Sunday, 1 September, 2013:
A friend filled a gap in my knowledge of urban legend, cyber-mythology, and general cultural weirdness by turning me on to something called Marble Hornets, a sort of faux-documentary, psychological puzzle and video Rorschach test currently available on YouTube in a seemingly endless series of installments. The subject is an occult figure known as The Slender Man, a stealer of children and all-around shifty and darkly ominous entity who, once he gets in your head, becomes a consuming obsession - at least for me, as well as for the characters in the series. A number of interpretations and visualizations of this spook exist on the web; I have been compelled to draw him repeatedly of late, and have yet to render a completely satisfying portrayal, but that only compounds my fascination and deepens the mystery. He made an appearance in my last set of entries and here he is again in a different context, along with a couple of pieces in which I willfully had to keep him at bay to stop him from entering the picture. |
Second entry for Wednesday, 21 August, 2013:
Finished this a little while ago, didn't feel like waiting to post it. If I have to explain this one to you, you ain't gonna get it anyway, and you probably already don't like me much. One of J.F.K.'s lasting quotes is, "Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country!" ...what a load of clams! That's exactly fucking backwards if, as most folks seem to do, you interpret "country" and "government" as synonymous. People do not exist to serve governments - governments must, if they are to be considered legitimate, exist to serve people. That this government exists not to serve its citizens but to serve an elite class whose intent is to enslave us, is beyond reasonable denial. That nationalism is a variety of bigotry, as much so as racism or sexism or religious intolerance, is an observation that is understood by every awakened person who calls this planet home. By the way, the word allegiance derives from those duties owed by a vassal or serf to his feudal lord, under pain of swift and brutal punishment. |
Wednesday, 21 August, 2013:
Our story used to be commonly told using the mythology of the "western" genre. These days the story of the world we have made may be better served by the iconography and mechanisms of the horror tale. Yet I have always had a great fondness for a solid western yarn either in print or on film (that I still speak of print and film as something other than the outmoded methods of the past perhaps reveals me as a relic), and the archetype of the range-riding hero was permanently imprinted on my psyche by the time I could speak the word, "cowboy." Today, while watching a dvd copy of an early Johnny Mack Brown serial (Fighting With Kit Carson - taken from a print at least as damaged by the brutalities of time as Johnny's mortal remains must be by now), I learned that Elmore Leonard, one of the finest writers ever to peck out a page on a typewriter, had died. Though his greatest popularity came in recent decades as a writer of contemporary crime novels, much of his early work was within the classical tradition of the western genre, and some of it is among the best of the field. All of which, I guess, conspired to bring a western themed comic-cover out of me. I've drawn a few other cowboy type images, but haven't done one recently - must have been time. This one has a dark flavor.
Also included in this post are three other pieces from recent days. "Mystics of Bali" was inspired by the dementedly goofy Indonesian flick of the same name - who could remain uninspired when presented with a floating head, trailing guts and a spinal chord, that sucks unborn infants out of the vaginas of its victims? Fortunately for the mental well-being of all of us, I made no attempt to represent this outrageous act.
The other two pics are just the result of not being able to keep my pen still.
Our story used to be commonly told using the mythology of the "western" genre. These days the story of the world we have made may be better served by the iconography and mechanisms of the horror tale. Yet I have always had a great fondness for a solid western yarn either in print or on film (that I still speak of print and film as something other than the outmoded methods of the past perhaps reveals me as a relic), and the archetype of the range-riding hero was permanently imprinted on my psyche by the time I could speak the word, "cowboy." Today, while watching a dvd copy of an early Johnny Mack Brown serial (Fighting With Kit Carson - taken from a print at least as damaged by the brutalities of time as Johnny's mortal remains must be by now), I learned that Elmore Leonard, one of the finest writers ever to peck out a page on a typewriter, had died. Though his greatest popularity came in recent decades as a writer of contemporary crime novels, much of his early work was within the classical tradition of the western genre, and some of it is among the best of the field. All of which, I guess, conspired to bring a western themed comic-cover out of me. I've drawn a few other cowboy type images, but haven't done one recently - must have been time. This one has a dark flavor.
Also included in this post are three other pieces from recent days. "Mystics of Bali" was inspired by the dementedly goofy Indonesian flick of the same name - who could remain uninspired when presented with a floating head, trailing guts and a spinal chord, that sucks unborn infants out of the vaginas of its victims? Fortunately for the mental well-being of all of us, I made no attempt to represent this outrageous act.
The other two pics are just the result of not being able to keep my pen still.
Sunday, 11 August, 2013:
The latest batch. A friend relayed to me that he was thinking of using a rendering of mine as the basis for a tattoo; I'll take that as a compliment whether he ever carries out such a mad scheme or not. The design he was contemplating was the Black Iron Prison from the last panel of a brief graphic rant I did awhile back, and I was inspired to do a new version of the drawing from the unusual (for me) perspective of actually knowing what it was I wanted to draw. I did not deviate from the design or intent of that work, just thought I could improve a bit on the hastily executed original; the result is here, along with the rest of the recent crop of stuff. Weird Shit is a a perfect title for an imaginary comic book , "underground" style. Having had great fun drawing one, I couldn't help drawing another. |
Tuesday, 30 July, 2013:
A week's worth of drawings - some as much like cartoon panels as anything else, and none inspiring an instant post, but collectively representative of where the work has taken me so far. The "Dr. Orloff" illustration is the only one that translated my idea to the page pretty much as I envisioned it. Everything else just happened by itself. |
Monday, July 22, 2013:
This was my third attempt at an illustration with this theme: a man emerging from amidst the workings of some vast machine into a new world ; a qualitatively different existential plane. (It's an autobiographical topic.) None of the drawings turned out the way I intended, but this one seems interesting enough to post. Of course, it's a metaphor for our time - the gears of our insane cultural machine will continue to grind us into extinction unless we evolve beyond current imbedded modes of thinking and being. Hardly a new or original notion, but no subject is more worthy of our attention, in our art or in our lives. Culture shapes people, orders our destinies, but history shows us that awakened individuals can shape culture. You may say that I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one. And then there is this... |
The "Spicy" line of pulp magazines (Spicy Mystery, Spicy Horror, etc.) were about as naughty (and therefore tantalizing) as a newsstand publication could get back in the 1930's. Though the stories within were careful to avoid describing the forbidden details of sexual activity, the wonderfully lurid covers were absolutely fetishistic in their portrayal of near-nude damsels threatened by every imaginable sort of perverse ogre, lustful maniac, drooling mad scientist and degenerate beast-thing. Certainly designed to capture the immediate attention of the casual browser, it is ironic that these covers usually remained hidden "under the counter," unseen until actual purchase.
