A New Introduction to This Mad Experiment:
Since taking up residence in the Castle, some original notions about its functions have evolved. This gallery was at first merely an afterthought; a spot to display, entirely on a whim, some (what I thought were) amusing wee-hour doodles I had accumulated, all in the spirit of fun. What I discovered is that I like to draw about as much as I like to rant about my personal obsessions, and this document of my journey, this chronicle of images and commentary, is the product of my commitment to the process of finding out what I'm capable of, both as artist and writer, and my desire to share the experience with whoever-the-hell might be interested or entertained. So, thank you all who've been curious or amused enough to join me, and I hope you enjoy the trip.
In the interest of not making this page a thousand miles long, earlier entries have been moved to the Archives , available for exploration via a click on the "more..." heading.
In the interest of not making this page a thousand miles long, earlier entries have been moved to the Archives , available for exploration via a click on the "more..." heading.
Wednesday, 16June, 2015:
Everybody needs a place for their stuff...so here's some recent stuff.
Everybody needs a place for their stuff...so here's some recent stuff.
Wednesday, 1 April, 2015:
I ain't dead yet...
...but after an absence of several months even I am a bit surprised to see me back.
I admit I have been considering allowing The Castle to stand simply as an archive while I move on to other possibilities, but there is a stack of pictures calling out to be posted and now seems like as good a time as any to answer the call - and this site remains, at least for now, the place to show 'em.
Once again, none of these drawings were consciously planned; they just come oozing out in ways that still surprise and tickle me.
I ain't dead yet...
...but after an absence of several months even I am a bit surprised to see me back.
I admit I have been considering allowing The Castle to stand simply as an archive while I move on to other possibilities, but there is a stack of pictures calling out to be posted and now seems like as good a time as any to answer the call - and this site remains, at least for now, the place to show 'em.
Once again, none of these drawings were consciously planned; they just come oozing out in ways that still surprise and tickle me.
...and here is a character who won't go away 'til I find a way to exorcise him.
Thanks for looking!
Tuesday, 30 December, 2014:
'Tis the eve of New Year's Eve, and probably the last entry for the year.
I could say it's been a weird year - but then it's been a weird life.
To all who visit here, here's a wish for a better year for us all. Not less weird, just better,
'Tis the eve of New Year's Eve, and probably the last entry for the year.
I could say it's been a weird year - but then it's been a weird life.
To all who visit here, here's a wish for a better year for us all. Not less weird, just better,
Friday, 12 December, 2014:
Those who speak do not know; those who know do not speak.
For those who find both speech and silence inadequate, it is necessary to draw pictures.
Those who speak do not know; those who know do not speak.
For those who find both speech and silence inadequate, it is necessary to draw pictures.
Saturday, 20 November, 2014:
When I was a kid I used to just automatically draw guys clutching swords or guns or some other deadly weapon;
I still do - but just as often now I seem to like drawing guys (or other figures) wielding guitars. I've been playing a lot lately so I suppose that just reflects my frame of mind, my own dreams and desires. Back in the sixties a lot
of folks looked to the guitar as a kind of weapon of peace, feeling like maybe we could overcome the enemy and subdue him with the power of music. Maybe part of me still looks to that lost dream...anyway, three out of five of these new drawings feature guitar warriors: if you play, pick up your ax and slay the bastards!
When I was a kid I used to just automatically draw guys clutching swords or guns or some other deadly weapon;
I still do - but just as often now I seem to like drawing guys (or other figures) wielding guitars. I've been playing a lot lately so I suppose that just reflects my frame of mind, my own dreams and desires. Back in the sixties a lot
of folks looked to the guitar as a kind of weapon of peace, feeling like maybe we could overcome the enemy and subdue him with the power of music. Maybe part of me still looks to that lost dream...anyway, three out of five of these new drawings feature guitar warriors: if you play, pick up your ax and slay the bastards!
Friday, October 24, 2014:
These drawings have just been sitting around waiting to be posted, so I guess it's time .
My attempts to utilize color in my drawings have never been satisfactory to me, but I'm playing with color again simply as a way to make certain portions of the pic "pop." It seems to be a case of "less is more."
