Redrawing the Sky

Cosmographies and Other Obsessions

I've had a mild obsession with graphic representations of the world for as long as I can remember. Maps, atlases, diagrams, illustrations… all these images are so many attempts to understand and explain what surrounds us, sometimes poetic, sometimes scientific, often a bit of both at once. A cosmography (that's the fancy word for "descriptive graphic representation of the universe") is never gratuitous or isolated: it is intimately linked to the idea of narrative and to the definition of reality. It is precisely this tension between rigour and storytelling, between science and imagination that has always fascinated me and that has fed my artistic and graphic practice ever since it began.

Because one should never miss an opportunity to make an obsession worse, I wrote my end-of-studies dissertation on this very subject. And to drive the point home, I built my diploma project around the cosmographic and cosmogonic narratives I had collected over the years. What better excuse to put into images the ways of seeing the world that seemed precious and too little known? It was in this context that I first knocked on the door of Milène Wendling (director of the Strasbourg Planetarium), to ask her to proofread some of my popular science texts and ensure the scientific accuracy of my work. Milène agreed, I got my diploma, joy, happiness, academic achievement, and "oh s*** what do I do now?!".

Fast forward a few years, once the joyful chaos of starting out was under control, I asked myself a simple question: if I had the choice, what would I want to work on? The answer being "something to do with astronomy", I wrote to Milène hoping she vaguely remembered me. I subtly landed in her inbox to say, in essence: "Hello, you proofread some texts for my diploma five years ago, would you like to work together on absolutely whatever you want?"

To my great surprise, Milène agreed to meet me again and more than that, she proposed that I redraw all 88 constellations of the celestial vault. Which was the best thing I could have imagined when I knocked on her door. Multiplied by 10.

Down the Rabbit Hole

Before starting to draw, what better way to begin than by diving into an obsessive research spiral? 88 constellations, that's 88 opportunities to fall into a bottomless vortex of Wikipedia pages, ridiculously niche books pulled from the reserves of the local library, and monographs on Gallica. In short, pure joy (everyone has their hobbies, don't judge me).

I eventually emerged from the other end of the tunnel with a first stylistic inspiration: Athenian red-figure vases from classical Greece. A visual anchor that echoes the cultural heritage associated with the majority of constellations in the northern hemisphere.

Examples of red-figure vase paintings (a painting technique invented in Athens around 530 BC): a bell-shaped amphora by the painter Kleophrades (left) and Zeus, a cup signed by Oltos (right). Source : Les vases athéniens à figures rouges : la période archaïque, John Boardman, Thames & Hudson, 1997.

Then begins the joyful chaos of graphic research and various tests. I practise the "throw everything at the wall and see what sticks" technique. Pencils, brushes, cut paper, types of lines, paper and digital support... at this stage, the important thing is not to think too much, to leave space for unexpected ideas, and not to worry about the result. In my experience, it's from a more or less long succession of so-so attempts and questionable tests that the thread of an idea begins to emerge. Then all you have to do is pull on the thread to see if what's at the end is interesting. You filter a little to keep only the most promising leads, then it's off to the planetarium to test them in situ.

The constellation Cassiopeia, style tests

Try, Adjust, Repeat

The first real-world test session on the planetarium dome was decisive, as it revealed physical realities that would go on to dictate certain graphic choices. For example, the thicker a line, the more light it produces. In the context of projection, this means that a line that is too thick causes light pollution on the sky background (exactly like a streetlamp when you're trying to look at the stars) and dazzles the audience.

Thanks to these initial tests, we were able to settle on line thickness and choose digital drawing over paper.

The subsequent tests raised a second problem. For the first character drawings, I had chosen realistic proportions. I quickly ran into the fact that making realistic figures coincide with lines of astronomical origin produced artificial, stiff poses and promised me many sleepless nights. Along the way, I chose to preserve my sanity and let the style evolve toward more fluid limbs and freer gestures. By embracing a less realistic style, the eye naturally accepts the distortions as a deliberate graphic choice, and the whole thing gives much more life to the figures.

Evolution of drawing style on the constellations of Andromeda (top) and Perseus (bottom)

Right then, nothing left to do but draw 88 constellations like that. Off we go.

This is the moment to tell you about Antoine. Antoine is the planetarium projector programmer, but also the individual of infinite patience who took my [VERY. MANY] drawings and whispered to the projector so it would display them in the right place, who drew reference points one by one to help me adjust pieces of drawings, found a new technical solution to avoid distortion problems caused by projecting my flat drawings onto the curved vault, read obscure books in Dutch to verify information about tiny constellations that nobody knows, and spent as much time as I did spiralling through Wikipedia pages to track down visual references for ancient swords or shields. Thank you, Antoine.