An actual cover of a Spicy periodical would likely contain more graphic (near) nudity than this tribute from memory and imagination, but the flavor is present. In truth, I did not set out to draw a Spicy cover - I just drew the guy in the hood, who looked very much like he had just stepped off a Spicy pulp cover, so the rest seemed obvious. |
Monday, July 15, 2013:
Been a couple of weeks since the last post, but I've got a few to paste up here today - hope you find 'em worth the wait.
Been a couple of weeks since the last post, but I've got a few to paste up here today - hope you find 'em worth the wait.
Once again, none of these pieces arose from a plan, or any specific intent beyond just sitting down to draw. Once again Lovecraftian entities lurk in the background and pretty girl-flowers grow wild - familiar elements in my work but, what the hell, it only takes 26 familiar symbols to make the whole damn language. All we do is find different ways to rearrange 'em.
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Sunday, 30 June, 2013:
The more I draw, the more I enjoy the process; I'm fortunate to have time to do it most every day. A few of my favorites are the result of some inspiration or other: which is to say, in those particular instances I actually had some idea to work
with, some intention toward a desired outcome. In the case of the four pieces that follow, a subtler method is invoked. I can't wait to bump into inspiration on the road; I have to begin the journey without it's company, in hope of attracting its attention along the way. In each case I began with no vision but that of putting some lines on paper to see what happens next. All I can say is that in each case something indeed did happen, and an illustration spontaneously birthed itself. There's a story represented by each one, waiting to be told.
The more I draw, the more I enjoy the process; I'm fortunate to have time to do it most every day. A few of my favorites are the result of some inspiration or other: which is to say, in those particular instances I actually had some idea to work
with, some intention toward a desired outcome. In the case of the four pieces that follow, a subtler method is invoked. I can't wait to bump into inspiration on the road; I have to begin the journey without it's company, in hope of attracting its attention along the way. In each case I began with no vision but that of putting some lines on paper to see what happens next. All I can say is that in each case something indeed did happen, and an illustration spontaneously birthed itself. There's a story represented by each one, waiting to be told.
I drew this a little while back, on the anniversary of Robert E. Howard's death, then forgot to display it on this site, though Facebook friends will have seen it.
I read my first Conan story when the Lancer paperback editions were issued decades ago. I'd been introduced to the sword and sorcery genre of storytelling by the great Fritz Leiber"s wonderful tales of Fafhrd and The Grey Mouser, but these Howard stories were something else again. Leiber's tales were a delight to read and one shared in the obvious fun he had writing them, but Howard's yarns had a unique power and intensity that reflected the personality of their creator, as though he had not merely drawn them from fancy but had lived, sweated and bled these episodes in a long ago life. I had never read anything quite like them and , no matter how hard his imitators try, there will never be anything quite like them again. |
Wednesday, 19 June, 2013:
Those with a taste for pop culture from south of the border will be familiar with The Man in the Silver Mask. Vampires, werewolves, mummies, witches, mad scientists, robots, mutants, aliens - you name it and El Santo, masked Mexican wrestler and protector of the innocent , has faced and defeated it. With no special powers save his strength. courage and willingness to pummel and be pummelled, he is an exemplary provider of cheap pulp thrills to generations of pharmaceutically enhanced and/or drink-besotted movie lovers. Santo vs. the Vampire Women was the first Santo flick I ever saw on a long-ago Saturday afternoon, and remains a favorite. Viva Santo! |
Sunday, 9 June, 2013:
Warning! These parasites are everywhere among us and they will suck the intelligence right out of you; so bold are they now that they operate openly and undisguised. Their mission: the enslavement of humanity through control of educational institutions, manipulation of communications and entertainment media, outright purchase of political processes, infliction of universal debt and a permanent culture of war and terror, among other perfidious strategies. Countless millions have succumbed and are now effectively brain-dead, operating as zombie-like automatons, devoid of all understanding and in service to forces inimical to the the survival of the species. The situation is truly horrifying. While certain natural remedies do exists which can serve to alleviate this general dissolution of consciousness and open the way to a more refined understanding of ourselves and our condition, these remedies have been almost universally demonized in the public mind and (in the ultimate perversion of law) their use, possession or transfer made criminal. All traditional human institutions have been infiltrated and repurposed to fit the Brain Sucker's blueprint for domination. Please leave your ideas for the salvation of humanity in the suggestion box at the entrance to the vestibule. |
Saturday, 8 June, 2013:
Monday. 3 June, 2013:
Somebody once tried to put down Neil Young by shouting out at a concert that all his songs sounded the same. Neil's instant response, as best I recall, was : "It's all one song!" I feel something like that about my work - it's all one drawing; I am only able to reveal it a little bit at a time. This piece is as simple as it gets - the girl and the monster. Beauty and the Beast. Not much different from 10,000 other pulpy illustrations begat by a thousand artists of all ranks, through decades of tradition. This could be a splash panel in Planet Comics, or an illo for a yarn in Amazing Stories. Simple it is, but it made me happy to draw it and makes me smile when I look at it - who can ask for more? |
Sunday, 2 June, 2013:
Drawn yesterday, within a couple of hours of each other:
Drawn yesterday, within a couple of hours of each other:
Sunday, 26 May, 2013:
Another poster for an imaginary movie. Lots of passionate words come to mind that I might preach here concerning the cancerous nature of a culture driven by corporate greed and the devastation of natural resources but, fear not; I'll save the sermon for another Sunday and let this entry do the talking. |
Saturday, 25 May, 2013:
I've been having some fun lately playing at making posters for movies I'd like to see - sort of like the outrageous posters for low budget sci-fi/exploitation flicks of the fifties, but with some contemporary twists. We can talk all day about all the things that have gone wrong with the world we've created for ourselves, but art and humor seem to combine to come to the point with some immediacy. Here are two examples; I expect more may be coming.
