential time we live in now other than Father Ted? Like me, Father Ted also wakes up at 11 AM in his twin bed, in his house, in the middle of nowhere, (perhaps surrounded by fields full of The Neighbors?)

At other times I connect deeply with Mrs. Doyle — making endless cups of tea to stave off the threat of all-consuming dread. On rainy days, sometimes, I feel a teeny bit the Father Jack as I sit completely sedentary in an armchair reminiscing on the simpler, better times of my pre-pandemic youth. But at times I feel like Father Dougal, extremely confused about how I ended up a Catholic priest in a remote part of Ireland.

While sitcoms are by no means a substitute to in person cultural immersion, they do provide a window sorely needed when you are trying to get to know a new country from the confines of your room. At this point, I’d argue, that there’s no better tool for highlighting cultural in-jokes than a laugh track roaring when you are silent. So, whenever the country reopens after this pandemic, I will be totally au fait with the mid-nineties Irish zeitgeist.

My New Year’s resolution was to embrace and express gratitude. These gratitudes often took the shape of people, particularly those here with me in Ireland. So I’ll share them below, in the hopes that in 2021 you’ll join me in choosing to prioritize gratitude.

1) My Irish landlord, Peter

Peter loves to talk American politics, and he won’t drink his tea unless it’s boiling hot. He is a retiree from Shrule, a small village in County Mayo. When I was here by myself for a bit over the holidays, Peter made it a point to stop by for weekly coffee chats. When I told Peter that fellow Mitchell Kyle was allergic to cats, Peter added an extra barrier on our gate to prevent cats from getting in our backyard. When fellow Mitchell Mason and I struggled at first to set up our Irish bank accounts, Peter drove us to his local bank and argued our case to the branch employees.

2) My volleyball teammate, Cerena

Originally from California, Cerena moved to Galway four years ago to earn her PhD at NUI Galway. Her accent sounds very Irish, so when I first met her at the Galway Volleyball Club I didn’t realize she was American. It was Cerena who showed me Irish pancakes (which are just crepes for the record), and it was Cerena who taught me that when you say “dirty takeaway” in Ireland, you’re referring to the least nutritious, but potentially most delicious (depending on your mood) to-go food. To give some comparative examples, think like americanized Chinese food, McDonald’s fries, or KFC. Cerena & I’s favorite eats in Galway are the Singapore prawn noodles from Papa Rich and a carnitas and queso burrito from Boojum.

3) My housemates, Mason and Kyle

Humble and down-to-earth Mason is the best for surprising you with a crazy story over a glass of Chianti. Even the neighborhood cats can sense Mason’s kindness, and one in particular named Felipe will only approach Mason and no one else. Mason is also the only person I know who can cook a good pork chop (sorry mom).

Kyle has every reason in the book to brag, but he has absolutely no interest in doing so. For my November birthday, Kyle decorated our entire house with balloons and party decorations. When Kyle makes his famous quesadillas, he blares Todrick Hall and our kitchen turns into a dance club. Kyle also has the unique ability to find adventure in everything, from watching Pixie at the cinema to trying a spice bag from the infamous X’ian Street Food on Quay St.

4) The Dublin Boys™

There’s nothing like having friends who know exactly what you’re going through. I am grateful to have spent a few weekends on the Galway-Dublin Exchange spending time with fellow Mitchell scholars Dan, Alex, Achille, and Joseph.

Alex is one of the kindest people I know. When he stayed in our home in Galway, he left a painting of Menlo Castle and a bottle of Cork whiskey as thank you gifts. Alex’s only flaw is that he think the Kansas City Chiefs will win the Super Bowl this Sunday. Go Bucs.

Dan taught us Galwegians the memory game Fishbowl that combines Charades, Password, and Taboo. He serves as a very fair moderator when things get heated, and let it be known that the Galway Mitchells are the reigning Fishbowl champions. I hope Dan knows how much of a genius he is, because there is no doubt amongst the rest of us.