These drawings have just been sitting around waiting to be posted, so I guess it's time .
My attempts to utilize color in my drawings have never been satisfactory to me, but I'm playing with color again simply as a way to make certain portions of the pic "pop." It seems to be a case of "less is more."
Wednesday, 1 October, 2014:
Just one drawing to post today, but this one made the Most Beautiful Woman in the World laugh out loud, so I felt compelled to share it.
With a nod of respect to Greg Irons and Yellow Dog comics.
Just one drawing to post today, but this one made the Most Beautiful Woman in the World laugh out loud, so I felt compelled to share it.
With a nod of respect to Greg Irons and Yellow Dog comics.
Sunday. 28 September, 2014:
Friday, August 8, 2014:
From The Black Book of wildbill:
I often feel now that I have passed through here too often;
taken this dizzy ride too many times,
and might long ago have abandoned this crazy carousel to its ceaseless,
demented spinning.
Yet I could not deny the call
or resist the invitation
to one more return;
one more sacred trek up the Holy Mountain
to witness the great spectacle:
the washing away of this elaborately imagined architecture of sand,
this labyrinthine projection of mind
by an ancient and resistless tide.
Even now Forgotten Gods stir from slumbers beyond Time,
impatient to be reborn
and waiting to hear
who will sing the songs
and chant the prayers
that celebrate their return.
...and now we return you to our regular program.
From The Black Book of wildbill:
I often feel now that I have passed through here too often;
taken this dizzy ride too many times,
and might long ago have abandoned this crazy carousel to its ceaseless,
demented spinning.
Yet I could not deny the call
or resist the invitation
to one more return;
one more sacred trek up the Holy Mountain
to witness the great spectacle:
the washing away of this elaborately imagined architecture of sand,
this labyrinthine projection of mind
by an ancient and resistless tide.
Even now Forgotten Gods stir from slumbers beyond Time,
impatient to be reborn
and waiting to hear
who will sing the songs
and chant the prayers
that celebrate their return.
...and now we return you to our regular program.
To all those who continue to check in at The Castle despite my sometimes lengthy and mysterious absences: blessings be heaped upon you. Some of you I know personally and some of you...well, I can't even imagine what you are... but, if you find some small reward in visiting here, then we are kindred of spirit.
In my most recent extended absence, the editing format of this site has changed yet again, this time seemingly for the better, allowing me to present drawings in a non-squint-inducing size. Yay for our team...
In my most recent extended absence, the editing format of this site has changed yet again, this time seemingly for the better, allowing me to present drawings in a non-squint-inducing size. Yay for our team...
Tuesday, June 3, 2014:
Hey...thanks for dropping in. It's been a while since I've made an entry here; if you don't care why just skip to the pictures but, on the off-chance that you're interested, here's the skinny:
I've been playing (or, some might say, playing at) the guitar for most of my life. Except for very early on (the teenage garage band years) it's been mostly a case of sitting for an hour or two in kitchen or bedroom, once or twice a week (or month) strumming and singing the old tunes, occasionally learning a new one. ( Interested parties who have not already done so may check out examples shamelessly posted in the Music Hall section of The Castle.) It always has been fun but I have always yearned to do better. The last couple of years have given me the opportunity to devote some time to exploring whatever meager talents and skills I may claim - I attempted to write a book, pieces of which ended up as early content of The Castle (see as example the "danse Macabre" essay in the Chamber of Horrors); I began to draw regularly, resulting in this gallery; and I have recently been spending a lot of whatever hours remain in this tenuous thread of life re-learning how to play guitar. BEFORE I FUCKING DIE I FUCKING WANT TO FUCKING LEARN TO PLAY FUCKING GUITAR THE FUCKING WAY I FUCKING IMAGINE MYSELF PLAYING - not because I expect to learn to play like Clapton or any other guitar hero name you might throw down, and not because I dream of the world discovering my hitherto hidden greatness (the reader is permitted to chuckle briefly here), but just because it makes me happy to play well. The better I sound the happier I am, and I ain't near happy enough yet.
