Friday, 19 October, 2012:
A double post for today. I didn't watch the presidential debates the other night, but I could not avoid hearing some of the flap concerning one of the pivotal puppet's remark about "binders of women." Now there's an image that gives one pause to ponder, and ponder I did. Who are these binders of women, and what is there sadistic intent? Will they keep women in bondage forever, or will they loosen the bonds occasionally so the ladies can perform those necessary household chores and services? Will they bind women with leather straps, or merely with the power of their medieval, paternalistic notions, enforced by law? The upholders of the social order portrayed here seem to have fairly specific ideas about the place of women: registered Republicans, no doubt. |
...and as a bonus:
Lest the remarks accompanying the preceding piece lead you to categorize me as some kind of sniveling, pansy-ass purveyor of feminist philosophy, I present this blatantly sexist, decidedly prurient drawing for your edification and amusement. I don't want to hear a lot of rhetorical crap about "the objectification of women." When I don't know what to draw, my natural inclination is to draw women. I like women. I like them clothed, I like them naked, I like them all states in-between. I like them with the innocent faces of schoolgirls and with the visages of monsters, as may be seen by examination of other work posted here. And I want them all to be as free of demeaning social, political and economic restraints as the free-spirited lass depicted here. I think she's got plans for a one-nighter with the Silver Surfer. |
Thursday, 18 October, 2012:
As I post this entry, Turner Classic Movies is running a series of Hammer films, one of which is The Gorgon; not one of their finest, but a highly watchable flick I recall seeing at the local drive-in decades ago. The notion of a lady with a reptile coiffure has always been fascinating to me so, without further introductory prose, here is my version of the mythic deadly dame. To gaze upon Medusa is to be turned to stone - if hard more than four hours, call your doctor. |
Tuesday, 16 October, 2012:
My apologies for not being here the last couple of days, but I was feeling tired and thoroughly lacking not only inspiration, but the usual desire to draw at all; efforts to force a drawing were fruitless. When I awoke this morning, the first thing I heard on the radio was a news item about a self appointed guardian of social standards who had published a version of the famous "Night Before Christmas" poem with verses mentioning Santa's pipe excised. No more nasty wreath of smoke curled about old St. Nick's head. If a literary work were a person, this would be the moral and physical equivalent of strapping your unwilling body down and removing your liver with a dull putty knife. Suddenly, I was inspired. Understand, I despise Christmas (for reasons I will not burden you by recounting here), and Santa Claus can go fuck himself for all I care, but what pisses me off, what enrages me to the point of homicide, is the notion that some vile and detestable asshole believes he/she has the moral obligation to re-write history, censor truth and protect us all from our own thoughts. Censors throughout history have been a despicable, intellectually and spiritually impaired lot of witless, hypocritical scumbags who provoke in me vengeful fantasies involving impossibly large vats of boiling oil. And of the whole mob of rabid weasels, the Politically Correct crowd are the most insidious , dangerous and woefully bankrupt of intelligence. A pox on 'em. There, that feels better. |
Saturday, 13 October, 2012:
I started out to publish this entry late last night and changed my mind as I tried to write something about it. I had been relatively satisfied with the outcome of what I hadn't been sure I could pull off to begin with, but when I showed it to The Most Beautiful Woman in the World, she reacted with something less then enthusiasm. Had I not put title on page, I'm not sure she could have figured out what she was looking at; what to me was a stylized portrait of a well-known, easily recognizable figure, was to her a mass of hairy black blotches of uncertain meaning. Actually, it is just a mass of hairy black blotches, unless one's mind's eye can organize those blotches as intended by the artist. I began to wonder if I had simply convinced myself that the outcome resembled my intent; confidence ebbed and the drawing went unpublished . This morning, as is my custom, I visited a favorite blog (Mr. Door Tree's wondrous Golden Age Comic Book Stories) where I found awaiting my perusal a collection of Conan covers by Michael Kaluta, an artist whose work I admire and who I would rank among the finest of illustrators. To my surprise, I found some of those works to be (for me, in that moment) an incomprehensible maze of lines, flowing every which way in intricate designs which, while beautifully executed, failed to convey a meaningful picture to me. I had to study what I was looking at to determine what the artist's intent might have been. The reason behind my confusion (perhaps merely a temporary frame of mind) is not so important as the observation that, no matter what we look at, no matter how clearly defined we believe something to be, the perceptions of others will never quite match our own. So here, after some hesitation, is The Fly. Make of him what you will. |
Friday, 12 October, 2012:
It was never my intention to have a week of postings centering on icons of movie horror, it just sort of happened, like taking a ride without having a particular destination in mind and ending up someplace you always wanted to go. The first couple of choices were obvious (to me, anyway) but after that I had to actually consider who or what I wanted to draw. The Rathbone I drew for the challenge, the Vampira because I wanted to draw a woman and it it was a coin toss between the Maila Nurmi character and Barbara Steele; I figured I'd have a better chance of doing justice to Vampira. Similar reasoning applied to the choice of Rondo Hatton as a subject. His remarkable (and now iconic) features are recognizable to fans, even in approximation. Mr. Hatton lived in an era when human oddities were regarded by the population at large as monsters, and was marketable as a monstrous commodity to genre film-goers of the 'forties due to the distinctive disfigurements caused by his disease. His best remembered appearance was probably as "The Creeper," in the Sherlock Holmes entry, "The Pearl of Death." This depiction, showing his apparent displeasure with his own sculpted image, is drawn from one of Universals last and lamest attempts to revive its fading and failing horror output, the inept but oddly fascinating, "House of Horrors." Rondo Hatton's film career, like his life, was relatively brief. He is memorialized with the "Rondo" awards (a smaller scale version of the bust facing destruction here), given each year for achievements in the genre. |
Thursday, 11 October, 2012:
A tribute to the epitome of 'fifties cool, timeless hip and dead sexy. The true Mistress of the Macabre, often imitated, never duplicated, as portrayed by the wonderful Maila Nurmi, who understood that sex and death are as American as apple pie and ice cream. I'll have seconds, please. |
Wednesday. 10 October, 2012:
