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gobsmacked

Jan. 4th, 2022 12:29 pm
johncomic: (SK BW)
Late last year, a regional comics publisher, Black Eye Books, contacted me about crowdfunding a collection of my Dishman small press comics series. I had nothing to lose by agreeing to it, but I wasn't confident that this project would succeed. I never saw myself as a name draw in the field, and Dishman has been available to read online (for free) for years now. So no one needed to buy this book, it seemed to me.

The crowdfund was set to launch officially this morning, and I found out that it met its necessary goal in an hour. I am pleasantly (but thoroughly) shocked.


johncomic: (Booth)
clean dry roads in good repair
johncomic: (The Mighty Scott)
I've been on a retro-soul kick since last fall, getting into obscure-to-me indie bands of this century who are recreating the feel of soul music from the 60s and early 70s. One very recent discovery is Take the Cake by The Getup. Just got it a couple days ago and was listening to it last night. Realized that I quite like their vocalist, looked up her name [Sasha Goodman], found that she had Twitter and Instagram accounts, followed them.

On closer inspection, I realized that she hasn't posted anything for over five years, and wondered what she's been up to. Researched further, and finally learned that she died just over five years ago. Cancer. She was only thirty-six.

Hard to explain why, but I find it a bit stunning, to just discover someone with appealing talent and learn that they are already long gone and we won't be hearing more from them. If this was my first exposure to some rare jazz artist from the forties or somesuch, then learning they were gone would not be such a shock. But this music is only a few years ago, and this artist is clearly young, and I just didn't see this coming. I'm not sure why this matters so much to me today, but somehow it does.

Sasha Goodman

johncomic: (Moss)
"If you nail two things together that have never been nailed together before, some schmuck will buy it from ya." - George Carlin


Lately I have been rethinking my stance on originality in the arts.

Especially since the turn of the twentieth century and the rise of modernism, so much emphasis has been placed on a creator’s originality. Schoenberg’s atonal music, Kandinsky’s abstract art, Joyce’s stream of consciousness literature - all of them proclaimed as Great for doing something no one had done before. [Even though none of them was in fact the first to have done the thing, but that’s another story.]

Meanwhile, some creators are dismissed for looking too much like, or sounding too much like, so-and-so. By which they mean that the artist’s means of expression show clear influences. But what about the ideas they express using those means? What about the ways they please and communicate with the audience? Too often, originality is held up, not as an important value in art, but as the only value.

Shakespeare is known for, among other things, coining new words in his writing, which became part of the language. Hard for a writer to get more original than that. But, by this way of thinking, does this mean that a writer who invents new words is necessarily writing better stories than someone who simply uses the language as they find it?

In my youth, I dismissed some comic artists for simply being clones of some better-known artist. I did this without paying attention to how well they used this stylistic language to tell a good story. I look back at their work now and see that I was missing out on a lot that was valuable in what they did, simply because it didn’t “look new”.

When jazz pianist Jutta Hipp released her album At the Hickory House, it was dismissed by many for “sounding exactly like Horace Silver”. And yet, today, her album is a fave of mine, and I listen to it more often than any of Silver’s. Because I enjoy what she plays. It’s not like she has no ideas of her own, it’s not that every line she plays is a direct rip-off of something Silver played. She has a similar tone and touch, but she uses it to create music of her own. Which you need to get past the superficial similarities to appreciate.

So, I am finally reaching the stage where I can look at or listen to someone whose style is highly influenced, or even derivative, and not simply go, “They aren’t giving me an original style or technique.” Now, I ask, “What are they giving me? Do I find anything worthwhile in this work?” Of course, originality still has some value in and of itself. A satisfying work that is expressed in a new and unique way can become even more satisfying because of that. But there are other things to consider, is all I’m saying.

johncomic: (SK BW)
For the past few days, I've been devoting my drawing time to doing studies of Dik Browne's work on Hi & Lois. And, as so often happens when I spend any time studying Browne, I come away with renewed awe at his genius. The only reason I rank Bill Watterson higher as a cartoonist is because of Watterson's peerless writing, so that he is The Total Package of cartoonists. But if we are just talking cartoon art, then no one beats Dik Browne.



Before he began working in syndicated comic strips, Browne had a thriving career in advertising art [he designed the classic 50s overhaul of the Campbell's Kids]. But Mort Walker hired Browne to tackle the art for Hi & Lois, where he very deliberately modelled his work on Walker's style, a unique and groundbreaking style that would take its classic shape in early-60s Beetle Bailey. Walker's style was extremely simple and open, meaning that it could still look good when significantly shrunk [a prime consideration in newspaper strips]. It was also cute and expressive and appealing, easy to read and easy to grasp.