You've heard the story of Robert Johnson dealing his soul to the Devil in exchange for his unique skill and special style.
It may be amusing myth but there is the kernel of truth in the story. It costs dearly to be really good, and the currency exchanged amounts to the hours of practice spent - lately I've been on a late-coming spending spree of practice hours.
None of this means (doubtless to your great relief) that I've stopped drawing - only that drawing has not recently been the primary creative outlet that it was for a while, and I have been neglectful of this space in favor of growing calluses on my fingertips. It's a bit tricky, serving two masters.
I don't know what to say about the work that follows. Many (maybe most) are simply the reworking of themes familiar to those who know my stuff. That's seems to be what most artists do - keep attacking the same subjects 'til we get it right (which, by the standards we set for ourselves, is probably never.) I'm neither particularly proud nor embarrassed by these pieces. They are what issues from my pen - extract whatever pleasures you may.
Hey...thanks for dropping in. It's been a while since I've made an entry here; if you don't care why just skip to the pictures but, on the off-chance that you're interested, here's the skinny:
I've been playing (or, some might say, playing at) the guitar for most of my life. Except for very early on (the teenage garage band years) it's been mostly a case of sitting for an hour or two in kitchen or bedroom, once or twice a week (or month) strumming and singing the old tunes, occasionally learning a new one. ( Interested parties who have not already done so may check out examples shamelessly posted in the Music Hall section of The Castle.) It always has been fun but I have always yearned to do better. The last couple of years have given me the opportunity to devote some time to exploring whatever meager talents and skills I may claim - I attempted to write a book, pieces of which ended up as early content of The Castle (see as example the "danse Macabre" essay in the Chamber of Horrors); I began to draw regularly, resulting in this gallery; and I have recently been spending a lot of whatever hours remain in this tenuous thread of life re-learning how to play guitar. BEFORE I FUCKING DIE I FUCKING WANT TO FUCKING LEARN TO PLAY FUCKING GUITAR THE FUCKING WAY I FUCKING IMAGINE MYSELF PLAYING - not because I expect to learn to play like Clapton or any other guitar hero name you might throw down, and not because I dream of the world discovering my hitherto hidden greatness (the reader is permitted to chuckle briefly here), but just because it makes me happy to play well. The better I sound the happier I am, and I ain't near happy enough yet.
You've heard the story of Robert Johnson dealing his soul to the Devil in exchange for his unique skill and special style.
It may be amusing myth but there is the kernel of truth in the story. It costs dearly to be really good, and the currency exchanged amounts to the hours of practice spent - lately I've been on a late-coming spending spree of practice hours.
None of this means (doubtless to your great relief) that I've stopped drawing - only that drawing has not recently been the primary creative outlet that it was for a while, and I have been neglectful of this space in favor of growing calluses on my fingertips. It's a bit tricky, serving two masters.
I don't know what to say about the work that follows. Many (maybe most) are simply the reworking of themes familiar to those who know my stuff. That's seems to be what most artists do - keep attacking the same subjects 'til we get it right (which, by the standards we set for ourselves, is probably never.) I'm neither particularly proud nor embarrassed by these pieces. They are what issues from my pen - extract whatever pleasures you may.
Sunday, 13 April, 2014:
"The Skull of the Marquis De Sade" is a short story by the late Robert Bloch, from which was derived a thoroughly satisfying little flick (The Skull) directed by ace cinematographer Freddie Francis and featuring a star turn from Peter Cushing. The idea is that whatever possessed De Sade to embrace pain and perversion lives on behind the empty sockets of this curious artifact. Bloch was a favorite of mine as a kid; like a lot of pulpsters, he could be brilliant in one sentence and an artless hack with the next, but his stuff was always fun to read. First up in this batch of illustrations is my take on the subject, followed by a Fritz Leiber- inspired piece, plus a few other items that my fresh supply of thirsty paper has sucked from my pen.