I've been having some fun lately playing at making posters for movies I'd like to see - sort of like the outrageous posters for low budget sci-fi/exploitation flicks of the fifties, but with some contemporary twists. We can talk all day about all the things that have gone wrong with the world we've created for ourselves, but art and humor seem to combine to come to the point with some immediacy. Here are two examples; I expect more may be coming.
Thursday, 23 May, 2013:
It's been longer than I'd like since I've made an entry here, due to a confluence of personal circumstances too dreary to recount. One remarkable discovery I made over the last week or so is that while art is no substitute for quality pharmaceuticals , it can provide genuine pain relief. These drawings were done while I suffered from a fractured and infected tooth. I didn't know if I would be able to work at all but, to my surprise and pleasure, the simple act of immersing myself in creative activity allowed me to forget (or at least ignore) the constant throbbing pain. The pieces displayed below may or may not represent my absolute best effort, but they do represent a happy discovery and, for now, they're what I have to offer.
It's been longer than I'd like since I've made an entry here, due to a confluence of personal circumstances too dreary to recount. One remarkable discovery I made over the last week or so is that while art is no substitute for quality pharmaceuticals , it can provide genuine pain relief. These drawings were done while I suffered from a fractured and infected tooth. I didn't know if I would be able to work at all but, to my surprise and pleasure, the simple act of immersing myself in creative activity allowed me to forget (or at least ignore) the constant throbbing pain. The pieces displayed below may or may not represent my absolute best effort, but they do represent a happy discovery and, for now, they're what I have to offer.
Friday, 10 May, 2013:
Inspired, once again, by something I saw on Antiques Roadshow: perhaps not entirely the oddest place to encounter one's muse, but always somehow surprising to me. Someone had brought in a couple of Native American artifacts and a painting by a native artist; I've worked all of it and more into this rendering. I'm particularly fond of the tomahawk / peace-pipe. I'd bet the artist here depicted took a big hit off it and found some inspiration there. |
Sunday, 5 May, 2013:
Anybody remember the Ballantine Adult Fantasy series of paperback books? The late Lin Carter was the editor way back when and, though I never dug his attempts at fiction, as an editor he was responsible for resurrecting and popularizing some mighty fine and undeservedly neglected work by pioneers of the genre: Lord Dunsany, Clark Ashton Smith, William Hope Hodgson, just to name a few. Kai -Lung Unrolls His Mat by Ernest Brahman was one of these I discovered on a paperback spinner some forty-odd years ago - an utterly charming and delightful volume filled with witty prose and the kind of aphorisms to make you grin that old Charlie Chan might have spouted, had his dialog been written by someone with a genuine love for and knowledge of Oriental literature and philosophy. Brahman's work is hard to find these days, but a nostalgic remembrance of it inspired this tribute. Also posting below, a couple of music-themed renderings from recent days. |
Wednesday, 1 May, 2013:
It is Walpurgis Night as I make this entry, when witches gather for demonic orgies, so I suppose some more ominously occult rendering might have been more appropriate, if I had thought of it (which I didn't 'til just moments ago.) But demonic orgies (perhaps surprisingly) were not on my mind when I embarked on this drawing earlier. The day was yet young and I had already indulged in behavior I ordinarily regard as obnoxious and juvenile: drawn into a comment thread on Facebook (a precipitous behavior at best) and spurred to righteous indignation by the pudding-brained remarks of a "contributor," I suffered a severe lapse of sensibility and referred to someone I've never met as a willfully ignorant asshole. Regardless of the apparent veracity of the charge ( the flaming derp was a champion of George Bush, fer chrissake!), such facile name-calling is not behavior I am proud of. Now I felt like an asshole! I would have liked to just sail away, on a journey to something infinitely better than the species-wide, degenerate madness that engulfs us daily. And so, humbled, this... |
Thursday, 25 April, 2013:
Because I like to draw women...
Because I like to draw women...
Monday, 22 April, 2013:
I can imagine the story behind most of my illustrations, or their place in my personal mythology/iconography, but sometimes a character is a complete mystery to me. Such is the case with the long-eared but decidedly female creature at the center of this drawing. I don't know what her story is, but she is familiar, like a character from a half-remembered fairy tale. The other inhabitants of this pic followed her onto the page, as though impatient to take their place in the unfolding of the story, and there they remain, like images on a poster for a movie yet to be made. And then there is this... |
I had the notion of drawing two dragon-like creatures facing off nose to nose but, having done so, couldn't figure out how to fill in the background in an interesting way. Enter the lass with, as my First Critic put it, "tremendous boobs." Yes, I cannot deny her bosomy abundance, but she fills the required space quite adequately methinks.
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Thursday, 18 April, 2013:
The King in Yellow, a play purported to drive mad those who read it, is the device central to a volume of stories by Robert W, Chambers; stories which also tend to reference a mystical Yellow Sign. Though this drawing illustrates nothing in particular from the tales, it is inspired by contemplation of such notions. The spectres of kings must be drifting about the castle lately, given the title which insisted itself upon the following... |
Saturday, 13 April, 2013:
This is what happened when I sat down to draw today. Everything I put on paper is just a translation of whatever is burbling in my consciousness (or my subconscious, or whatever is left of my battered psyche these days.) Most of it is simply iterations of the weird personal mythology I've adapted over the years: a bizarre formulation of ideas and images from all the pop-culture I've absorbed and transmuted, mated with the iconography of various religions (legitimate and imagined), along with personal visions and memories. This one started with the spidery kind of shape at the top, and grew organically from there; as is often the case, I had no notion what it might turn out to be. Fever Dream is actually the name of an "underground" comic from back in the day - I felt compelled to borrow it as a title for this piece 'cause nothing else seemed to fit. A more recognizable rendering of a myth-figure follows... |
I posted this one on Facebook the other day and got a pleasing response.