I can not recall, at this late date, which I saw first: the movie, "Son of Frankenstein," (with Basil Rathbone, Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi [in what I consider the finest performance of his career, as Igor]) on Shock Theater, or the famous photo (which I'm certain I ogled in an early issue of "Famous Monsters") upon which this drawing is based. I couldn't capture more than an approximation of their immortal visages with this effort; still, I find the result pleasing for a first attempt If you're a fan of old-time Universal monster mayhem, this depiction will be as familiar to you as an old friend. If not, you may be wondering what the Doc is doing with that goofy mirror strapped to his forehead. Hell, it's a mystery to me too, but it makes for an image that stays in your brain. I have to go now and play darts with Colonel Krogh. |
Tuesday, 9 October, 2012:
Karloff as Ardath Bey, alter ego of Im-Ho-Tep, a living mummy whose death occurred 3000 years ago, and whose love for his reincarnated princess is eternal. The close ups of Karloff's face in this flick (unparalleled make-up work by Jack Pierce) gave me the unadulterated creeps when I was a ten year old watching Shock Theater, and still do. I've been wanting to attempt drawing that face for a long time; never felt like I could do it justice 'til now. |
Monday. 8 October, 2012:
My take on Lugosi's Dracula. If the resemblance to Bela is less than photographic, the icy stare does, I think, capture the proper spirit. If you gaze into his eyes long enough, you'll fall under his dark spell. Portrait work is a challenge to me, but this was enough fun that I'll be turning my hand to more efforts in this "vein." |
Saturday, 6 October, 2012:
I don't subscribe to any religious beliefs (or beliefs of any kind, for that matter, as elucidated elsewhere on this site), but I do know (by way of my own experience) something of Heaven and Hell. I don't know anything about what happens after we die, and I'm not peddling any bullshit about an afterlife, but any befrocked snake oil hustler who tries to tell you ya gotta die to get to either place is dealing in the dogma and deceitful promises that keep humans enslaved. Heaven and Hell are states of being, available to us here and now, and we always enter them head first, figuratively speaking, because it is our minds and our identification with our own thoughts, attitudes and desires that create these states. It is our thinking that removed us from the Paradise that is our natural home to begin with, and it is our thinking that has made this world a Hell on Earth for so many. You were born into consciousness; you were not born with a mind - that was built by others, a construction designed to mold your awareness according to a blueprint not designed to serve you, but to manipulate you. Your mind is not your friend. If you do not make it your servant, you will be it's slave. That is the definition of hell. And that's my fucking sermon for today. |
Friday, 4 October, 2012:
The subject for today is that apex of megalomania, that pinnacle of villainy, that unsurpassed master of the malicious and would-be ruler of the universe, Ming The Merciless. As has been recounted elsewhere on this site, my earliest television memory (and probably my earliest encounter with the wonder-filled realm of science-fantasy) is of staring up at a faltering picture on the tiny screen of the family's first TV, mesmerized by an episode of the original Flash Gordon serial, featuring the dependably heroic Buster Crabbe as Flash, and the unforgettable Charles Middleton as Emperor Ming of the planet Mongo. Middleton's Ming so burned himself into my innocently eager and thrill-hungry unformed consciousness that, these many years later, he is embedded there still, stalking my neural pathways and birthing mad schemes of universal domination. Smarty-pants sophisticates can call his performance "camp" and his dialog risible, but he delivers it with conviction, enthusiasm and a style supremely suited to the preposterously melodramatic role; the characterization is iconographic, and as career defining as Lugosi's Dracula. The scene depicted here comes not from the screen but from my imagination, though it is representative of the character - the old boy did have an eye for the ladies. |
Thursday, 3 October, 2012:
This one's called "Party Time," 'cause that's what I decided to call it after staring at this pair of revelers for ten minutes or so. The party favors they're clutching hint at what kind of revelry may be ahead. Then again, the first presidential debate having taken place just last night, and politics lurking in my consciousness, maybe the title means it's time for the political party they represent to step forward and make some pertinent points, and they're carrying their debating tools. Of course, it's possible they're simply the new analysts for Fox News, preparing to do what they do to honest reporting on a nightly basis. |
Wednesday, 3 October, 2012:
I had such fun drawing the crazy tall house a few pictures back, I thought I'd experiment with some other bizarre structure, resulting in this bit of whimsy. Looks to me like either some kind of other-worldly palace, or a really baroque spacecraft. Maybe it's a trans-dimensional Holiday Inn. The stone-age hominid at lower right might represent any group of humans through history who happen to have found themselves suddenly dealing with overwhelmingly rapid technological, cultural or psychological shifts. Like us, for instance. Or, at least ( I willingly admit), like me. Maybe he's one of the soon-to-be-extinct middle class (so swiftly and deliberately dismantled by those who think themselves our owners), staring at a set of social / economic imperatives he no longer comprehends. Proof of my own imponderable ancientness is the Alley Oop reference, stuck onto the bottom of the drawing as an afterthought because of what struck me as a resemblance to the now-retired comic-strip character. In this increasingly robotic, authoritarian and witless world, folks don't read the funny papers much anymore, and once cherished, mythic figures like Mr. Oop, who inspired weekly devotion, have retreated down the dim corridors of memory like forgotten and unvenerated gods. |
Tuesday, 2 October, 2012:
I'm a fortunate guy, if you look at it in a certain way: most people have to wait 'til October to enjoy Halloween, whereas I see a world every day filled with ghouls, vampires, sundry varieties of walking corpses and other unspeakable entities. Probably explains why I'm compelled to draw them. As I prowl the web, I notice folks initiating special themes on their sites for this spookiest month; here at The Castle every day brings it's own Weird Tale. The title for this piece illustrates a bit of dialog from yet another movie I've seen way too many times. Hmm... a crazy notion has just careened onto my neural pathways - in the interest of fun and self-promotion, the first of my gentle readers (I know you're out there, even if there ain't many of you yet) who contacts me with the name of the film quoted, wins the original drawing. Send me your address (if you dare) and I'll mail it to you. The perfect Christmas gift for that special person, or maybe a guano-catcher for beneath your pet bat's favorite perch. Contest ends when I get tired of waiting for a response; other rules made up as necessary. Be a winner! |
Today's second entry: this post-apocalyptic pastoral piece is again the result of looking at a blank sheet and seeing a hat waiting to become visible. I've drawn variations of this lid on several characters in recent weeks; I've no idea what the fascination is with this style head-gear, but it seems to suit the agrarian demeanor of this sturdy looking chap. Against the backdrop of a world brought to ruin, he watches hopefully over what vaguely looks like a rather singular but crucial cannabis harvest. I wish him well...