"The Skull of the Marquis De Sade" is a short story by the late Robert Bloch, from which was derived a thoroughly satisfying little flick (The Skull) directed by ace cinematographer Freddie Francis and featuring a star turn from Peter Cushing. The idea is that whatever possessed De Sade to embrace pain and perversion lives on behind the empty sockets of this curious artifact. Bloch was a favorite of mine as a kid; like a lot of pulpsters, he could be brilliant in one sentence and an artless hack with the next, but his stuff was always fun to read. First up in this batch of illustrations is my take on the subject, followed by a Fritz Leiber- inspired piece, plus a few other items that my fresh supply of thirsty paper has sucked from my pen.
Monday, 24 March, 2014:
Last time I posted here, I said I was planning to post only what pleases me. The unforeseen result of that attitude has been that, since little of the work I've been doing has pleased me more than momentarily, no new material has appeared here in quite a while. Well, fuck that. While the critic in my mind is busy making qualitative judgements, the drawings themselves (like the gaggle of unruly children they are) insist on being let out to play. There's no sense, they plead, in creating something only to keep it hidden away; in the end, I must agree. These ragged urchins have recently been born from my pen...
Last time I posted here, I said I was planning to post only what pleases me. The unforeseen result of that attitude has been that, since little of the work I've been doing has pleased me more than momentarily, no new material has appeared here in quite a while. Well, fuck that. While the critic in my mind is busy making qualitative judgements, the drawings themselves (like the gaggle of unruly children they are) insist on being let out to play. There's no sense, they plead, in creating something only to keep it hidden away; in the end, I must agree. These ragged urchins have recently been born from my pen...
Sunday, February 9, 2014:
At one point in this journey I was drawing a picture almost every day and loading it onto this site, proud of everything (or at least willing to display it); later entries would be less frequent but contain more pix. Since this is a record of sorts, I've tried not to select out too much of what I've felt might be cruder or less interesting work, in order to give an accurate representation of whatever process is going on here. Not everything posted here entirely pleased me in its time; less of it pleases me now, though I remain happy to have the record of my journey on view. I feel now, though, that it begins to be time to post only what really pleases me. This may or may not mean fewer posts, but the meaning I choose to take from it at the moment is that I am going to have to work harder to please myself, and work harder to keep The Castle an interesting place to visit. Of the three drawings presented today, the two untitled pieces are fresh; the other is a few weeks old and should have been placed with the previous post - I simply forgot about it. |
Monday, 20 January, 2014:
Gratitude to all who occasionally stop by to see what's new, and apologies for my absence for the last few weeks.
Life and I sometimes conspire towards differing ends; life always wins out. Here's what's on offer for your possible amusement this time...the new year's first crop.
Gratitude to all who occasionally stop by to see what's new, and apologies for my absence for the last few weeks.
Life and I sometimes conspire towards differing ends; life always wins out. Here's what's on offer for your possible amusement this time...the new year's first crop.
Monday, December 2, 2013:
It appears that I will either have to accommodate myself to the restrictions of the new editing format I'm forced to use, or find a more accommodating platform for a new Castle. The situation requires some reflection - I'm in no hurry and am open to suggestions. My investigation of other avenues has so far been timid. Meanwhile, here's some of what I've been doing lately: the usual mix of fantasy, sex, death, rock 'n' roll. angst, anger, humor and propaganda. Hope you dig it... |
This entire process is still amazing to me. The process itself is my teacher - no instructors, no instructions; my schooling has been a lifetime of looking at other people's work in books, magazines and comics; on posters and record albums, and imagining I might somehow, someday be able to do something like that. After that, it's just practice and the will to keep practicing. I don't claim to have any original ideas, or any ideas at all - most of these pieces were initiated by allowing an arbitrary line or two to evolve in a spontaneous way. Things just emerge, like grass poking up through cracks in the pavement.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013:
Here are another half-dozen pieces from the last few days, minus the accompanying wrathful frothing - I'm all ranted out (for now.) Included are a couple of depictions of one of my favorite childhood heroes, El Zorro, the Fox, the great pulp character created by Johnston McCully. I first encountered Zorro (foppish dandy by day; by night, blade wielding masked avenger of the oppressed) in a paperback novel I found somewhere in my grandparents house when I was yet too young to understand all the words I was reading. Unable to master the complexity of language, I soon went back to my Uncle Scrooge comic books, but the character had carved his trademark "Z" into my still forming consciousness. As a kid I loved the Disney TV series with Guy Williams wearing the mask, but the Tyrone Power film, The Mark of Zorro, remains my favorite portrayal (though the serial Zorro's Fighting Legion, with tall, lanky, deep-voiced Reed Hadley in the title role, kicks ass too.)