I'm a rock 'n' roll baby. The first record album I ever owned was Elvis' first album on RCA, a Christmas gift from my folks, but the best of Elvis, by far, remain the recordings he did at the tiny Sun Studio in Memphis, before he was snared by Col. Tom and doomed to an endless hell of crappy movies featuring sappy tunes. The weird hillbilly cat who carried his guitar and his dreams to the studio that first day, couldn't know that he was opening the door to events that would shake the world and begin to shape a new one. He just knew he had something in him that needed to be let loose. For those of us who dig the sound that was born that day, the Sun logo is the equivalent of that bright star shining over Bethlehem. |
Saturday, 6 April, 2013:
Been awhile since I've posted; maybe because my intentions for this gallery have , like other living things, evolved. For a long time I've been posting just about everything I've drawn, as a sort of record of the journey from absent-minded doodler to whatever it is one might choose to call me at this point (artist would be fine.) Recently I've found myself somewhat less satisfied with what I've been producing, if only because my expectations for myself have evolved along with the work. Of the recent batch of pics, I like "Strange Garden" best - it came out of nowhere and grew organically. Seeming at first to be something more mundane, it surprised me as monsters and naked girls began to bloom out of flower- tops . It has the spontaneous imaginative quality that pleases me. I'm also posting a couple of the pieces I found less satisfying, because I do not believe them to be entirely devoid of interest, and because maybe your opinion of them will differ from mine...and maybe because just for the hell of it and they might as well be seen as be locked forever out of sight. |
Tuesday, 26 March, 2013:
There is no sweeter sounding, no more tantalizing confluence of syllables in the English language, than the word "forbidden." It instantly calls to mind infinite possibilities of pleasure, undreamt depths of secret knowledge, and the thrill of defiance that comes with the crossing of imposed boundaries. One who has never engaged with the forbidden has never savored the taste of freedom; a life of doing only what is permissible is a life squandered in mediocrity. |
Friday, 22 March, 2013:
Been knocked out with a cold all week; was finally able to do some drawing today, resulting in this old school wizard. My cerebral functions, however, seem still to be sufficiently impaired that I am unable to improvise some clever commentary, but he looks like he can speak for himself. |
Friday, 15 March, 2013:
I was standing on the stoop just outside my back door today when I noticed a whitish splatter on the face of the storm door. Maybe bird poop or something, I dunno, I didn't get down to a forensic examination, but I stared at it a while with a weird fascination. I have a tendency to visually interpret random patterns and textures (on walls, in the dirt, on rumpled cloth or curtains -just anywhere) as pictures; often vividly imagined, with a clarity that continues to surprise me. Faces and figures, mostly. As a child these images were sometimes vaguely disturbing, even a bit scary, or sometimes cartoonish or just simply odd and amusing. At this point, I call this facility of imagination a gift. It's what allows me to come to a blank piece of paper, with no particular inspiration or idea of what to draw, and begin to see suggestions; pictures forming, in the very texture of the paper itself. In this case, that whitish splatter on the storm door was the head/face of the creature depicted here, down to the curious tilt. It looked to me like the elongated skull of some kind of alien antelope, and it filled me with the need to draw it. I don't know what it means any more than you do, but it seems to me to be an excellent example of how simultaneously preposterous and miraculous the creative process is. Not to mention unpredictable. I didn't put a title on it, but I filed it as "Curious." |
Thursday, 14 March, 2013:
A mash-up of elements from two theological myths for today. The notion of a god seeking a human mate to create other-worldly offspring was old and entirely familiar when early Christians borrowed it to claim divinity for Jesus. Not surprising that Lovecraft would utilize it for The Dunwich Horror, a tale of what happens when a child who too closely resembles it's father is loosed upon the world. The parallel between the christian story and HPL's tale is interesting: a child, fathered by a superior entity from the sky, lives unknown for years, until he emerges to fulfill his destiny, and is ultimately destroyed by a fearful mob unwilling or unable to cope with a greater reality. "Blasphemous" is an adjective much favored by The Old Gentleman of Providence, and if this depiction of a twisted Nativity earns that description , then I've done my job. One more entry follows... |
Monday. 11 March, 2013:
As is often the case, I started out to draw something completely different. As is also often the case, the result seemed unsatisfying, so I began again, this time without conscious intention, just letting the pencil do what it wanted. Maya is a Hindu word, roughly meaning the play of illusion that constitutes our ordinary perception of the world. It was not my intent to draw a representation of that concept; if I had, I would have drawn her dancing wildly, but I didn't decide on her name until after I'd drawn her. I almost called her Patience, since she seems to be quietly waiting for someone or something. If I invent some after-the-fact bullshit about symbolism, I could say her blade 's edge divides the original oneness into the duality that makes the dance of being and non-being possible. Maybe the skull earrings signify the illusory nature of the self, which death dissolves. As for the eye above her bosom, well, the mind's eye is the source of all illusion, is it not? Perhaps we've caught her in the moment between cycles of creation and she's just waiting for the music to play, when she will begin to dance and spin like a mad Dervish once again. |
Saturday. 9 March, 2013:
Magic: the application of the will to change, through the use of ancient, sacred systems of knowledge. The book pictured represents the secret lore of the ages, passed down by the masters of old, but the real secret is not mere information contained in a book - it is the power of consciousness, existing as potential within each of us. When we try to change the world to fit our vision of what should be, the world resists with forces of overwhelming magnitude. The true path to change lies not in attempting to force outward changes, but in opening ourselves to change from within. When we change how we think about the world, or about our lives, or how we regard the very definitions of self to which we relentlessly cling; when we change our attitudes, then does the whole world begin to evolve with us. Politics does not change the world in its essence, it merely substitutes one set of problems for another. In terms of alleviating human suffering, Capitalism and Communism are both epic failures as practical systems, not because neither can effectively function as a set of guidelines for social interaction, but because greed, prejudice, the lust for power, and a total disconnect from our own true nature are the real generators of human behavior on a global scale. What we are conditioned to think of as problems - war, poverty, racism, political fanaticism - are not really problems at all. They are the symptoms of our one great problem. That problem is our own massive, often willful ignorance. It is so much easier to look for political band-aids for outward symptoms, than to address what lies within. Politics can never change the human heart, but the human heart may, on some unforeseeable day, change the nature of politics. |
