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. |
Monday, 31 December, 2012:
Had I planned for it, I might have made the final drawing of the year a more auspicious entry, but this will have to do. Usually the out-going year is portrayed as an old man, while the in-coming one is seen as an infant. In this case I chose to present the fading year as a sort of witchy hag, cunning and malevolent. The entity emerging into our world through her magic mirror / dimensional doorway would, of course, have to be the year awaiting us. All would not appear to bode well for us, but things may not be what they seem and there may yet be hope - maybe it will turn out that this thing eats batshit-crazy Republicans, and we will abide in a better world after all. Anyway, a Happy New Year to you! |
Wednesday, 26 December, 2012:
Although the Mayan apocalypse scenario may have fizzled, the Yellow Peril still looms in the imagination of pulpsters everywhere. Fu-Manchu may be a racist stereotype from out of the past, but he remains one of the most memorable and charismatic icons of villainy in all of literature. No doubt he was the inspiration and model for Flash Gordon's nemesis, Ming the Merciless, whose likeness also appears repeatedly in my work. Portrayed on film by the likes of Warner Oland, Boris Karloff and Christopher Lee, he yet plans his ultimate vengeance on us all. "The world has not seen the last of Fu-Manchu!" |
Tuesday, 25 December, 2012:
Christmas Day. I had an idea for a drawing to acknowledge the perversion of this celebratory occasion that pre-dates the birth of the Christian savior by uncountable ages, but ran out of time to get it done. These two entries will have to do for now. This I drew as a present for my brother, Marc, whose Christmas Eve birthday is eternally overshadowed by the frenzy of that other annual event. I had inclinations toward two different pictures - one of the Whore of Babylon, the other of an image something like the large face presented here. In the process, the two ideas somehow merged, with this result. Don't ask what it means - I draw 'em first and analyze 'em later, and the possible interpretations of this one are labyrinthine. It might make a good poster for The Last Temptation of Christ. |
Wednesday, 19 December, 2012:
A figure from another kind of mythology to be represented today; one America has often used to represent itself - the gunfighter, hero of our cowboy dreams. You know what's going to happen in this picture one second from now - the man in the serape is gonna spin and decimate the bad-guy gunslingers with a rapid-fire volley. Bang, Bang, Bang! Three corpses for the vultures. These are the moments we anticipate in every great western, yet...I can't help but be conscious that it is less than a week since the Newtown kindergarten massacre (an event so soul-sickening as to afford a glimpse into the abyss), and talk of gun control and gun violence (in the streets and in entertainment) is everywhere. The mere act of drawing this picture may, by some, be seen as insensitive. But we seem to have a problem when it comes to talking about the problem. As with most emotionally charged issues facing us, people seem eager to line up on one side or the other, each side screaming at the other and no one listening. We can't even talk about violence (or any other critical issue) without displaying our urge to violence and intimidation . Everyone is angry, insulted by the disagreement of others, eager to demonize the opposition, and looking for a scapegoat to carry the weight of blame, shame and guilt. Violence, the expression of the will to power by force, is the American way of life. As a nation we have been exploiting and exporting violence around the world as a profit-making and profit-protecting strategy for much of our history; virtually continuously since World War II. It is purest hypocrisy to expect individuals to behave in accordance with values spurned by those who hold all power. America's power comes not from moral example or courage of conviction - it comes, as the Black Panthers used to say, out of the barrel of a gun. So long as this is the lesson we teach ourselves and our children every single day, we can't be surprised when our children pick up guns to solve their problems. We don't need more laws. We need more understanding. |
Tuesday, 18 December, 2012:
I've always been fascinated by the personal mythologies of artists: Lovecraft's cosmic Cthulhu Myth Cycle, for instance, or Dario Argento's legend of a trio of immortal witches, The Three Mothers - Mother of Sighs, Mother of Darkness, Mother of Tears - the inspiration for this piece. All I had in mind was to draw a powerful female occult figure of some kind; this is who turned up. Her name comes from my protracted pondering over what the hell to call her, since she insisted on a suitable title to go with her portrait. Don't know the name of her familiar, lurking in the background. I suspect, though, that she has often worked in league with the subject of the following piece... |
This drawing followed immediately from the last, as though the two worked in tandem at some unspeakable business. If she is a sower of confusion, he is a bringer of despair. His ax cuts deep, separating you from the root of your own nature. Then your soul is easy prey. At least, that's how it works in my mythology.