Here are another half-dozen pieces from the last few days, minus the accompanying wrathful frothing - I'm all ranted out (for now.) Included are a couple of depictions of one of my favorite childhood heroes, El Zorro, the Fox, the great pulp character created by Johnston McCully. I first encountered Zorro (foppish dandy by day; by night, blade wielding masked avenger of the oppressed) in a paperback novel I found somewhere in my grandparents house when I was yet too young to understand all the words I was reading. Unable to master the complexity of language, I soon went back to my Uncle Scrooge comic books, but the character had carved his trademark "Z" into my still forming consciousness. As a kid I loved the Disney TV series with Guy Williams wearing the mask, but the Tyrone Power film, The Mark of Zorro, remains my favorite portrayal (though the serial Zorro's Fighting Legion, with tall, lanky, deep-voiced Reed Hadley in the title role, kicks ass too.)
Tuesday, 12 November, 2013:
As I peck this out at the keyboard, it is not yet midnight of Nov. 11th. - Veterans Day. Earlier today I wrote a couple hundred words or so in commemoration of the day and duly posted it on Facebook. A short while later it vanished from the feed and from my timeline, as though it had never existed. I do not know whether I've been censored and I make no hasty judgements on that score (maybe, after all, it was just one of those endless technical glitches that make our lives so interesting these days), but I do know that this sort of thing seems to happen with some frequency, especially to folks who (like me) tend to post items that other folks (the kind with horizons no wider than a pin-stripe) find somehow offensive to their narrow views. FB seems eager to appease this cretinous bunch, and too entirely ready to muzzle anyone who treads on their slack-witted sensibilities. Fuck that. I'm right here - you (of course I'm not talking about you, gentle reader, I'm talking to that other asshole) can contact me through this site or you can formulate a response to something you disagree with and comment on FB if you have the requisite lucidity to compose a sentence and the courage to put your name to it. I thought that was why it was called Facebook, not Faceless-book. What follows is the text I posted, as best I can reproduce it from memory... |
I am a veteran. A Vietnam veteran, if it makes any difference. I did not join the military out of any sense of patriotic duty,
or because I believed we fought a "just" war, or to defeat any perceived "bad guys," or because I thought there was any honor in it, or any other of that happy horseshit. I volunteered for one branch of service in order to avoid being drafted as a slave into another branch, enforced servitude being the custom in those days gone by. I take no pride in what I did "in service to my country," and feel only disgust at much of what I saw and experienced. My feelings concerning our current military adventures do not differ much.
Our real enemies, yours and mine, the ones who seek to enslave and exploit us, do not reside in foreign capitols or crouch in mountain caves hatching new schemes of terror - they reside in our midst, in penthouses and mansions and elite gated communities. They wear expensive suits, not the rags and dusty robes of peasant farmers and laborers. They are in control - of our government, our finances, our religions, our media, our lives. They are ruthless exploiters, deadly devourers, savage ruiners, and cunning liars. They foul our air, poison our water, ravage our Earth; everything they touch becomes toxic to human (and humane) life. Our ears are filled with their ugly, hyperbolic propaganda; our bellies are filled with their fake food; our eyes filled with their fake images; our minds filled with words that no longer sustain meaning; our hearts filled with fear and loathing. They will accept no less than total submission, desire no less than total ownership of the planet and all its inhabitants and resources. Their schools are designed to keep us ignorant and conditioned to unquestioning obedience; their universities are designed to reduce us to the slavery of eternal debt. Their banks and financial institutions are run by con-artists and elegant thugs. These are the human vermin who send American soldiers all over the world to murder and be murdered in the name of The God Profit and His Church of Predatory Capitalism, and then smirkingly urge us to honor our brave troops who "fight for our freedom." That particular load of clams is one I will steadfastly refuse to swallow.