|
Monday, October 1, 2012:
There's no doubt I've seen Karl Freund's The Mummy, starring Boris Karloff, more times than any other film; certainly over a hundred. I never tire of it and love it as I love an old friend. I saw it again last night on TCM, paired with Charlie Chan in Egypt, so I suppose a mummy portrait was inevitable. This pic has nothing to do with the Karloff flick. What most mummy movies have in common, and what separates the character (in his various filmic incarnations) from other movie monsters like werewolves, vampires and zombies, is the sense of purpose with which he is imbued. Doesn't matter that his lost love is three thousand years deceased, he's gonna be re-united with her no matter how many times you set him on fire or sink him in the swamp. Ya gotta admire the determination - he's the embodiment of the expression, "slow and steady gets the job done." |
Friday, 28 September, 2012:
I'm gonna have to skip a day, just to catch up with myself, so I can start posting earlier in the day - as is, I've been drawing in the afternoon, posting at night. Maybe I should just wait a couple of hours, but here I am and what the hell. This entry is, I suppose, a direct result of the "House of Silence" drawing, which left me feeling like I needed to draw a really, really weird house. Yes...it is rather phallic looking, so go ahead and make whatever smutty little inferences your childish minds can generate; you're intended to play with it (so to speak.) He looks like he's trying to convince her of something. She appears skeptical. |
Thursday, 27 September, 2012:
Earlier today, while browsing YouTube, I stumbled on a program featuring John Fogarty In concert with one of the greatest on stage backdrops/set designs I've ever seen: it appeared that the band was playing smack in the middle of some lost bayou somewhere, surrounded by hanging vines and those hauntingly sad and gnarly trees, the name of which I can 't at the moment recall, all shrouded in fog and eerie lighting. Very artfully done. I've always admired Fogarty's raw, simple but powerful style of playing , and the perfect context was provided for his performance. It made me want to draw something like it. Naturally, I replaced John and his band with myself (it's my fantasy, after all) and a couple of indigenous accompanists. The drummer lurking at the rear of the trio is my take on characters like The Heap (from golden age comics), or (from more recent decades) Swamp-Thing and Marvel's Man-Thing, all dwellers in the primal ooze. A rare example of knowing what I wanted to draw before I drew it, this piece turned out pretty much as I imagined it would. |
Wednesday, 26 September,2012:
I have been having an ongoing argument with myself, contrary bastard that I am, as to whether this gallery should be a place to show off the best of my stuff (presenting myself in the most complimentary possible light), or remain as it is (a document of the evolution, growth, struggles and misadventures of an aspiring, self-taught artist.) Ego would not have me present every half-baked, misbegotten endeavor, nor would ordinary sensibility insist on your need to see such; yet the desire is strong to (as honestly as possible) document the actuality of this journey I seem to be on, despite the criticisms (or yawns) such a plan invites. If I pared this display down to what I think is the best of me, a great deal of what can be seen here would be deleted: this very drawing, for example (which was inspired by the title, rather than inspiring it), is a long way from the ominous abode I envisioned , and in its way represents a failure to execute intent. Yet I find it not entirely without merit, even appealing in its humble way, despite that the only real sense of foreboding arises from the title, not from any aspect of the house itself. Hell, it looks like someplace I might like to live. Maybe a better title would be, "The fruits of our labor are often other than what we expect." |
Nothing stirs the imagination of male, heterosexual horror fans, sez I, like undead pole dancers and zombie ecdysiasts (that's strippers to you.) Having no particular direction in which to apply myself after finishing the previous picture, but still feeling the need to draw something-or-other, this depiction is the predictable result.
I have no defense for it, though it does at least continue the week's exploration of show-biz themes. Aside from its prurient aspect, the best that can be said about it is that it once again (obsessively) expresses the natural relationship of sex and death, a pairing as obvious (at least to me) as eggs 'n' bacon. |
Tuesday, 25 September, 2012:
Only a few hours left of Tuesday and I probably should wait to post this tomorrow, but I don't want to leave you just standing there in a puddle of your own anticipatory drool, and I don't want to miss another day's entry, so here goes. There's certainly a story behind this drawing; a thrilling pulp adventure, no doubt, but I dunno what it is, or when or in what forbidden realm this couple find themselves. I sat staring at this thing, puzzled, for about half an hour before it occurred to me what to call it. Of course I could have just let it be - I'm not contractually obligated to title everything, but I can't resist the urge. |
Sunday. 23 September, 2012:
Continuing yesterday's show biz theme, here is a poster featuring Lovecraft's musical prodigy, from a performance shortly before his final encore. Those unfamiliar with Lovecraft's famous story will, of course , miss the reference and fail to get the joke, but it wasn't drawn for them. To make music potent enough to call down the Ancient Gods, that's a hell of a talent. |
Saturday, 22 September, 2012:
It's late enough on Saturday night, I should probably just let this go 'til tomorrow, but then I'd have missed another day's post and, while life does intrude on my preferences, I am trying to do this on as close to a daily basis as I can manage. Besides, this is a Saturday night picture if ever one was. As I drew this, I was thinking about all the night club scenes from movies I grew up with (which is to say, movies of the 'thirties and 'forties I watched on TV): every night club was as brightly lit as a high-school cafeteria; the star of the show would croon one number, and that would be the whole act. This show might have come from an old Charlie Chan flick; I can practically see the poster in front of the club. |
Friday. 21 September, 2012:
There was a time when drawing meant relying on inspiration. I rarely drew. Now I just draw and figure something will come; I rely on the process. The only sense of purpose that initiated this illustration was a desire to draw something with five planes, like looking into an open box tipped on its side, and to put some kind of figure on each plane.The figure with the lantern appears vaguely Lovecraft-like (at least, in my imagination), so I gave the picture a title from (if unreliable memory serves me) one of his earlier stories. I recall little to nothing specific about the story; the drawing merely represents a coagulation of elements drawn out of the ether. It is neither my proudest achievement nor my humblest piece of crap; just a result of the process at work. Interestingly (again, at least to me), the ectoplasmic spirit-thing rising from the coffin looks more fearful and agitated than the stoic bringer-of-light standing in the entrance. I find myself more amused by the accidental outcomes of these drawings than by anything I could plan. |
Wednesday, 19 September, 2012:
Back in some other millennium , I drew a picture I called "The Lone Ranger on Venus." Like much of the flotsam and jetsam of this crazy life, it has vanished into the ages, perhaps for the better. No reason not to revisit the theme, though. Always loved the Ranger, a childhood favorite; the vocal quality of Clayton Moore"s voice is to me as commandingly mesmerizing as Lugosi's was hypnotically sinister. If there was one iconic hero who represented American ideals as I understood them, it was the Masked Man; for me he stood for Truth, Justice and all those other words that have become empty, more than Superman could ever hope to. And there was the cool mask and the silver bullets besides (not to mention his faithful Indian companion, Tonto, who today would no longer be an Indian but a Native American, just like me [I was born in Chicago, what else would I be, a native Frenchman?]). It is part of the difficult process of maturing to come to understand that " The Law" and "Justice" are often at odds, and to equate the terms is oxymoronic. But, of course, childhood was a simpler time, and it did not occur to me that one might have to decide which one to champion. Tonto is absent from this drawing . He is vacationing in France. |
Okay, it's still Tuesday, 18 September. 2012 and today's post is theoretically done, but I've had time to father two more children since then, so I might as well turn 'em loose.