Achille is a morning person, runs marathons, and will one day make an excellent lawyer. When Achille visits Galway, he gets the honor of being our house DJ. It’s impossible not to feel motivated when Achille is around, and it should also be noted that his Halloween Avatar Aang costume was incredible.

The chef of the group, Joseph has an incredible bolognese recipe that requires loads of cooking time and even more red wine. Joseph’s breakfast sandwiches are also famous, and he makes one heck of a tour guide for experiencing Dublin. One of my favorite memories of 2020 includes his mandolin and Dan freestyling while Achille harmonizes. Find them on Spotify. 😉

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In Ireland, as a Mitchell, and in life in general I have loads of things and people to be grateful for. I’m looking forward to finding more in 2021.

The day before my fall semester of classes was sent to commence, I sat sipping a celebratory pint of Guinness at Murphy’s Pub in Galway with my two housemates, and fellow Mitchell Scholars, Kyle and Becca. We were celebrating a successful first day of Zoom classes for my housemates and looking forward to my first day of in-person classes. Just as soon as we had clanked our glasses and shouted, “Slainte,” I received an email stating that my first class would not be happening in-person – Zoom classes were slated for the first week.

I certainly understood the need to transition our classes online, but I was indeed disappointed. I should have known it was too good to be true. We were amid a pandemic, after all. As I logged onto Zoom the next day for my first Irish class, it became clear that my professors intended on bringing us safely into the classroom. They committed that we would be on campus starting the following week, pending university approval. I could not help but be skeptical. To my surprise, my professors kept the promise of bringing us into the classroom, not just that next week, but for the entire semester!

To say that I was lucky would be an understatement. My five classmates and I sat socially distanced and masked-up around a large conference table each class session. Day in and day out, I was fortunate to have the opportunity to participate in active dialogue with my classmates, guest lecturers, and professors. I listened as guest speakers demonstrated their role in planning a better future for rural communities in Ireland.  I took part in group exercises aimed at making the group better teammates, researchers, and champions for rural communities. 

While most of these events would have been possible online, I am thankful for the social interaction that accompanied the classwork. Daily, my professor would walk the class down to the canteen during our mid-class break and buy each of us a coffee or tea. Each of these trips was filled with hilarious questions about why the Irish show respect to the Magpies or why Americans are notorious for having road rage. On Thanksgiving, I brought my classmates a pie to enjoy with the expectation that I would have to educate them about the American holiday. To my surprise, I was greeted with a chorus of “Happy Thanksgivings” as soon as I entered the room. Their thoughtfulness warmed my heart and made me feel so much closer to home when I needed it the most.

The Spring semester is shaping up to be much different than last semester – there has been no firm commitment to bring us back to campus due to current Level 5 restrictions. Regardless, I’m thankful for the experiences I had with my classmates last semester and anticipation is building for when it is once again appropriate to gather around the conference table together. Until then, we’ll enjoy our time on Zoom and do our part to make that in-person rendezvous possible. 