On a Veterans Day a few years ago, some well-meaning soul said to me, "Thank you for your service," as though I had just carried his luggage up to his suite or done a nice job weeding his garden; I actually thought for the briefest of moments that he was going to slip me a tip like I was a particularly polite and efficient waiter. I didn't know whether to bust my gut laughing or puking, so I just stood, slack-jawed and speechless.
I do not disparage any person who ever fought and lived or died bravely for what he honestly believed . This is not a criticism of soldiers in general, or of the military profession at large. We have always needed soldiers and maybe we always will. But we better be goddam sure who the real enemy is. Honor our troops? They would honer themselves by either throwing down their weapons or pointing them in the right direction.
Happy Veteran's Day.
or because I believed we fought a "just" war, or to defeat any perceived "bad guys," or because I thought there was any honor in it, or any other of that happy horseshit. I volunteered for one branch of service in order to avoid being drafted as a slave into another branch, enforced servitude being the custom in those days gone by. I take no pride in what I did "in service to my country," and feel only disgust at much of what I saw and experienced. My feelings concerning our current military adventures do not differ much.
Our real enemies, yours and mine, the ones who seek to enslave and exploit us, do not reside in foreign capitols or crouch in mountain caves hatching new schemes of terror - they reside in our midst, in penthouses and mansions and elite gated communities. They wear expensive suits, not the rags and dusty robes of peasant farmers and laborers. They are in control - of our government, our finances, our religions, our media, our lives. They are ruthless exploiters, deadly devourers, savage ruiners, and cunning liars. They foul our air, poison our water, ravage our Earth; everything they touch becomes toxic to human (and humane) life. Our ears are filled with their ugly, hyperbolic propaganda; our bellies are filled with their fake food; our eyes filled with their fake images; our minds filled with words that no longer sustain meaning; our hearts filled with fear and loathing. They will accept no less than total submission, desire no less than total ownership of the planet and all its inhabitants and resources. Their schools are designed to keep us ignorant and conditioned to unquestioning obedience; their universities are designed to reduce us to the slavery of eternal debt. Their banks and financial institutions are run by con-artists and elegant thugs. These are the human vermin who send American soldiers all over the world to murder and be murdered in the name of The God Profit and His Church of Predatory Capitalism, and then smirkingly urge us to honor our brave troops who "fight for our freedom." That particular load of clams is one I will steadfastly refuse to swallow.
On a Veterans Day a few years ago, some well-meaning soul said to me, "Thank you for your service," as though I had just carried his luggage up to his suite or done a nice job weeding his garden; I actually thought for the briefest of moments that he was going to slip me a tip like I was a particularly polite and efficient waiter. I didn't know whether to bust my gut laughing or puking, so I just stood, slack-jawed and speechless.
I do not disparage any person who ever fought and lived or died bravely for what he honestly believed . This is not a criticism of soldiers in general, or of the military profession at large. We have always needed soldiers and maybe we always will. But we better be goddam sure who the real enemy is. Honor our troops? They would honer themselves by either throwing down their weapons or pointing them in the right direction.
Happy Veteran's Day.
These next three pieces are all variations on a design motif inspired by Tim Lucas' post of a Steve Ditko panel on Facebarf, er, Facebook a few days ago, drawn in the order presented. Ditko's style was as unique, dynamic and exciting as anybody in comic book history - to say his work on the Dr. Strange series of some decades ago is imaginative and visionary is like saying George Clooney does okay with the ladies. Without the creative energies of guys like Ditko and Jack Kirby, you wouldn't know who the hell Stan Lee was.
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Tuesday, 29 October, 2013:
More stuff, from the last few days' output - after a brief absence from the usual routine, I seem to be having as much fun as ever with pen and paper. Feels like I'm doing what I was always meant to do...may you all spend your lives being who you were meant to be: the integrity you will embody is the only thing you can take with you when you go.
Technically challenged as I am, I still haven't been able to ken this new editing set-up; still can't figure how to let you enlarge the drawings for a closer view. My apologies to those viewing on a smaller screen.