Thursday, 7 March, 2012:
Nyarlathotep: in the Lovecraft pantheon of eldritch entities, he is the the messenger of Azathoth, the blind idiot god at the center of creation. He assumes a thousand forms because, like the ground of all being, he is formless in essence. Each individual sees him in the manifestation most suited to that person's own peculiar capacity to perceive him; in accordance with his own unique fears and desires. This is how he looked to me most recently. I'm afraid I can't repeat the message he delivered - it was truly unspeakable. |
Monday. 4 March, 2013:
To stand on the bridge of your vessel and see nothing but rolling ocean from horizon to horizon - no other sight, no other feeling is quite like it. There is a certain exquisite juxtaposition of sensations - a feeling of being completely and joyfully alive as never before, while entirely at the mercy of forces of scarcely imaginable power and magnitude; Nature herself, unbound, dancing in wild and spontaneous display. Few mortal freedoms are as exhilarating as the surrender to that magnificent, overwhelming presence. Few experiences invoke such a liberation of the spirit, while simultaneously providing one with so complete a sense of one's relative place in the vast ocean of existence. To live at sea is to live in constant acknowledgement of the presence of the divine made manifest. It is to be at once humbled and delighted. And, oh yes, filled with the sense of adventure. And in the next port await women and song and strong drink; whatever pleasures coin may purchase, cunning may acquire or charm may seduce. So hoist the black flag, mates, and yo-ho! They don't call 'em the "high seas" for nothin'. |
Friday, 1 March, 2013:
Surrounded by the hungry dead and fighting for survival. In a zombified world, it's just another day. It's amazing, what we can accept as "normal." For instance, it's now normal for the same corporate entities that reap the bloody profits of war to profit doubly from supervising the rebuilding of what they have destroyed, all at the expense (in lives and money and endless suffering and grief) of a duped public. It is normal for private entities to profit by the imprisonment of a large percentage of the population through the dubious manipulation of law and obvious class warfare, again at public expense. It is also normal for the most powerful private financial institutions to be free from fear of meaningful prosecution, no matter how brazen the violation of responsibility, or how callous the disregard for the lives and fortunes of the many. It is normal for us to know beyond question that the loyalties of our political representatives are bought and paid for by the wealthiest and most powerful private interests, and that, no matter how we might rattle our chains, nothing is likely to change that. It is normal to live in fear, anxiety, frustration; to be surrounded by deceit, willful ignorance, blind hatred, religious and political fanaticism and blood-lust. It is normal to live in a world of dissolving hope, disintegrating social mechanisms and vanishing intelligence. It's just another day. |
Wednesday, 27 February, 2013:
First, a pair of drawings. Afterwards, pertinent comments (and, who knows, perhaps some impertinent ones.)
First, a pair of drawings. Afterwards, pertinent comments (and, who knows, perhaps some impertinent ones.)
As is obvious, I often like to frame my drawings with circles or portions of circles. I feel like it lends a unifying quality to the overall design of the picture and, hell, I just like circles. The circle is one of our primary symbols and one of nature's primary forms. It is redolent with meaning, whether one considers the realm of science or the realm of the spirit. The circle rendered as a pair of snakes, each swallowing the other by the tail, is a time-honored motif; one I've often idly considered making use of, but never attempted 'til now. I normally use the circle-as-frame to help define the picture rather than to confine it, so it's almost never the first thing I draw, but one of the last, with elements of the drawing usually bursting free of the circular boundary at various points. The drawing is generated first; the framing device is afterthought.
In the case of these two pieces, my only initial consideration was to render the snakes as a frame, without any notion of what might be enclosed within that circumference. The drawing at left above was my initial try; I wasn't pleased with how the frame turned out, but I feel compelled to remark on what is contained therein. Nuns have appeared in my work before, usually in some perverse context. Having received a Catholic primary school education, most of my early teachers were nuns; they have always been a source of fear, awe and mystery to me. To my young self they seemed Gestapo-like, but even more alien. They ruled by fear and intimidation, enforced strict discipline, followed an incomprehensible, myth-based set of doctrines, wore the most bizarrely stylized uniforms, punished independent thinking, and claimed ultimate moral and intellectual authority for their (papal) dictator. I do not condemn them, and understood, even then, that they honestly believed in what they were doing - as I understand now that I benefited in many ways from my experience with them . But they did not just leave scars on my psyche - they left open wounds, which occasionally are balmed by blasphemous art. So be it.
I'm more satisfied with the snakes that frame the second picture, above right, and also happier with the piece overall. I don't think it wants any explanation, having been an entirely spontaneous response to the simple need to fill a circular space. There will be no discussion of the phallic symbolism inherent in the fondling of the serpent by the dancer. None.
In the case of these two pieces, my only initial consideration was to render the snakes as a frame, without any notion of what might be enclosed within that circumference. The drawing at left above was my initial try; I wasn't pleased with how the frame turned out, but I feel compelled to remark on what is contained therein. Nuns have appeared in my work before, usually in some perverse context. Having received a Catholic primary school education, most of my early teachers were nuns; they have always been a source of fear, awe and mystery to me. To my young self they seemed Gestapo-like, but even more alien. They ruled by fear and intimidation, enforced strict discipline, followed an incomprehensible, myth-based set of doctrines, wore the most bizarrely stylized uniforms, punished independent thinking, and claimed ultimate moral and intellectual authority for their (papal) dictator. I do not condemn them, and understood, even then, that they honestly believed in what they were doing - as I understand now that I benefited in many ways from my experience with them . But they did not just leave scars on my psyche - they left open wounds, which occasionally are balmed by blasphemous art. So be it.