Dunno what The Shadow knows, but I know he's easily my favorite of all pulp heroes. I hesitated posting this tribute because I didn't think it was as good as he deserves - the hoodlum on the left looks thuggish in a Mafia wannabe kind of way, but he's insufficiently threatening, what with being so ready to throw up his hands. His moll with the garter-gat looks more seductive than menacing. Doubtless the Nemesis Of Evil will dispose of them posthaste, and move on to some vaster, darker challenge. I do like the way the silhouette turned out. |
Next..
At no time in my long, strange life on this planet (which, according to a galactic tour guide I once read, used to be a paradise until the monkeys went crazy) did I ever, in my most bizarre flights of fancy, imagine I might, by some incomprehensible whim of fortune , some unfathomable conspiracy of circumstance, find myself spending large quantities of time drawing pictures of myself (if in somewhat idealized fashion.) I can't claim this one is autobiographical, as are others that have preceded, but it does illustrate some truth about me. Having felt all my life like an alien castaway among a strange species, I tend to have a more welcoming attitude concerning other cultures than some, but then again, I don't adhere to a lot of the aggressive territorial imperatives of the dominant primate social organization. Political boundaries are just one of the ways the would-be owners of the world keep the cattle branded and fenced in. Fuck your borders. I was born on planet Earth. I'm a native. Everywhere I go is home. |
Tuesday, 18 September, 2012:
Two for today. This first came about cuz I felt like drawing the helmet; all else followed like it came with a set of instructions. Don't ask what it means - seems to me there're a lot of possibilities. This dude's uniform looks like somethin' a WWI Prussian Eagle Scout donated to the thrift shop. His troop appear to be yer typical faithful , obedient, eager followers of authority; a fine slave army. No doubt the monocle represents the scrutinizing eye of ideology enforced by brute force, or some such - I dunno where this stuff comes from, I just give it an escape hatch. Any resemblance to real political, military or other social institutions is purely your inference. |
So I finished the "Last Reich" and went to set it aside for scanning, when I noticed my wife watching a documentary on Netflix about the late 19th century serial killer, H.H. Holmes, America's answer to Jack the Ripper, who was featured in the excellent book, Devil in the White City. Details of his career rival any sadistic melodramatics presented in the bloodiest of the bloody pulps.
I once read a biography of Terence Fisher (director of most of the finest Hammer films, as if I needed to tell you) called The Charm of Evil. Holmes was the embodiment of evil's charm; the kind of ingratiating con artist, lacking all human empathy, who would have made a fine politician, had he chosen an ever-so-slightly different path. The naive young women who came to stay at his Chicago hotel / torture dungeon suffered a fatal revelation of his character. Holmes was eventually captured and executed because, under civilized rule of law, only those officially designated to do say may lead the hopelessly ignorant to slaughter, usually while waving a flag. |
Sunday, 16 September, 2012: second post...
Another autobiographical sketch, come about all unexpected-like. There used to be a catch-phrase - "I love it when a plan comes together." I love it when everything comes together and not a damnthing's been planned. I know this sounds weird but sometimes, while staring at a blank piece of paper, I begin to see little patterns in the texture of the paper itself and just sort of start to trace over them. In this case the pattern seemed to reveal a girl being kissed, so I just went with it, and this scene from my mis-spent youth took shape. I suspect it resonates with many of you. I never owned a doorless hot rod (or whateverthehell kind of goofy vehicle this is), but my first car was a '49 ford straight eight sedan; the passenger door was welded shut, and the driver door was strapped closed with a hunk of leather belt. It cost me fifteen dollars - several dollars less than the cost of licence plates! Some old dudes write memoirs; I'm finding a lot of pleasure in illustrating episodes and incidents from my life, with a touch of artistic licence (the one they can't revoke.) |
Sunday, 16 September, 2012:
The title for this one is the same as the name of an old Hong Kong flick (starring the amazing Sammo Hung) I saw long ago and tried recently to re-watch - its initial charms seem to have faded for me over the years, but I still think the title's a winner. I didn't have it in mind when I started drawing this, but I can't think of a catchier one. The black lingerie, the garter-knife and the long cigarette holder seem the perfect kit for this dangerous dame. I've always been a big fan of artists like Bob Powell, Robert Webb or Matt Baker, whose delectably drawn femme fatales graced the pages of many a golden age comic book and inspired many a youthful fantasy, not to mention this rendering. |
Friday, 14 September, 2012:
I started out just wanting to draw someone with really big eyebrows; sort of like one of those "big eyebrow" Taoist wizards in Hong Kong flicks of the past, but I was surprised (as usual) by this outcome. If Rasputin and Murder LeGendre had a mutant bastard offspring, it might turn out looking like this dude. His eyes seem to follow you around, which is a creepy but unintentional effect - I meant to have him looking at the voodoo doll he's clutching, but I screwed it up (in a good way.) Since he seems to have decidedly evil intent with that needle in his hand, an alternate title for this piece might be "One Little Prick," but this fellow might find some insult in the implied double meaning, and I prefer not to arouse his ire. |
Thursday, 13 September, 2012:
Two posts for today. This first is simply the result of looking at a blank page until little lines began to appear. Sea serpents, shipwrecks and castaway adventurers: happy ingredients in many a storytelling recipe, but I really just wanted to see if I could draw the swimmer properly. Of course, if you look at it another way, the swimmer could represent the floundering economy, while the serpent symbolizes...oh, hell, if you've been looking at my stuff and reading my comments, you can figure it out. |
Okay, here's post #2, today's autobiographical entry.