|
Sunday, 9 December, 2012:
Spiders are mixed up in my karma somehow. I'm naturally fascinated by them, and their innate creepiness makes them irresistible fun to draw. As has been the case with several previous Saturday night efforts, the choice of subject matter for this illustration was influenced by the film being presented on TV by our local Horror Host, Svengoolie, as I sat down to draw: Tarantula! All I needed was a little nudge; any old nasty spider flick would have done the job: Earth vs. the Spider, say, or Giant Spider Invasion. Even Kingdom of the Spiders or, well, you get the idea - the list would make for a lengthy recital. If Svengoolie had been showing The Giant Gila Monster, you'd probably be looking at a Big Lizard picture. |
Wednesday, 5 December, 2012:
And now for something completely different... I started reading Kerouac when I was thirteen: On the Road, The Dharma Bums, Big Sur, Tristessa - these spoke to me in a way that blew my head open. Ginsberg's famous poem, Howl, which I also encountered early on, remains a vivid manifesto of bitterness and anger at the social machinery that grinds human potential into something lifeless and ugly. Someone (who's name is lost to me at the moment) once said, "The true hipster does not seek to change society, but to escape from it." Alcohol and a variety of mind-altering substances most often provide transport for this escape, as well as fuel for the kind of bizarre, quasi-mystical speculation imagined here. "Beat" doesn't stand for "beat up," Kerouac used to say, It stands for "beatitude." That's a very Catholic word, not much in use these days. It means, as I recall, something like a state of blessedness. To find the divine in the profane - that's blessedness. |
Next:
A return to a subject near and dear: Ming the Merciless, Emperor of Mongo, spiteful antagonist of Flash Gordon, and author of many a mad scheme of universal domination. It is rumored it was he who secretly engineered the deadly "Fiscal Cliff." His secret minions are already installed in high places. |
Finally:
"Step right up, ladies and gents, see the Seductress of Snakes perform the ritual dance of the Reptile Goddess!" "See her sway in mystic rhythm with her deadly pets!" Gaze, hypnotized by the undulations of the voluptuous vixen and her venomous vipers!" "Just one thin dime, ladies and gents, just the tenth part of a dollar for the most exciting spectacle, the most exotic display ever unveiled before the public eye! Direct from her command performance before the crowned heads of three continents!" "Come inside, come inside!" |
Friday. 30 November, 2012:
I virtually never work with color. I love the simplicity and contrast of black and white, the purity of it. But virtuality is not to be confused with actuality (a distinction of some import, in the age of virtual experience.) So, in a mood for experiment, I found some cheap colored markers and began to play with the notion of a limited use of color for effect. This is Kali, a Hindu deity. She is often portrayed as blue-skinned. In some traditions she is four-armed; in other depictions she sports even more limbs. She represents death, change or transformation; the stroke of her sword edge creates time itself. In one of her hands she carries a human head; in another, a sacrificial bowl to collect the blood. Normally she wears a necklace of human skulls - I have risked her ire by placing them belt-like around her waist. She is the Great Mother, having given birth to all things. I like the way she seems to pop right off the page. |
Monday, 25 November, 2012:
I really wanted to call this one, "The Lion King and His Mate," but that might bring undesired associations with a similarly named Disney product. Nobody wants that - not me, not Disney, Inc. I had a notion to draw someone in a lion's head mask. It was a lonely notion, rolling around inside my head like a marble in an empty coffee can, but it was sufficient to get started, and the result pleases me. These two would have been great characters in the old Jungle Comics from Fiction House, back in the 'forties or 'fifties - except, of course, she would have had to conceal her charms beneath a leopard skin bra, or a couple of brass bowls or something. The reaction of my own mate to this pic: "You and those big boobs!" |
Sunday, 25 November, 2012:
The inspiration for this entry came from, of all places, the British version of "Antiques Roadshow," which I stumbled across the other night . Someone was displaying a piece of glassware decorated with intricately sculpted mermaid figures, featuring delicate strands of bubbles in place of the usual flowing hair, and lacking the mono-tails common to more typical mermaid renderings. It was lovely, intriguing workmanship, and I was reminded of the drawings of Virgil Finlay ( one of the finest illustrators who ever breathed ), who sometimes seemed to create whole compositions out of carefully and artfully executed bubbles. I was seduced and left choice-less; there was nothing to do but try my hand at my own version of these irresistibly charming maids, here presented. |
