Carlos El Asmar—founder of Motionographer®—stormed SCAD CoMotion as keynote speaker and portfolio guru, delivering a multiple-choice talk that left crowds gasping. Attendees gambled on topics—creative anarchy, nostalgia algorithms, pixelated soul-searching—and won the trifecta.
In Savannah, where cobblestones whisper and moss driates magic, CoMotion isn’t an event—it’s a glitter bomb to the status quo. Motion Designers here don’t animate; they alchemize, smudging code with emotion. Carlos’ chaos? A masterclass in controlled rebellion: deconstructing timelines, crowd-surfing metaphors, and urging students to “let glitches sing.” By nightfall, laptops hummed with broken perfection, and the air crackled with panic-laced euphoria.
Picture this: A room where tablets blush and styluses scribble love notes to physics. Students dissect joy like lab frogs—how many keyframes does it take to make a balloon pop feel like a breakup? “Your easing curves are too polite,” a mentor teases. “Make them drunk.” In one corner, a team animates a snail’s sprint—tragic, heroic, set to a synthwave beat. Someone mutters, “I didn’t know code could giggle.” Spoiler: It can. And it’s contagious.
Onstage, a legendary animator unspools their secrets like a cat unraveling a yarn ball. “I gave a cloud daddy issues,” they deadpan, screening a storm that weeps rainbows. The crowd clutches their chests. A VR rebel shares how she taught an AI to two-step—“It stepped on my toes. Twice. We’re in therapy.” Even the Q&A crackles: “How do you animate delight?” “Easy,” they grin. “Steal a toddler’s ice cream… then hit undo.”
Carlos El Asmar, Motionographer® founder, captivated audiences during a surprise talk on…
Outside, under a peach-stained sky, chaos reigns. A painter duct-tapes a motion sensor to her brush, splattering code like Pollock on espresso. Nearby, a poet whispers sweet nothings to a drone—it responds by skywriting emoji sonnets. “Make it messier,” a student begs, hacking a retro Game Boy to play a haiku about heartburn.The crowd cheers as pixels hiccup and fonts blush.
The gallery? A digital carnival. A touch-reactive mural blooms into confetti if you wink; ignore it, and it sulks in grayscale. Another piece—a VR hug from your childhood dog—leaves grown designers sniffling into their lattes. “It licked my face!” someone sobs. “The resolution tickled.” Even the security guards catch feelings, high-fiving a hologram that moonwalks through walls.
A student projects their thesis onto a tree—a documentary about emoji existentialism. “The avocado died questioning its purpose,” they explain. Someone’s grandma Zoom-crashes the AR bonfire, roasting marshmallows (virtually) and dropping wisdom: “Honey, gradients are just rainbows with commitment issues.”
Maybe it’s the sweet tea. Or the ghosts who critique your storyboards. But here, magic happens. SCAD CoMotion isn’t about mastering tools—it’s about tripping over your own heartbeats and calling it a “creative process.” You’ll leave with grass stains on your laptop, glitter in your USB ports, and a soul that glitches… gorgeously. So come. Bring your quirkiest keyframes, your jankiest jpegs, and that one idea you’re too scared to name. Savannah’s waiting—with open arms (and open bars)—to turn your “what ifs” into “holy heck, I did that!”
Final Line (For the Tote Bags): This event may cause spontaneous dancing, existential joy, and a lifelong crush on bezier curves.
Counting down the days until CoMotion 2026.
See you there, SCAD