I'm more satisfied with the snakes that frame the second picture, above right, and also happier with the piece overall. I don't think it wants any explanation, having been an entirely spontaneous response to the simple need to fill a circular space. There will be no discussion of the phallic symbolism inherent in the fondling of the serpent by the dancer. None.
Sunday, February 24, 2013:
Been most of a week since I've posted anything here and I've missed doing so, but the gods (jokers that they are) sometimes put unexpected (not to mention unwanted) obstacles in our path. The Most Beautiful Woman in the World was injured in a fall on some nasty ice a few days ago and is now recovering from surgery . Needless to say, we've been spending a lot of time in doctor's offices and hospital rooms, answering the same list of bureaucratic questions about a godzillion times, and waiting ...and waiting...and waiting... I had an idea for a drawing to be called "Broken Angel," so when I finally got some time to draw I was anxious to see how it might turn out but, after a couple of hopeful starts, the results were never quite what I was aiming for. When I finally allowed the pencil to start making whatever lines it wanted, this is what emerged. It's about as far from my original intent as anything could be, but I guess that's okay - not what I wanted to do, but what I was able to do in the moment. Because I grew up in the era that I did, cowboy/gunfighter mythology is firmly etched in my neural pathways. It ain't near as fashionable as it used to be, and I known it's a load of clams but , for me, it's the storytelling equivalent of comfort food. I feel at home with it, and it lightens my spirit. |
Monday, 18 February, 2013:
Sometimes I have an idea for a drawing and sometimes I don't; sometimes it's more fun when I don't. Then the blank paper is like a white void out of which anything may emerge, and the very texture of the paper reveals its own lines and curves, patterns and symmetries. Out of such a process come these two revelations:
Sometimes I have an idea for a drawing and sometimes I don't; sometimes it's more fun when I don't. Then the blank paper is like a white void out of which anything may emerge, and the very texture of the paper reveals its own lines and curves, patterns and symmetries. Out of such a process come these two revelations:
Saturday, 16 February, 2013:
No connection to Lovecraft today, unless you want to quibble about the strange temple and the lurking monolithic faces (which would be tiresome of you.) No, just a picture of a guy praying. No telling what peculiar tradition he follows or what gods, if any, he prays to. Maybe Mithra, or maybe Elvis, or maybe the Cosmic Electron. His get-up gives him a monkish look, but that's not really important, just part of the ambiance. What's important to him (and, obviously, to me, since I drew him) is the very real power of prayer. It's not that we can use prayer to get what we want, that's a scam. It's that prayer is one way for the part to remind itself that it is connected to the whole; a way of opening one's self to guidance from all of existence, of which each of us is a unique manifestation. And if we are lucky we will do better than getting what we want - we may learn to want what we have, a much more satisfying outcome in the end. There is no end to wanting, but the possibility for deep fulfillment in the present moment is limitless. I was going to call this piece "Whatever Gods May Listen" but , truly, no god is necessary; only a willingness to approach The Great Mystery with open mind and open heart. If it seems odd or inconsistent to you that a cranky old misanthrope like me would be yapping about the power of prayer, well, I guess that's all part of the mystery. All I know is, if I talk to the universe, it will find a way to answer. |
Friday, 15 February,2013:
From Beyond is another fine Lovecraftian investigation into the mysteries behind what we comfortably and smugly regard as reality. It turns out (Surprise!) that unknown realms, normally invisible and undetectable to us, occupy the same space-time as the world we perceive. A resourceful fellow invents a machine that vibrates the aether (or some such tomfoolery), making the alien dimension and its occupants visible to us, and we to them. Mayhem and madness ensue. It's an interesting premise that reflects the actualities of scientific discovery: it was not so long ago in human history when the best educated physicians scoffed at the notion that invisible entities were the cause of much disease and death; then they started taking a good look through their microscopes. Today we readily accept that dangerous entities, normally invisible to us, can destroy us, and we do not consider the notion of bacteria to be an outre conception, but rather take the idea for granted. It's the way we've been taught to look at things - a given. Our understanding of ourselves, our world, our cosmos has been undergoing constant revision, evolution and renewal ever since the human brain began to function, yet we continue to mistake our perceptions for true comprehension, a failing which inevitably results in needless suffering. But then, if Lovecraft was correct in his estimation of human character, were someone to invent a method by which we might see things as they truly are, we'd all run like hell to escape such knowledge. |
Wednesday. 13 February, 2013:
Meet Brown Jenkin, trans-dimensional emissary and witch's familiar; described by Lovecraft as a rat-like thing with strangely human face and hands. He is truly as disturbing a creature as any of the Cosmic God-Monsters or Unthinkably Blasphemous Entities to be found elsewhere in the canon. I am in process of re-reading Dreams in the Witch House, a story in which The Old Gentleman pulls off quite the most remarkable marriage of 17th century witchcraft lore and what were then the most recent revelations of physics. The paradigm-disintegrating notions emerging from quantum physics were probably as imponderably dark and mysterious as any Black Arts to most of the tale's contemporary readers. It is an ambitious conception, and a provocative and disquieting achievement. And it gets in my head, creating neural pathways that go off at the oddest tangents and the most impossible angles... Also presented for your possible amusement: two drawings I've been reticent to post as my initial enthusiasm for them waned, but which seem to want to make themselves known despite my reservations. I will allow them to speak for themselves. |
Saturday. 9 February, 2013:
For today, a rendering open to many interpretations (if you're inclined at all to ascribe meaning to these things.) It could be another one of those sex-and-death-go-together-like-chocolate-and-peanut-butter kind of things. Or it might be pointing out that an attractive exterior often conceals something less pleasant beneath: how many outwardly beautiful people have you met whose faces you wanted to rip right off their skulls after talking to them for a while? Overall, if this drawing does nothing but nudge at that recurring feeling that things are not always (or even very often) what they appear, then my job is done for the day. I remember reading a story when I was a kid (I think it was in a Vault of Horror comic book) about a guy who meets a seemingly comely lass at a masked ball (maybe a Mardi Gras festivity), wins her affection and beds her, only to discover in the morning what the mask concealed. It's a potent allegory, reflecting some of the discoveries with which life is filled. There is no more important lesson to be learned than, "All is not as it seems." |
Wednesday, 6 February, 2013:
Put a coin on the table in front of you, heads-side up. Imagine now that everything you believe makes life worthwhile - all the love, the joy, the beauty, friendships, art, music, pleasure, wealth - whatever it is you desire or desire not to lose, is embodied and made manifest in the side of the coin facing upward. The other side, the tails side, embodies everything you'd like to be rid of - all the suffering, grief, fear, insanity, corruption, poverty, deceit and general bullshit that befouls life - manifested in the flip side. If you want to live your idea of a perfect life, the solution is simple: just reach out and pick up the heads side of the coin and put it in your pocket. Be sure to leave the tails side of the coin on the table. Ridiculous, you say. can't be done, any fool can see that. Obviously there is no such thing as a one sided coin; the one coin is by nature a duality, so how could we hold only one side of it? Well then, I ask innocently, how can you ever expect to hold a life of joy without sorrow? Or of faith without doubt? Or love without fear? The Taoist yin-yang symbol is a visual representation of a way of understanding our own nature; the nature of existence itself - of God, if you like (though Lao Tzu would have said the Tao comes before God.) I'm fond of circles as a framing device for my drawings. And every time I turn one into the sign of the Tao, I feel like I'm sending a coded message to all who understand. But then, of course, some will look on it as just another flashing of a gang-sign. " When a wise man hears of the Tao, he immediately begins to embody it. When a mediocre man hears of the Tao, he half believes and half dis-believes. When a fool hears of the Tao he laughs. If he didn't laugh, it wouldn't be the Tao." |
Tuesday, February 5, 2013:
The previous posting here seemed to attract more visitors to The Castle than usual - maybe I should be spending more time drawing pretty (and mostly naked) girls. C'mon, twist my arm! Meanwhile, two exhibits for today... Don't know how many times I've read Lovecraft's At the Mountains of Madness (and I do pray that somehow Guillermo del Toro gets his movie version made sometime before I merge with the universe), but I'm reading it again and enjoying it as much as ever. For the benefit of whatever pitiable wretches may be unfamiliar with the work in question, the story concerns an expedition to unexplored regions of the South Pole in the 1920's, and the discovery of a vast, cyclopean city, pre-dating the human species by millions of years, and containing some uniquely disturbing "fossils" that turn out to be a bit beyond what standard paradigms of scientific knowledge can accommodate. The pair of illustrations displayed here are not meant to link directly to the tale, but are obviously inspired by it. |
Sunday, February 3, 2013:
I admit I didn't see this one coming. Bereft of any particular inspiration, I sat down to draw anyway, 'cause it seemed more useful than idle brooding. Without conscious direction, my hand did what it likes to do - it drew the pretty girl on the left. I didn't know what to do with her (yes, there's an obvious opening for a joke there - go ahead, I asked for it), so I drew her companion on the right. Now I had two pretty girls I didn't know what to do with. So I stared at them a while. They seemed to form a natural framing device, but I was mystified as to what belonged between them. Apparently the natural outgrowth of my mystification was to place a mystic at the center of the piece. He seemed to like it there. My guess is he's meditating on the Heart Sutra. I think the ladies are his spirit guides. |
Thursday, 31 January, 2013:
Some of my stuff expresses a certain darkness; some is whimsy; most all of it is autobiographical in one way or another, since I'm merely working with what I'm feeling from day to day - what's on my mind or lurking in the murky recesses of my consciousness. I tend to work with material that is grim (because that's my typical day-to-day outlook) or derived from my personal quirks, fascinations or fetishes. It is rare when I can fashion something out of hope, since it is a quality that seldom intrudes on my cynical musings. Nevertheless, today (for reasons that lack of space prevents me from detailing) I experienced certain synchronicities and fortuitous encounters that gifted me with a glimmer of hope for my species (a mob of deranged louts with whom I reluctantly share the biosphere.) And so The Lady emerges from hidden depths to present The Once and Future King with the symbol of his power, the blade that cannot be broken, so that the kingdom may be whole, the land healed, and Honor may reign. Now to go find that fucking grail! |
Wednesday, 30 January, 2013:
Those well versed in popular culture (or just plain elderly) will recall the Dragon Lady from the old Terry and the Pirates comic strip - this ain't her, though I'm not against drawing stereotypically evil Oriental seductresses. I just had this weird vision of a lady with a big ol' lizard sitting on her shoulders, and this is the result. I guess I could have titled it "Lady With A Big Ol' Lizard On Her Shoulders," but Dragon Lady seemed catchier. And easier to fit on the page. |
Tuesday, January 29, 2013:
For me, encountering Lovecraft for the first time was a lot like encountering LSD - it permanently altered my perception of the universe around me, and of my place in it. My recent re-immersion into things Lovecraftian has led me on a trip no less interesting than previous excursions. One sortie into the tangled and sticky web of the internet led me to a discussion ( convened by folks, much like myself, sitting about, chatting and idly speculating as we await the return of the Old Ones ) concerning the subject of "good vs. evil in Lovecraft." I confess that, while this video chat remains on my list of things I ought to check out, I've not yet mustered the will to view it. I suspect The Old Gentleman himself might have snorted in consternation, since his work rarely concerned itself with such parochial notions as good and evil. Dracula or Dr. Jeckyl and Mr. Hyde may be interpreted as exploring this theme; Lovecraft's domain lay elsewhere, in that onyx-black desert of existential dread. The true source of horror in Lovecraft is not some inimical entity, it is knowledge itself: the knowledge of our position in a cosmos vast and complex beyond our capacity to comprehend; a cosmos entirely indifferent to our fate as a species, let alone as individuals. Our great fear is not of the Devil, but of truth itself, as evidenced by that most famous quote: "The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents." This is the opening sentence of The Call of Cthulhu, which some might think is a story about a gigantic, god-like creature rising from the ocean depths, but which is really about a reasonable, scholarly, sophisticated fellow who discovers that the world, and all of existence in fact, is not what he thought it was. It is a quality of the shoddier of Lovecraft's imitators (and the designers of the various popular games that utilize versions of his mythos) that they reduce the scope of his vision to mundane squabbles betwixt heroes and villains. I'm tryin' to keep an open mind though and maybe, when I finally devote my attention to that video-chat, I'll be astonished by the insight of my fellow cultists. It waits to be seen. |
Saturday, 19 January, 2013: THE BOOK: from a fragment by H.P. Lovecraft
( art and adaptation by wildbill Bouchard )
While engaged in re-reading the Lovecraft canon recently, I stumbled upon a story fragment which caught my immediate attention. It seemed perhaps the opening chapter of a larger tale, yet the narrative as it stood fascinated me; I felt compelled to draw it, rather in the fashion of a child's picture book, as I have done in other attempts at graphic story-telling.