Saturday, 24 November, 2012:
Haven't posted in a few days, so now is catch-up time, presenting three drawings for your amusement, bemusement, or plain old musement. First up, the blind swordsman, Zatoichi, who perceives the world all the more clearly, perhaps, because he does not rely on seeing with mere eyes. Filmmakers have long tried to copy this character, transplanting mutated versions of him to the western or action genres of other cultures, with little success. Actor Shintaro Katsu (star of over two dozen Zatoichi films and a follow-up TV series) imbues the character with just the right proportions of humility, vulnerability, confidence, conscience, kindness , courage, sly wit and world-weariness, creating not just a memorably sympathetic hero, but an inspiring, unforgettable icon. |
Sometimes it's easy to comment on my own drawings; sometimes I just have to turn them loose and let them speak for themselves. All my work is illustration -either for familiar stories, or for stories yet to be told, that exist only as embryonic imaginings. You can make up the story behind this one as easily as I -hell, maybe yours will be more interesting than mine.
The Zatoichi entry is an example of something drawn with specific, conscious intent. This entry exemplifies the opposite approach - just let the pencil hover over the paper until it draws something of its own accord. |
I had a sort of vague notion to capture a scene from The Faceless Monster (just one of the film's titles), a creaky Italo-gothic tale, in which an unfaithful wife and her brutish lover, murdered by her jealous husband, return as vengeful ghosts. Actually, I didn't quite realize what I was drawing until I started to draw it, and I'm not at all confident in the result, but I guess I'd rather show it to you than consign it to burial in a file-folder.
I'm rather fond of the girl in the portrait (you can tell it's a portrait there on the right, can't you?) -she looks comely enough to have been drawn by Wallace Wood, which is as generous a compliment as I've ever given myself. |
Monday, 19 November, 2012:
If zombies are everywhere, they must have lurched into Wonderland by now. Since Alice seems to want a place in my drawings lately, and zombies (and assorted undead) have been a recurring motif, it was inevitable that they meet - it seems only natural. Actually, it sort of surprises me that this movie hasn't been made yet. |
Sunday, 18 November, 2012:
I'm not much of a fan of the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise - bloated, soul-less CG showcases, sez I; great big, splendidly wrapped packages of squandered potential and wasted opportunity. How can you screw up undead pirates, ferchrissake? How the fuck can you make zombie pirates seem bland? Must be a secret Disney recipe. John Carpenter put 'em to effective use in The Fog on a budget that probably wouldn't buy Johnny Depp's lunch. Anyway, my pencil drew itself a skull wearing a three-corner hat, and the rest of the picture drew itself. I claim no responsibility. Ya know what pirates and zombies have in common? They both say, "Arrrh!" |
Saturday, 17 November, 2012:
Been neglecting drawing in favor of music the last few days ( just loaded some new versions of old tunes into the Castle's music hall Friday afternoon ), but found some unexpected time to draw when other plans for last night fell through - this is the result. I love drawing Alice, or young ladies like her, all innocent and wonder-struck at the cosmic craziness of things. I don't know who that strange lookin' trickster is, sitting atop the giant mushroom, but I think Alice has just had a hit off his pipe. |
Tuesday, 13 November, 2012:
Lovecraft again: a subject that compels me like powerful drugs compel an addict. I've been living with him so long, my metabolism requires repeated doses. In a previous drawing I depicted him as a bringer of light, holding a lantern to our fears - a bit of obvious symbolic reference. When I finished this current effort I was modestly pleased with all but his hand, the clumsiness of my pen having left it with a rather disappointingly withered appearance. After some convoluted reflection, I choose to interpret the hand metaphorically, as a representation of his disability: not a physical impairment, but a dis-inclination (and likely a complete inability) to adjust to the psychological and social demands of the world in which he found himself abandoned. Out of this crippling dissociation with the "reality" of his fellows came the genius and vision of his art. If that sounds like a load of clams to you, well, I ask you: what's a mind for, if not to lend reason to our flaws or meaning to our failings? Hmmm? |