The year was 1970; the place, a big hunk of open land in the middle of Iowa. The festival location had been changed at the last minute; parking was in a sea of mud leftover from recent rain, and the festival grounds seemed an uphill walk of miles as my friend Don and I hauled our cooler full of cheap wine and the canvas tarps we planned to use for makeshift shelter, but we could hear Leon Russell wailing loud and clear as we headed on up the road. The first thing I did upon arriving exhausted at the gate was fall face first into a mud puddle. I took it as a sign that for the next three days I'd become one with the Earth. That was Friday afternoon. Saturday morning sometime I took LSD for the first time. I purchased two little purple pills from a young entrepreneur, took one and waited. After nearly an hour, nothing much seemed to be happening so, in my ignorance of the properties and potential of the substance, I took the other. Things began to happen. I remember thinking I had, all unknowing, entered a realm from which there might be no return. I suppose that notion should have frightened me but I was strangely okay with it, willing to just ride it out and see what happens next. Been sorta doin' that ever since. And ya know what? I was right, I had entered a realm from which I would never completely return. And I'm grateful. |
Wednesday, 12 September, 2012:
Nearly a year ago, when the Castle first became something other than a vague possibility, and plans for the site were still taking shape, I imagined myself blogging daily to an audience panting in expectation of the regular dose of pithy commentary and insightful observation only yours truly could supply. Music was an afterthought. Art was the thought after the afterthought. Ain't it strange, the turn things sometimes take... A daily (or as close to daily as I can manage) post of artwork accompanied by (usually) pertinent remarks is simply something that happened by itself, to my surprise and delight. I'm curious as to where all this might take me, and what unforseen possibilities lie ahead, but mostly I'm having the time of my life. Today we find your typical Burke & Hare type graverobbers, familiar to all lovers of weird tales, engaged in the vilified but vital vocation of supplying the medical profession with much-needed study-aids. The way they're suspiciously eyeing each other suggests to me that each is just a bit worried about the prospect of becoming a sale-able commodity at the hand of the other. It's an untrusting world, alas. |
Monday, 10 September, 2012:
To tell it true, there's still about an hour left of Sunday night but, what the hell, by the time you see this, the future will have arrived. Meanwhile, inside this drawing, it's early fall of 1966, somewhere around Times Square. I'm not yet quite twenty years old, with a year in DaNang, Viet Nam fresh in memory, and I've hustled by Greyhound Bus from Newport, Rhode Island to N.Y.C. for a long weekend to check out the scene. Never been there before. Loud music is coming from a saloon called the Metropol (or maybe it's "Metropole," I'm vague on that) , it's front open to the street, and there's just room to elbow up to the bar, order a not-too-extravagantly-overpriced bottle of beer, and dig the extravagantly outfitted band laying into the latest juke-box faves. The name of the band is lost to misty memory, but I do recall they played a knocked-out version of the Rascals tune, "Good Lovin'." I heard that tune on an oldies station earlier this evening, and that's why you're looking at this picture now. Anything might inspire a drawing - usually it's some element of pop or trash-culture that's been burbling about in my boggy brain; this time it's just a fuzzy but fond memory. I slept that night in a ten-dollar room in some hot-sheet joint that I think was called the Star Hotel, and spent the next day taking in flicks on The Deuce. That whole scene's been, sadly, swept unceremoniously into the dust-bin of history. The black specs are the kind Buddy Holly wore; I wore them for that reason, and also because I thought they made me look like some kind of Beat Intellectual. |
Second post for Friday, 7 September, 2012:
Rider Haggard's Ayesha: She Who Must Be Obeyed, bathing in the fires of immortality as a nervous looking Quartermain watches. The story is as much a part of my cultural foundation as if I'd actually read the novel (which, to my public shame, I've never). I do have a soft spot in my head for the filmed Hammer version of the tale: not a great flick (nor true to Haggard), but an enjoyable one with the ever-watchable Peter Cushing supporting, and a haughty Ursula Andress well cast as She. I can't properly recall large potions of this life; a few thousand extra years would just give me that much more to forget... |
Friday, 7 September, 2012:
I've gotten in the habit of giving my pictures titles on the page, just 'cause I like the way words and pictures support each other, but somehow I had no room left for words when I finished this depiction. Just as well - if this elementary image of innocence about to encounter savagery doesn't bring the story of Red Riding Hood to mind, I've missed the mark. I know, there's no hood, no woods and no grandma: say I'm lazy (possible), say I didn't think it through (true), but I say I simply wanted to put together some primary symbols (the girl, the beast, the weird tree, the full moon, the little cottage) and let them do their metaphorical work. What's the metaphor, you inquire? Hell, pick one. For me, it could be the beast of Rapacious Capitalism getting set to devour the Human Spirit, but that's just one view among many possibilities. How 'bout the gore smeared jaws of Consumer Culture about to rend the jugular of Childhood? That's another. Maybe it's the shape-shifting future awaiting us all. Cheers! |
Thursday, 6 September, 2012:
The persistent Eyeball Spider makes yet another appearance in yet another nightmare-at-the-end-of-the-world picture. I'm not sure what that odd weapon is that this cat's brandishing - it sorta looks to me like some crazy combination machine-gun, light-sabre and chain-saw. I just draw 'em, I don't necessarily understand 'em. It pleases me to imagine that this drawing would be right at home in any random issue of Planet Stories, illustrating, say, a Leigh Brackett or an Edmond Hamilton yarn. |
Wednesday, 5 September, 2012:
I seem to have a need to draw skeletal corpse-thingies. I've never made a formal study of anatomy; I imply rather than diagram, but it seems to work for me, making the figures stylized but effective enough. You can imagine for yourself the story behind this illustration, but it was loosely inspired by memories of the first Conan story I ever read in a raggedy paperback, back in another millennium, wherein the weaponless Cimmerian is chased by foes into some kind of forgotten cave or ruin, where he removes a sword from the bony fingers of some long-dead king. This drawing is not meant to represent Conan, just an average pair of tomb raiders from any era looting the dusty glories of the fabled past (which is sort of what I'm doing with many of these drawings). |
Tuesday, 4 September, 2012:
Here's how this piece was born - not moved by inspiration to any particular subject, I just started drawing the first thing that came to mind, which of course was a nubile, reclining maiden. Thinking to have her offering the grapes to a sprightly, dancing goat-like figure, I began drawing the creature's horns, when it occurred to my dim, unfocused consciousness that they might instead be the ears of a burro, or some such critter. So I drew the burro. Or some such. Then the jovial fella with the goofy hat and the lute-like thingy demanded to be part of the scene and, finally, Goat Boy squeezed in, blowing some riffs on his crazy horn. I dunno what the story is behind this depiction. It wanted some kind of title so, because there was a "blue moon" the other night, I figured maybe they were celebrating that occasion. Anyway, it all seemed to work together, and it expresses a kind of easy-going gaiety not often present in my work. Just don't ask what kind of Tijuana Donkey Show she's planning - I promise, no such implication was intended. |
Monday, 3 September, 2012:
I've no academic pretensions, nor am I a literary scholar, but I am willing to assert publicly that H.P. Lovecraft was, in my humble view, probably the most compelling, visionary writer of the twentieth century. It is a claim which would have been found risible by the cultural guardians of his day, and is still likely to arouse incredulity or amusement in many, or likely most. Yet what Lovecraft accomplished was not only to puncture the dominant paradigms of his time concerning man's status in the cosmic scheme, but to confront directly the root problem which faces us as a species, as a society and as individuals - our utter unwillingness (perhaps even inability) to face the great mystery of reality itself, and our refusal to expand our comfortably narrow conceptual tunnels to accommodate the intrusion of uncomfortable truth. Lovecraft's protagonists would all rather die or go mad than evolve. It is the malaise most likely to usher in our extinction; we look to politics or ideologies for solutions, thus further restricting our vision and ensuring our doom. The man himself fascinates me: he was an individual of many (largely self-imposed) limitations and stupendous (largely self-sustained) flaws, yet he did the work of a Titan. He did this work in the only medium that allowed him access - that cesspool of trash culture, the pulp magazine. H.P.L. and his creations are a subject I return to repeatedly, in art and conversation. I like to draw ol' Howard; that jutting jawline makes him an easy caricature, and when I pay him tribute, I do so as to a deity in my personal pantheon. If I am at all visible, it is because I stand on the shoulders of a giant. |
Friday, 31 August, 2012 - second entry:
I started out to draw a puzzled but stoic-looking Native American (what used to be called an Injun, back in the day) spying a spaceship landing on the prarie I spilled coffee on it. I wadded it up and started over. This is the result. This depiction may not be so fantastic, but beneath it's tranquil surface, true horror lies in wait. What's more stone terrifying - watching an alien spacecraft come in for a landing, or seeing the first boatload of murderers, rapists, looters, slave traders, and lying, disease-ridden European scumbags and priests invade your land? I'll never forget the closing scene of the movie Apocalypto, when the native couple (who've just survived their own cultural paroxysm of slaughter) gaze out over an endless ocean poxed by a fleet of Spanish galleons. It's a more frightening and potent image than all the rest of the carnage and human madness in all the previous scenes combined. |
Friday, 31 August, 2012:
A godzillion years ago, 'way back in the 'fifties, there was a comic book character called Ghost Rider: not the flaming-skulled biker sap whose ignoble destiny was to be portrayed by Nicolas Cage in a couple of crappy , monumentally dumb flicks, but a range-riding figure of spectral justice. I can't seem to relocate it on the 'net just now for comparison, but I recall seeing a cover featuring Ghost Rider charging on horseback out of an open grave. I loved the image and wanted to re-create it with a similar character. Done from memory, I'm not at the moment certain how closely this drawing resembles the original, but it captures the "spirit," I think, and is not a direct swipe. Looking at it again, I'm remembering that the original Rider sported a flowing white cape which added greatly to his ghostly and mysterious vibe. I failed to recall that aspect of his appearance for this rendering, but he also wore a full face mask of white, which I chose to replace with another interpretation of his demeanor. These days, a lot of genre mix-'em-up tales blend traditional western motifs with sci-fi, monsters or the supernatural. The Rider seems to me both ahead of his time and distinctly of it. |
Tuesday, 28 August, 2012: ...something different for today.
The idea was to get some practice drawing people in dynamic positions, get to draw some hot babes, and not have to think of what kind of monster or other weirdness to present. Dancers seemed just the thing. Ever wonder why people don't seem to dance as much as they used to? This is just a spontaneous, wild theory, keep in mind, but if you look at dancing (in Western Culture) as a structured, highly ritualized, socially acceptable simulation of / substitute for the sexual act, folks don't need to dance - they can (ever since the notorious Sexual Revolution) just go screw. Boogie, boogie, boogie... |
Monday, 27 August, 2012 - second post of the day.
Creaky (but action packed) old serials and 'thirties gangster flicks are staples of my movie diet. I tried to catch the look of both in this endeavor, but I really just wanted to see if I could draw the car: I know it looks like something Goofy or Bluto might drive (or maybe the Bowery Boys), but it's just the look I was after. |
Monday, 27 August, 2012: ...an alternate title for this piece might be "Indy at the Temple of the Yeti."
Ever since, as a kid, I first saw the Hammer film The Abominable Snowman ( a first class little b@w flick with the great Peter Cushing - if you ain't seen it you ought), I've imagined the Yeti not as some kind of white- furred Bigfoot, but as a highly evolved mystical being who shuns mankind out of a combination of cautionary survival strategy and compassionate contempt for the thorough ignorance of our species. Anyway, he's been stalking my imagination lately, so I expect to see more of him. |
Saturday, 25 August, 2012: ...sometimes it feels like I'm trying to draw all the stuff I wanted to draw when I was ten years old, but hadn't yet developed the knack. If this is what it's like to be an old fart trying to recapture his childhood, I'm okay
with it.
with it.
Friday, 24 August, 2012: Another pair for today...
Tuesday, 21 August, 2012: Two drawings today. The first is inspired by William Hope Hodgson's amazing novel, The Night Land, a book thickly packed with prose so archaic and densely embroidered that it is a formidable challenge to the reader, and imagery and ideas so rich and compelling that after a hundred years it remains an unforgettably weird achievement. I couldn't resist including my trademark eyeball-spiders.
The second just came dripping off my pen like the venom from a viper's fang; it caused me to chortle gaily.
The second just came dripping off my pen like the venom from a viper's fang; it caused me to chortle gaily.