Browne essentially perfected this style by adding a sense of grace and beauty to pristine immaculate economical linework, along with his mastery of cute. (Off the top of my head, the only cartoonists I can think of whose kids can equal his in cuteness would be Warren Kremer and Gene Hazelton.) His H&L work captures the formica ideal of postwar suburban America like no one else.



chinchilla

Sep. 15th, 2021 03:36 pm
johncomic: (Default)
My 33rd acrylic painting finally has nothing to do with the UK. I made this as a gift for a friend who loves chinchillas and currently is unable to have one, so I hope she likes this.

I suspect that some people will call this the best one I have ever made, and most likely because of all the fuss and attention to small detail, esp. the fur. My friend is someone who appreciates meticulous realism in art, so I did this with her in mind. But now that I'm done, I come away with a sense that I always felt I was capable of doing such work, but somehow that isn't what excites me in my own art. Just as my cartooning and ink drawing when I was younger involved far more tiny lines, more obvious technique, than what I choose to do today. Today I am more interested in simplicity and stripping down. Like Alex Toth did when he got older. Like the Post-Impressionists and Fauvists and Expressionists did. I like this painting, and I'm fairly pleased with it, but I'd be more impressed if I could pull off something that feels like Münter or Vlaminck or Macke.

acrylic painting no. 33
johncomic: (Default)
My 32nd acrylic painting is another of my UK pieces, this one showing a view of the River Foss from the balcony of our flat on Merchantgate in York. I deliberately aimed for some of the flattening and distortion found in some Expressionist and Post-Impressionist works -- for instance, the lines do not recede and converge according to the laws of classical perspective. Maybe next time I can try to make my colours less representational as well?


acrylic painting #32
johncomic: (Face of Boe)
messages from the cosmos

Over the last few weeks, I have received numerous insights and tips from articles, books, posts, intuitions, etc., and they seem to overlap in constructive fashion to help me push through a recent creative roadblock. Here are some:
  • I am enough.
  • The act of creating has positive and nurturing value, quite apart from the resultant creation.
  • The experience of creating is a form of mindfulness that has meditative value.
  • A work isn't a failure simply because it isn't the sort of work that will find a mass audience. I am allowed to like it, and even be the only one who likes it.
  • We can reframe self-criticism as ambition: “my work sucks” becomes “I want my work to be better”. This completely sidesteps the issue of whether or not we can objectively view how good our current work might actually be. I can actually be producing decent work, or good work, and still want it to be better. It doesn't have to be dissatisfaction with what I've done; it can be a desire to learn more and to grow.
johncomic: (Default)
that thought came to me out of nowhere today and reached me in profound ways, despite its absurd simplicity

I realized that I haven't been thinking that for a long time, and that's been adversely affecting my life and my work. To hear it from my inner self, and to feel the simple truth of it, is enough to set me on a new and better path.

I am enough.
johncomic: (Moss)
rediscovering old loves

Last night I got thinking about cartoonists who inspire me... in this case, a particular few whose work is very stripped down and simple, but evocative and unique. None of them are household names, but all of them are personal heroes: Fred Lucky, Jerry Marcus, and Vahan Shirvanian.

I went downstairs to see if I could find any of their books to look over again. All of these are very old, long out of print, but I got great bargains on all of them from used booksellers [one I got at a garage sale for twenty-five cents!]. And lo and behold, all of them were gathered together in one spot, as if to say, "Yep, we knew you'd come looking for us some time!"


Dumplings by Fred Lucky

Trudy by Jerry Marcus

No Comment by Vahan Shirvanian

Liz Lamb

Apr. 25th, 2021 09:03 pm
johncomic: (Sweets)
Every once in a blue moon, I find myself remembering Liz Lamb. Tonight happens to be one of those.

It was the summer of 1977 and I was working a summer job, part-time night shift as a gas station cashier. 11pm to 7 am, Fri and Sat nights, as I recall. It was a pretty quiet gig, but at least I was allowed to listen to the radio and allowed to read while on duty. I don't think I ever nodded off on the job. I also remember spending a lot of my time re-reading a biography of Marc Bolan, whom I had just gotten into.

A lot of the details have gotten sketchy and dubious, but here are some. This one night in late August, right near the start of my shift, this slim pretty redhead comes up to pay for her gas. She's very friendly and outgoing and charming, and somehow we end up talking a fair bit longer than her purchase actually required. The next night, she came back, to buy much less gas, and we talked even longer. Fortunately no other customers came by during these times to interrupt us. And this time, before she goes, she tells me that she'd like to take me out to dinner. So I let her know where to pick me up, we arranged a time during the week, and off she went.

I remember my mom thought this was all rather odd. TBH so did I. But I went.

She took me for a fairly late meal at a local restaurant. I remember we drank Mateus, which I had never had before, and I had a fair bit of it. (At one point I was sitting in a stall in the restroom and I could feel the room turning head over heels.) Then she wanted us to go hang at a friend's place out on the edge of town. We got there, and before we went in we spent a little while necking against her car. At one point I had her bent back onto the hood, my hands wandering over her. When we got in, there were a few guys in the house, Liz was the only girl, and I sat in a corner of a couch, very quiet. As I recall, they were smoking up a bit, which I didn't touch yet. At least there were tunes, which were okay, but TBH I was pretty bored. 