A common misconception about modern Northern Ireland is focused on the limitations of the region’s cuisine. Although Northern Ireland does reflect its relative historical isolation within its culinary heritage, to believe that local cuisine has remained stagnant in recent years would lead you to miss one of the most underappreciated culinary evolutions in Europe. Currently, Northern Ireland plays host to two restaurants with Michelin Stars, and a significant group of others winning the praise of Michelin Bib Gourmand ratings. Even more consequential is the fact that many of these eateries primarily feature local ingredients and honor the culinary traditions of Northern Ireland. These restaurants have earned international recognition for turning a humble cuisine into offerings tourists will travel across the world to eat.
A great disappointment of living in Belfast during a global pandemic has been missing out on these culinary offerings. But out of this disappointment has grown one of the major highlights of my time in Northern Ireland – becoming completely dependent on the native goods of Ireland to build a completely local diet. Now, this might sound complicated during a pandemic – we typically imagine truly local produce as being scarce and expensive – obstacles that might be magnified during lockdowns and periods of social distancing. However, with many of the regular restaurants and farmers markets closed down, a direct to consumer wholesale market for fresh, local products has begun to flourish. It’s been so successful, that I haven’t stepped foot in a supermarket my entire time in Belfast. Instead, I get a fresh collection of everything I could want, from produce to meats and dairy, delivered via no-contact carrier straight to my door.
Now there are challenges, especially to a palate that has been trained to think it sustainable to be eating pineapple in January and root vegetables in July. If I’m going to eat and experience the foods of Ireland, that just isn’t going to happen. Instead, I’ve been challenged to expand my palate, and my culinary skills, to incorporate products and foods that I haven’t used before. For reference, without the ability to sit down at one of Northern Ireland’s fine restaurants to taste their food myself, I’ve relied on local food programs and books from the library to build an anthropology of the culinary heritage. My experience has gone beyond just eating well, and moved into learning about the history of the island of Ireland in a way I would not expected to.
I by no means can recreate anything close to the dishes you’d find at one of Michael Deane’s various eateries in Belfast, but the challenge of embracing my surroundings – not just academically, but culturally – has been one of the most fulfilling experiences being in Northern Ireland has offered. I look forward to continuing these practices in the next place I find myself while cherishing all the dishes from Northern Ireland I’ve come to love.

Dormon Horfitz is two and a half feet tall, two hundred years old, and never seen without his cane–though he has enough pep in his step that you’d expect he doesn’t need one. This is because he does not in fact need it. It is his magical staff–his focus. Dormon is not real. He’s my character in an ongoing Dungeons and Dragons campaign I’m in with some people from the University College Dublin. Due to the current restrictions in Ireland, I haven’t had a chance to meet any of my classmates in person. However, I had the opportunity to join a remote D&D campaign. We meet over Zoom once a week for several hours to track down demonic cultists, battle wyverns, and capture Nightmares.

The thing about meeting people remotely for D&D is that they don’t know me, and I don’t necessarily know them either. Instead, we’ve gotten to know each other’s characters. A resourceful and paranoid rogue, an upstanding and gullible cleric, a flute playing bard who’s always chasing down her four children. They’ve had meals together in dingy

taverns, camped out deep in the woods, and gotten fair food at the annual spring celebration. Through these adventures and misadventures, we’ve created friendships and connections.

D&D has offered me a unique opportunity in these times. I can let my own insecurities go and step into a new world. This fabricated world has allowed me to make connections with people I would never have otherwise met. You’d be hard-pressed to find a group of strangers who’d be willing to sign up to sit on Zoom for two hours every week with each other. However, that’s exactly what I’ve found myself doing.

I won’t lie. It’s been taxing. I’ve moved to a new country where restrictions keep me from meeting anyone, just to sit in a bare dorm room watching video lectures all day, eat, sleep, and repeat. I’ve found myself falling into my shell. However, I haven’t had to do it alone. My dear friend Dormon and his loyal companions are there for me every Thursday for a couple of hours to dispel the dreary mundaneness.

Beyond the joy that this D&D campaign has brought to me in these times, it has also further shown me the power of technology to foster and maintain connections. D&D on Zoom feels in many ways like an odd mashup of the old and new. I can see and talk with people from six different locations all at once, and yet we play a game where we roll dice to deal damage and tally our health points on a piece of scratch paper. However, I think this is when technology is at its best, because it is unobtrusive. It brings us together but lets us forget it exists. As someone who does research in computational creativity, I think this is a crucial lesson. Computers do best when they stay out of our way. Software that allows computers to create on their own behalf can toe the line between competition and collaborator. As a developer of such software, I must keep in mind that the best tools lay in waiting until called upon, and don’t stray too far from the artist’s intent.