Thursday, 16 August, 2012: I've been browsing a lot of 'fifties horror comic book covers on various internet sites. Long before zombies reached the status of cultural icons, mythic archetypes and all-purpose metaphors they've attained in the world zeitgeist, the return of the dead (for vengeance, justice, retribution , fulfillment of curses, fun, profit, just for the hell of it, or a multitude of other pesky motives) always has been crucial thematic raw material for the creator mining the horror genre.
The beckoning dead loom all about us because they are the karma of our history, manifested in the present on both personal and societal levels. This is my most recent take on the subject. The dead don't forget - only the living fail to remember, at their peril. So often we go to the grave having forgotten to truly be alive. P.S. I very nearly deleted yesterday's drawing from this page. Like a lot of things in this world, spending some time with it resulted in me liking it less than I thought I did. But what the hell - the less-than-wonderful stuff is as much a part of who I am as the better crafted stuff and, anyway, who am I to decide? ...just some naked, screaming, delirious guy... |
Wednesday, 15 August, 2012: Like I say, I just draw what I see. I see a lot of movies, so the images from them cling to the underside of my brain like barnacles, until I scrape them off with a drawing. The Shrine is a tidy and effective little horror flick I viewed a couple of nights ago, and the loose inspiration for this drawing.
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Monday, 13 August, 2012: I Walk in Shadow
This is my third attempt at graphic storytelling, completed about 2 A.M. today. It speaks for itself, as it ought.
Afterwards, we'll talk.
This is my third attempt at graphic storytelling, completed about 2 A.M. today. It speaks for itself, as it ought.
Afterwards, we'll talk.
So...this thing (I call it a story, others might be more disposed to regard it as pure effluvium) may be a bitter manifesto of misanthropy. Or...it may, at a deeper level, be a simple and direct act of healing. Like the snake swallowing its own tail, the work turns back on itself and becomes a story about the process of writing and drawing this story.
For me, a vital aspect of creativity is spontaneity - when I sit down to do this stuff, I 've no idea what might happen. Unlike what I presume to be the methods of most graphic story practitioners, I do not begin with a story idea, a plot, or perhaps even a character. It is a journey to an unknown destination, and it does not commence until I draw a line or write a word. What ends up on the page is whatever comes spilling out: each separate little white card is a panel, each little panel completed is a step on the journey. It is not me deciding the destination, but the demands of the process itself; I go where it leads me.
It will be no secret or surprise to any who've delved into the text material elsewhere on this site, that a contemplation of human history (real human history, not the cretinous gruel of myth and propaganda that passes for popular historical awareness) , and the contemporary culture of bullshit in which we are drowning faster than the victims of Noah's flood, fills me with rage and contempt. Believe it or don't, these feelings are not pleasurable to me; I do not savor them , find comfort with them, or look upon them as a validation of my own imagined superiority. It just makes me fucking sad.
Someone once said of Mark Twain that it was remarkable how a person who so despised the human race could like people so much! I'm aboard the same riverboat. I gotta respect these feelings, give 'em their voice, and let 'em go. I like a lot of you folks, I really do. Some of you I love with all my heart. But as a class, Baby, generally speaking, it don't seem like you humans got none (class, that is).
Sometimes it's just hard to live among you.
If there is truth in this story, it is not the truth of you, or the truth of humanity, or the truth of social injustice or any of that crap. It is just the simple truth of what I was feeling when I sat down to draw.
And if ya still wanna come back after all that, maybe next time we'll deal with some happier material.
Oh, yeah...just noticed I failed to spell "imbecilic" properly in panel 7. Guess we'll let that little imperfection stand as is; mistakes are all part of the process. Once again. the passion of the moment over-rides diligence and caution.
Tuesday, 7 August, 2012 - 2nd. entry: I just draw what I see...
Tuesday, 7 August, 2012: Turner Classic Movies recently ran a batch of Tarzan flicks from the '30's and '40's. I was pleasantly surprised at how much I enjoyed these simple entertainments from days of yore. I was always more a fan of Burroughs' literary character than of the dumbed-down movie version, but I gotta admit I got a kick out of seeing the Ape-Man kick Nazi ass in Tarzan Triumphs , the inspiration for this drawing.
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Thursday, 2 August, 2012: I recently watched The Burmese Harp, a Japanese film from the fifties, which contained a painfully vivid scene of a row of corpses, soldiers who had died defending their position, backs against the sea. We are uncertain whether they died knowing the war was already over. I couldn't get the scene out of my head
When we enforce our ideologies through violence, we are mere uniformed corpses arrayed in a battle lost before it is begun. Ideology is the mind's poison, and the enemy of human freedom. |
Monday, July 30, 2012:
Saturday, 28 July, 2012: from outta my head today...
Monday, 23 July, 2012
wildbill's condensed history of the world, in 8 panels:
I began this story (if you want to call it that) yesterday morning and finished this afternoon. I had no plan to do anything in particular when I sat down to draw. I just opened a valve and this is what escaped, like the insistent hissing of trapped steam. I feel like this is just the prologue to a longer piece, but it seems to me to stand on its own as well, so methought I'd post it for your presumed amusement.
I was reading an item by Robert Anton Wilson the other day about Phil Dick's notion of the Black Iron Prison: it is everywhere and nowhere. It is where we are all sentenced for life, so long as those who maintain it can convince us it is real. It is a wonderful metaphor which I find usefully and delightfully disturbing. I'd no conscious plan to utilize it, but the unfolding panels led me directly to it.
Inside wildbill's brain:
Here's a look at some of my more recent drawings.
I feel I've become well-suited for an occupation which no longer exists - pulp illustrator. A lifetime of immersion in the lurid images of trash culture has permanently subverted the machinery of my brain. When I turn the crank, this is what comes churning out:
I feel I've become well-suited for an occupation which no longer exists - pulp illustrator. A lifetime of immersion in the lurid images of trash culture has permanently subverted the machinery of my brain. When I turn the crank, this is what comes churning out:
...and adding more regularly...
I've always loved comic books. They used to cost a dime; in my imagination, they always will. Here are some drawings of imaginary comic book covers. I'd love to read these, and maybe someday I'll tell the stories that go with the covers.
wildbill's Comix I'd like to read
Graphic Story: SPIRIT GIRL
This is my first attempt at graphic storytelling. It was suggested to me that I ought to turn some drawings into a deck of cards; I chose rather to try my hand at a graphic story deck. This is what happened over the course of a few nights...
