… who went to the police academy. And they were each assigned very hazardous duties, like entertaining homosexuals for 48 years.
Daylight was waning when the first batch of “Angels in Chains” figures made their way to my door this evening, and the lighting in my office will (regrettably) remain poor until I find a decent desk lamp. But here’s your first look at what I’ll be painting for my dioramas.
With Basil (now sporting both of his ankles) and Matoto looking on.
Next we have a slightly better look at the figures and a peek at the strange set my work table has become. As you can see, one group of figures was produced in white and the other a tan that appears more yellow than it is; they’re made from different materials I wanted to compare. Additional figures printed in gray resin, which should photograph better, are on the way. If anyone wants an unpainted gray set, you can get in touch with me via the ‘Contact’ form here or at Cranky.**
You’ll notice their eyes are blank, which is common with small resin figures — you have to fill ’em in yourself. I’m more worried about that than any other part of the painting process. It’s common for amateurs such as myself to use only flesh-colored paint on the faces of human figures without attempting fine detail work, but I’m unconvinced that’s the right look for this project.
If you don’t trust your grasp of scale, this might make it easier.
We conclude with Maxine searching for Jill in the bathtub and Sabrina knocking on the door with Kelly as backup. They requested a word with Basil and told him that if I don’t stop writing about Kate Jackson or recording meandering gabfests about Jaclyn Smith’s book they’re going to steal a beet or onion truck and see how my sensible Honda fares against it.
As I’ve said here once before, I’m not actually an Angels super-fan. Its first season was its best and when Jackson departed a couple years after Farrah Fawcett the heart of the show left with her. But there’s something fascinating about “Angels in Chains” and despite its huge ratings at the time (and that iconic chain gang pose), I’m not sure it’s ever quite gotten its due. That’s why I wanted these figures to exist.
* I can’t bring myself to call them ‘little girls,’ as John Forsythe (or, as Papa would bellow, “Jacob Freund!”) did; it’s too patronizing.
** Please don’t include a street address; I can’t vouch for the security of the plug-in that powers the form. All I need for now is an email address and a note that you’d like a set. I’ll request your shipping info once I’m ready for it next week. These will be free to Existential Despair readers since it takes dedication (and a handful of aspirin) to regularly subject yourself to my inanity here.