Friday, 9 November, 2012:
"Even a man who is pure of heart and says his prayers by night, may become a wolf when the wolf-bane blooms and the Autumn moon is bright." Curt Siodmak's child-like rhyme, written more than seven decades ago for Universal's Lon Chaney, Jr. vehicle, The Wolf Man, featuring Maria Ouspenskaya in the role for which she is beloved and best remembered, Gypsy seer Maleva. It may not be the height of poetic accomplishment, but I'd wager more people can remember and recite it than could ever quote a line of, say, Ezra Pound or T.S. Elliot. It is my hope that Madame Ouspenskaya would not be too displeased with this depiction, which cannot hope to capture the history of sorrow written on her face and informing her characterization of a woman who knows well the darkness in which man gropes. I wish I could have done a bit better with Chaney: he deserved better than he got then, and better than I've given him here. |
Thursday, 8 November, 2012:
Watched an anthology film called Theater Bizarre. Can't say I'd recommend it, but the opening episode, "Mother of Toads," was intriguing enough to provoke this little pin-up. If you've been paying attention (and I cling to the possibility that someone may be doing so), you'll have noticed by now that I've been having some difficulty sticking to my intention of posting a new item every day. It is in the nature of plans that the gods laugh as we make them, but little of this project involved any plan at all - I've just been going with the flow, a day at a time, often surprised by my own enthusiasm to stay with it. For whatever reason, the process seems to be moving a tad more slowly in recent days, and I'm not inclined to fight with the natural movement of things - no matter how much I urge the current on, the river flows at its own speed. Seems like part of the problem is too much thinking about what I'm doing. I end up staring at a blank sheet of paper, wondering how to fill it in some clever way, rather than just letting the pencil move by itself, which is how all this got started in the first place. Every day is a lesson for me. Maybe that's part of why I enjoy the journey so much. Anyway, thanks for your patience, and if the quantity of what gets posted here has been slightly (and, one hopes, temporarily) reduced, I'm doin' my best to make up for it in quality. See ya next time - maybe even tomorrow, if all goes well. |
Next...
When I showed this drawing to The Most Beautiful Woman in the World, she said, after a pause, "I like the critter in the background." "It's not a critter," sez me. "A spaceship then?" I didn't tell her it's meant to be a strange idol on a kind of altar. Yeah, I know, it's highly stylized, and the failure to clearly communicate the idea is all on me; still the vagaries of human perception always manage to surprise me. We can never quite be sure if people see what we see, or hear what we hear. We each interpret the information presented us according to our individual abilities and inclinations. I came up blank when it was time to give this piece a title , so you can name it in accordance with your own perceptions (and if that isn't an open invitation to mockery, I dunno what is.) Anyway, I was glad to see the eyeball spiders crawling back for a visit. |
Friday, 2 November, 2012:
I am resolved to rein in my propensity for the cynical rant. No doubt that will last at least until the next post. Meanwhile, here is the result of today's effort: an illustration for an imaginary story in an imaginary pulp magazine called (in my imagination) Spicy Mysteries of the Orient. In the story, the infamous Eastern Mastermind, Dr. Wu, must fend off a hostile takeover by a global corporation with plans to demolish his house of pleasure, build a theme park on the site, dose his girls with high-grade opium and dress them in funny animal mascot costumes. Intrigue, danger and suspense ensue, with some naughty parts. |
Wednesday,31 October, 2012:
Been arguing with my perplexed self about whether to post this one: dunno if it works or not, but I'm inclined to talk about it. In a world brought to ruin, where survival is a daily uncertainty, what would be the most practical strategy for life - competition or cooperation ? Every man for himself, or mutual dependence? Do we prey on each other in a struggle for dominance, or work together in a struggle for peace and equity? It seems to me we live in that world now, and the question is pertinent to our survival . In this political season, as I cringe and wince at the hateful, vomitous spewings of our public figures, it is not difficult to imagine a near future in which we live by hunting each other for food. In a culture such as ours, where greed is a religion, corruption a way of life, violence an everyday pass-time, and honesty a discomforting weakness of character, can such a world be anything other than inevitable? Today is Halloween, when we cover our ordinary faces with grotesque masks and pretend to be imaginary monsters. It is rather like the twist ending of a comic-book horror story, that beneath so many ordinary faces are concealed powerful, real-world monsters of political self- righteousness. Scary stuff. Don't forget to share your candy with the other kids. And as a bonus for listening to my rant: |
Tuesday, 30 October, 2012:
Nosferatu. Not exactly the Max Schreck Nosferatu from the classic Murnau silent film, but one of the breed. Not descended from the Lugosi model; no tragic romanticism or lure of dark sexuality here. A bringer of pestilence, like the rat; a cunning predator, like the wolf; a blood drinking creature of the night, like the bat; his aura, like the stench of the grave. His kind used to be confined to the decaying ruins of remote castles, hidden away in cursed places. Now they become investment bankers, corporate heads, or run for president, disguised as "conservatives." His ferocious appetites can never be sated. He is a consumer of souls. |
Sunday, 28 October, 2012:
Familiar elements: the lurking beast, the moon, the wisps of cloud, the stippled sky, the silhouette of mountains behind the threatened figure. I draw these things obsessively. It all means something important, but I'll be goddamned if I can conjure words at the moment to bring any insight to the matter, beyond the simple fact that it feels like what I'm supposed to be doing. It seems to me that learning to draw is a lot like learning a second (if non-verbal) language. Whatever you want to express, you have to use the vocabulary available to you as creatively as you"re able. It's also a bit like music: better to play one sustained note from the heart than twenty without conviction. I suppose I could draw assorted fruit in a bowl, if that was of any interest to me. It ain't. Then again, maybe I could never draw fruit-in-a -bowl, precisely because I don't give a damn for it. I guess I'll just be content to do what I do and see what happens. Maybe a surprise is waiting for me. |
Friday, 26 October, 2012:
Poe, Poe, Poe, Poe, Poe...the dead, crazy, inebriated, genius bastard won't leave me alone. Now that I've been bold enough to draw him, he demands a more fitting portrait. Yesterday's post was rendered using a photograph for reference that I found searching images on the web. I was pleased simply to have captured a credible likeness, but I knew in my Tell-Tale Heart the drawing was ,well...ordinary. It conveyed the easily recognizable outward aspect with which any culturally literate person would be familiar, but presented that image less imaginatively than the subject calls for. Not terrible, for a first effort, but a bit clumsy,and a bit bland. This second stab at Mr. Poe relied on no reference, but is the Poe of my imagination: absorbed in his work, pen in one hand, bottle in the other, surrounded by the prodigies of his own dark imaginings. It's a picture I can relate to - a little more mood, a little more atmosphere, a little closer to capturing both his character and mine. Thank you, Edgar, for spurring me to do better. Now, go haunt someone else. |
Thursday, 25 October, 2012:
Though I've drawn Lovecraft many times, I've never attempted a portrait of Edgar Allan Poe, Lovecraft's inspiration and perhaps the primogenitor of genre fiction, having given birth to the detective story, the psychological horror tale, and been among the first practitioners of what could loosely be called science-fiction. Not to mention he was a hell of a poet, having composed some of that exceedingly rare verse that is so embedded in our culture that it can be remembered (and possibly even quoted) by us post-modern ignoramuses: "While I pondered, weak and weary..." As has been the case on other occasions, I was prompted to this portrait by the programming on TCM last night - an evening featuring continuous examples of how Hollywood has pillaged, looted, raped and murdered the work of a master story-teller, and still managed to produce films that have been fan favorites for decades. It is a legacy the man himself, with all his prodigious imaginative powers, could not have fantasized. For further exploration of the subject of Poe on film (and the twisted workings of my perception), see the essay on "Danse Macabre," elsewhere on this site. |
Wednesday, 24 October, 2012:
Feelings usually thought of as negative can be turned to gold. Anger, fear, resentment - everybody has 'em: I mine these, process them and turn them into drawings. I am not dominated by these emotions, I simply find it useful and practical to exploit them as a resource, give them form, and send them on their way. But these are not my only resource, nor need all my work reflect the gruesome or bizarre - it only need reflect some aspect of truth, which may be either beautiful or terrible, depending on which reality tunnel one peers through. Nothing points to truth more clearly than the Taoist symbol of the yin/yang nature of existence, my own version of which is here presented. Good and bad, great and small, wise and foolish, up and down, in and out, left and right, being and non-being: these are concepts inseparable from each other, defining each other, depending on each other - seemingly opposed aspects , not of nature, but of our way of looking at things. It is our minds that divide. Most people seem to believe they live in an either-or world - a thing is this or that, one or the other, never both at once. One must either believe that competition is natures way, or that cooperation is the only solution. The trouble is that existence (the Real World, folks) is sometimes this and sometimes that; sometimes neither, sometimes both, and sometimes nothing at all that we can understand. In the end, the movement is always toward balance, even when we seem at extremes. |
Tuesday, 23 October, 2012:
Something a bit different for today. A couple of winters back, I began a series of idle doodles on tiny index cards. As I kept at it, the doodles began to resemble actual drawings. I graduated to a larger size index card, and began drawing a series of imaginary pulp magazine and comic book covers and illustrations. Some of these were among the early posts here, and can be found in the archive, but some even earlier ones, which had left my possession, were recently returned to me, beautifully scanned by my brother, Marc. I did briefly consider whether or not I wanted to post additional work which represents a less accomplished phase of my endeavors, but I do find some of this stuff interesting or worthy in its own slight way, and the nature of the Castle is , after all, such that I am encouraged (if not required) to expose myself. If you've been following my progress, you'll see many recurring themes and motifs begin with these efforts. I ain't ashamed of 'em. They're the roots of all that has grown here. |
By the time I had churned out this stuff, I'd developed the logo-style initials with which I sign all my work, and was ready to begin using real adult-type art paper. Like as if I was serious about what I was doing.
Monday, 22 October, 2012:
All is plain to see, and nothing is as it seems. A paradox, perhaps, but if it ain't paradoxical, it ain't the truth. And I wouldn't lie to you except to point to truth. At least, that's what The Mystic told me. She sees you; what do you see when you look at her? You might see many things, but if you look from a certain angle, you might see me. After all, I drew her, an archetype out of my deeper consciousness, an icon inhabiting my own personal mythology - how can she not be a reflection of aspects of my self. She reflects my vision, my talents (or lack thereof -you choose), my sensibility, my wonder and awe at the strangeness of existence, my obsessions (big boobs again, a persistent motif), my aesthetics, and probably more than I can imagine. In every act, in every word, we reveal ourselves more than we are ever aware. When people speak, no matter what they talk about, they provide more insight into themselves than they ever could about the object of their speech. Even when we lie, we demonstrate the truth of our deceitful nature. Sometimes I draw stylized images of myself into my work, as autobiographical sketches or as reflections of my state of mind but, if you really look, this whole collection is just a bunch of puzzle pieces that, when assembled, reveal a picture of me. Anyway, that's what I see. |
Sunday,21 October, 2012:
No snotty, sarcastic rants (or incisive social criticism, if you choose to think so) today. Sorry to disappoint; I just don't feel as venomous as usual (at the moment.) I had it vaguely in mind to draw a somewhat different character than this salty looking outlawish dude, but he insisted on making an appearance. I found him appealing but didn't know what to do with him, so I drew him some companionship and bid the charming couple adieu. They seemed eager to be on the road. If you see them along the highway, be generous of spirit. |
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.
Monday, July 30, 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.