I had been drawing a series of imaginary pulp magazine
and comic book covers - tributes to the kind of stuff I grew
up reading. The Spirit Girl character just seemed a natural;
a direct descendant of delightful heroines like Sheena, Queen
of the Jungle, Nyoka, Tiger Girl, and dozens of others. I had
no notion of actually writing the story as I drew the faux
cover with the made-up-on-the-spot title, but I couldn't help
falling in love with Spirit Girl, and felt compelled to find out
more about her.
and comic book covers - tributes to the kind of stuff I grew
up reading. The Spirit Girl character just seemed a natural;
a direct descendant of delightful heroines like Sheena, Queen
of the Jungle, Nyoka, Tiger Girl, and dozens of others. I had
no notion of actually writing the story as I drew the faux
cover with the made-up-on-the-spot title, but I couldn't help
falling in love with Spirit Girl, and felt compelled to find out
more about her.
I honestly had no plan, no idea of what I was doing but, as
I drew, the story began to unfold of its own accord, with its
own weird energy.
To me it reflects a certain truth about how things work:
the repressed always returns and we always see it as
some kind of monster. If that seems obscure to you, or if
the story seems just plain goofy, well, blame it on that
T.E. Flicker fella...
Thanks-a-plenty to Rene for the inspiration to tell the story
in this style, and to Marc Bouchard for the excellent scans.
Visible flaws (such as unerased pencil marks) can be attributed
to the haste and crude techniques of the artist, who was tempted
to redraw the story with a more professional look, but opted to
stay with the raw stuff
I drew, the story began to unfold of its own accord, with its
own weird energy.
To me it reflects a certain truth about how things work:
the repressed always returns and we always see it as
some kind of monster. If that seems obscure to you, or if
the story seems just plain goofy, well, blame it on that
T.E. Flicker fella...
Thanks-a-plenty to Rene for the inspiration to tell the story
in this style, and to Marc Bouchard for the excellent scans.
Visible flaws (such as unerased pencil marks) can be attributed
to the haste and crude techniques of the artist, who was tempted
to redraw the story with a more professional look, but opted to
stay with the raw stuff
One A.M. Doodles
Drawing is the first form of artistic expression most kids experience. I have a memory of my mom teaching me how to draw a star when I was barely old enough to get a grip on a crayon. I still like to draw stars; they have always hovered in the background of my drawings. I drew constantly as a child - intricate scenarios of stick figure soldiers in combat, cowboys at the O.K. Corral , pirates storming from ship to ship.
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One scene in which I took a strange delight, drawing it over and over again, was of a firehouse as the alarm goes off, helmeted stick-figure firemen sliding down the fire-pole, others jumping up from a game of checkers, board and pieces flying through the air. When adults would ask, in their patronizing way, "What do you want to be when you grow up?", I always responded, "A commercial artist!" Of course I had no idea what the job of a commercial artist actually entailed, or how dreary and stiflingly uncreative such a career might be. It just sounded like a job where you could get paid for drawing, and I knew it was a more mature response than cowboy or spaceman, thus winning me at least a modicum of grown-up approval.
Later, in high school, I thought art classes would be more fun than algebra or biology, but soon found I had no interest in working to the demands of a teacher, or in painting watercolors, or, in fact, doing anything supposedly " creative" under the direction of anybody. Anyway, it was plain to me that others were more talented than I in that direction, and so much more was beginning to happen in my life (girls, guitars, the unexpected inheritance of a huge library of science fiction and fantasy books and magazines) that it was easy to lose interest, and for over a decade I never picked up pencil or pen to draw.
It was only after I had decided to take a stab at fiction writing and got caught in a lengthy " writer's block" (really just your average miasma of fear, uncertainty, self-doubt and self-pity) that I picked up a drawing pencil again, just to reassure my wounded and suffering self that I could do anything at all of an artistic nature. It turned out to be fun.
Over the years I've not practiced drawing regularly, but every once in a while some drawings just want to find their way out to a page, and I guess they represent what's going on in my dark interior as well as anything I could explicitly write. I hope you find them interesting or amusing.
This first batch are really just late night doodles, what my wife (Janice, The Most Beautiful Woman in the World) keeps in a folder labeled "wildbill's 1 a.m. drawings."
Last winter I got into the habit of sitting at the kitchen table in the wee hours, just before retiring to my tree, having a last smoke, listening to late night talk radio by the light of the 25 watt bulb in the little table lamp. Without really thinking about it I reached for an index card (out of the stack kept in a little plastic tray for making quick grocery lists or reminder notes) and began to make a little doodly design. Over the next few weeks I started looking forward to my little doodling sessions - it made me feel good to make these little things, and clusters of them began to adorn my kitchen door. I haven't done one in a while now, but I never know what's coming next.
Later, in high school, I thought art classes would be more fun than algebra or biology, but soon found I had no interest in working to the demands of a teacher, or in painting watercolors, or, in fact, doing anything supposedly " creative" under the direction of anybody. Anyway, it was plain to me that others were more talented than I in that direction, and so much more was beginning to happen in my life (girls, guitars, the unexpected inheritance of a huge library of science fiction and fantasy books and magazines) that it was easy to lose interest, and for over a decade I never picked up pencil or pen to draw.
It was only after I had decided to take a stab at fiction writing and got caught in a lengthy " writer's block" (really just your average miasma of fear, uncertainty, self-doubt and self-pity) that I picked up a drawing pencil again, just to reassure my wounded and suffering self that I could do anything at all of an artistic nature. It turned out to be fun.
Over the years I've not practiced drawing regularly, but every once in a while some drawings just want to find their way out to a page, and I guess they represent what's going on in my dark interior as well as anything I could explicitly write. I hope you find them interesting or amusing.
This first batch are really just late night doodles, what my wife (Janice, The Most Beautiful Woman in the World) keeps in a folder labeled "wildbill's 1 a.m. drawings."
Last winter I got into the habit of sitting at the kitchen table in the wee hours, just before retiring to my tree, having a last smoke, listening to late night talk radio by the light of the 25 watt bulb in the little table lamp. Without really thinking about it I reached for an index card (out of the stack kept in a little plastic tray for making quick grocery lists or reminder notes) and began to make a little doodly design. Over the next few weeks I started looking forward to my little doodling sessions - it made me feel good to make these little things, and clusters of them began to adorn my kitchen door. I haven't done one in a while now, but I never know what's coming next.