Finally she drove me home, and there was a small good night kiss, but I don't recall anything being said about doing this again. In part, I guess, because we were both set to leave town and go off to school in the very near future, and we both knew that we both knew. So that's really all there was to it.

The main reason I keep thinking about this is just the strangeness of a beautiful stranger asking me out. I mean, to me she looked like the sort of woman who could have anyone she wanted. And I certainly wasn't all that.

And yet she seemed to want me. And yet only sorta. I really don't know what prompted her. And I also wonder when [and how much] she regretted doing it, after all. But yeah, it made me feel attractive for a while, in a way that few events and few people have done, either before or since.

Sometimes I wonder where she is, how she's doing. Whatever happened to her. And does she remember me, and, if so, how. I doubt I will ever know.
johncomic: (Moss)
the arrival of another art-related package [early birthday gifts to myself]:

pastels

pastel paper

I recently discovered the pastel work of Tara Will, and its expressiveness is so inspiring that I was moved to revisit pastels, decades after a few years of trying them in high school. The ones I used in school were hard -- coloured chalk, essentially. These new ones are so soft that I would actually call them succulent, and I am excited to be able to try them out!

johncomic: (Moss)
receiving a beautiful new book

John Singer Sargent watercolor collection

johncomic: (Uncle Old Guy)
My thirty-first acrylic painting is yet another in my UK series. I spotted Fishergate Postern Tower and its stretch of adjoining city wall during one of my last walks around York, and I took a couple of pictures of the simple worn stone, impressed with the feeling of time travel the sight evoked in me. Something about the dawn light on the tower appealed to me, as well. It's not a pyrotechnic view, but I tried to capture some of the peaceful massiveness of the place.

acrylic #31
johncomic: (Uncle Old Guy)
What motivates you to keep going with your work?
 
It took me a long time to realize that my work is something that I do for myself. If I'm just sitting around feeling down, then if I grab a pad and draw something, or a notebook and write something, then I invariably feel better, during the doing and afterward. It nourishes my spirit -- I dunno why I keep forgetting that it does, and need to keep re-learning that over and over. But so be it. Right now, I am in a space where I remember it, and do it.
 
TBH I have pretty much given up on my work really mattering or making a difference to anyone else. For many years I clung to that hope. But now I realize that I don't actually need someone else to validate what I do. I mean, it'd be nice, sure, but... the fact that it's good for me is all the reason I need to keep doing it.
johncomic: (Face of Boe)
early flowers

early flowers
johncomic: (Booth)
the first day of the year where it was warm enough to go run errands without a jacket
johncomic: (Uncle Old Guy)
getting back an all-clear result on my FIT -- sigh of relief for another two years
johncomic: (Uncle Old Guy)
hearing the songs of robins at daybreak -- one of my favourite sounds, and this morning was my first time hearing it this year [so glad the robins haven't gone into lockdown]
johncomic: (Uncle Old Guy)
My father's parents, Charlie and Lottie, were the source of treasured anecdotes from our childhood onward. Often the stories arose from the contrast they presented: Lottie was an archetypal worrier and ditherer, while Charlie was a genial, unflappable stoic. Probably the most classic Charlie and Lottie story is The Pie On The Car.

They were over visiting at our house, and had arrived while my father was out buying groceries. He returned and unloaded the car just as the skies opened up with rain so heavy you could barely see through it. My grandparents helped my parents unpack the bags, and then mom noticed that the pie dad was supposed to get was not there. At first he was confused, cuz he was positive he bought it. Then he realized that he had lifted it up onto the roof of the car while he was unloading, and then had forgotten it there. Everyone crowded around the back door to look at the driveway and yes, sure enough, there was the pie, getting drenched.

Lottie immediately fluttered and cried out, "Charlie! There's a pie on the car! There's a pie on the car!"

In reply, he drawled out, "Keep your shirt on, Lottie." To us little kids, that line was inexpressibly hilarious, and many is the time we recalled it in the years since. [Maybe you had to be there.]


For some reason, I have been thinking of that story a lot, the last few days. And I am struck by the humble wisdom in it. I realize that, for many months now, I have been experiencing a lot of anxiety over everything and nothing. Everything is cause for alarm. I have become a classic Lottie. And, the other day, I read something that said the major components of fear and/or anxiety are overestimating the harm a situation will cause and underestimating our ability to cope.

In other words, not keeping the situation in perspective.

In other words, not keeping your shirt on.


And so, lately, when I find myself unduly concerned about some hypothetical, I tell myself, "Keep your shirt on, Lottie."

And, oddly enough, it helps.

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