It was with the utmost humility and respect for the Old Gentleman of Providence (and an acute awareness of my own limitations) that I attempted to edit his characteristic impeccably ornate prose to suit my own ends, while remaining true to his spirit and intent. Lovecraft's yarn ends at panel 18. Panel 19 is how I see the tale resolving itself in the most obvious manner. The final panel reverts to that infamous, cryptic quote from The Necronomicon, so The Master himself has the final word.
This was a fucking gas to do: I hope you get one tenth the pleasure from reading it that I had in making it happen.
( art and adaptation by wildbill Bouchard )
While engaged in re-reading the Lovecraft canon recently, I stumbled upon a story fragment which caught my immediate attention. It seemed perhaps the opening chapter of a larger tale, yet the narrative as it stood fascinated me; I felt compelled to draw it, rather in the fashion of a child's picture book, as I have done in other attempts at graphic story-telling.
It was with the utmost humility and respect for the Old Gentleman of Providence (and an acute awareness of my own limitations) that I attempted to edit his characteristic impeccably ornate prose to suit my own ends, while remaining true to his spirit and intent. Lovecraft's yarn ends at panel 18. Panel 19 is how I see the tale resolving itself in the most obvious manner. The final panel reverts to that infamous, cryptic quote from The Necronomicon, so The Master himself has the final word.
This was a fucking gas to do: I hope you get one tenth the pleasure from reading it that I had in making it happen.
Tuesday, 8 January, 2013:
A change of pace for today. Been sittin' here a few minutes just thinkin' about all the musicians I've admired and been influenced by in some way. It's way too big a subject to take on in this space, so I won't even start to list 'em, but the sound of a guitar is the sound track to the movie of my life. I don't much care about the guys who play a hundred and eighty notes in three seconds, fingers a blur. I'd rather listen to the cat who can play one note and really make it mean something. And the longer I listen, the more I feel the need to go back to the roots. I grew up on rock 'n' roll, which grew out of a weird marriage of rhythm and blues and old-fashioned country music, then got itself married to something people called Folk Music, started an affair with jazz, and pretty soon musical forms started kind of melting into each other, boundaries started dissolving and, well...here we are. But it all starts with some cat sittin' on his porch with his beat up axe, tryin' to find some joy at the end of a hard day, makin' his little girl smile and dance. It starts with real people - on a porch, in a parlor, a kitchen, a garage - picking up an instrument and singin' a song that maybe expresses something important or moving, or maybe just makes somebody's foot tap. Really, it's all folk music, folks. Now I'm gonna go listen to some Lightnin' Hopkins. |
Monday, 7 January, 2013:
Inspiration arrives in many guises and, most often, according to it's own unpredictable schedule but, if I am able to claim a sure and certain source, a dependable muse, it would be the "Old Gentleman" from Providence, H.P. Lovecraft. He seems, of late, to be lingering always close by, and he brings with him all the furnishings of his imagination: vast, cosmic entities; forgotten cities of timeless mystery and splendor; marble and onyx temples of dream; dark and formless lurkers, skittering and whispering at the threshold of our perception; sensitive scholars driven mad by their studies; artist, poets and musicians whose work calls down eldritch things; narrators who would prefer death or madness to the acknowledgement of reality uncovered. It seems I have been reading and re-reading his work virtually all my life, poring over his words the way some deranged seeker might scrutinize The Necronomicon in search of the secret that will bring about the return of the Great Old Ones. He is in fact, for me, a true Elder God; his legacy stands in my own imagination like the resplendently arcane and disturbing architecture of one of his own lost cities, on some nameless, unattainable plateau. I am in process of reading his collected tales (the Arkham House volumes) once again - or they are in the process of reading me; it works both ways. This drawing and the next are a result of that co-habitation. More, no doubt, to follow. |
Wednesday, 2 January, 2013:
Who the hell woulda thunk I'd ever see 2013? Never me, damn sure. When I was a wee kiddie we were taught to duck beneath our desks and cover our faces to protect us against nuclear attack. It seems absurd in retrospect, but the world is no less absurd today; in fact, the human species seems more full of shit than ever. Our imminent extinction by means of our own stupidity remains no less a threat now than it was then; only the possible methodology has evolved. It's no longer necessary for some authority figure to press the button that will begin the holocaust - we just have to keep doing what we're doing. I read a lot of science-fiction back in the day, but the future I'm living in is more bizarre than anything imagined by Asimov or Heinlein. I'm not exactly nostalgic for the good old days of looming atomic destruction and backyard fallout shelters, but in those days one could at least maintain hope for the future. Now, for me, that future has arrived, decked out in its own peculiar vestments of madness, and it makes the terrors of the past seem almost quaint. There's more than one way to destroy the world, however. You can fuck around with atomic particles in your mad science lab until everything goes kablooie, or you can poison the earth 'til it's unlivable; or you can make the kind of music that destroys old worlds and creates new ones. Long live rock 'n' roll. |