More stuff, from the last few days' output - after a brief absence from the usual routine, I seem to be having as much fun as ever with pen and paper. Feels like I'm doing what I was always meant to do...may you all spend your lives being who you were meant to be: the integrity you will embody is the only thing you can take with you when you go.
Technically challenged as I am, I still haven't been able to ken this new editing set-up; still can't figure how to let you enlarge the drawings for a closer view. My apologies to those viewing on a smaller screen.
I was drawing while the original 1932 The Mummy was playing on the telly the other night and thought to do a faux poster for an imaginary sequel - thus the Ankh-Es-En-Amen piece. Too bad it can only happen in my fevered dreams.
The Devil's question is an honest and fair one. I was going to call this piece "The Prince of Darkness and His Minions," but had a second thought. |
Friday, October 25, 2013:
Yes, yes, calm down and stop drooling on yourself - I'm finally back, and grateful to be here. First my computer got hit by a virus, then came my turn to be invaded by invisible hordes; I am only now able to resume my duties at The Castle, wearied by battle but unconquered. A couple of days ago, when I found the energy to begin to draw again, I began rapidly filling a little sketchbook that's been sitting around waiting to find its purpose. What follows derives from the fun I had with that little 5" by 7" book.
Yes, yes, calm down and stop drooling on yourself - I'm finally back, and grateful to be here. First my computer got hit by a virus, then came my turn to be invaded by invisible hordes; I am only now able to resume my duties at The Castle, wearied by battle but unconquered. A couple of days ago, when I found the energy to begin to draw again, I began rapidly filling a little sketchbook that's been sitting around waiting to find its purpose. What follows derives from the fun I had with that little 5" by 7" book.
Monday, Sept 30, 2013:
In addition to the usual experiments in what I (while grinning like a fool) call art, this entry is also an experiment in whether or not I can navigate the new format the good folks at Weebly have slipped into place while I was busy with other things these last few days. So far, so good (or so the man said as he plummeted past each window of the skyscraper.)
In addition to the usual experiments in what I (while grinning like a fool) call art, this entry is also an experiment in whether or not I can navigate the new format the good folks at Weebly have slipped into place while I was busy with other things these last few days. So far, so good (or so the man said as he plummeted past each window of the skyscraper.)
Thursday, 19 September, 2013:
These illustrations recently drew themselves...
These illustrations recently drew themselves...
If the Jess Franco reference stumps you, don't feel out of the loop. Though he was one of the most prolific filmmakers who ever lived, his perverse, off-kilter explorations of his own obsessions are popular mostly among film geeks (like me) with a taste for his peculiar visions - bizzaroid cocktails mixing pulp-fiction tropes with his own surreal fantasies, often at once silly, brilliant, inept, inspired; sometimes hopelessly dull, slyly inventive or absorbingly hypnotic within the same scene. Always an outsider by choice, he lived to make movies. If you're interested, start with The Awful Dr. Orloff, his early riff on Eyes Without A Face. After that you're on your own. Consciousness altering substances will help. Buckle up and wear a helmet.
Sunday, 8 September, 2013:
A pair of movie-inspired drawings for today. Stuart Gordon's Re-Animator was one of the wittiest and most outrageous of '80s fright-flicks, based on a lurid, pulpy yarn by which even author H.P.Lovecraft claimed to be embarrassed. The Old Gentleman of Providence would likely have been just plain mackerel-slap dumbfounded by the deliriously ghoulish loopiness of producer / director Brian Yuzna's brain melting sequel. Its ambition may slightly exceed its reach, but that's just one of the things to love about it. My rendering of The Bride is not intended to duplicate the character exactly as she appeared in the film, but is drawn from memory-impressions and creative license. (Amazingly, my creative license has not yet been revoked.) Also, there is the grotesquerie that follows... |
A couple nights ago I viewed Rob Zombie's most recent effort, Lords of Salem, which I can best describe as a very well shot but largely incoherent mess containing elements of genuine interest buried in big piles of cliche and inept scripting. It did contain a (what was , to me, apparently), inspiring scene of a woman giving birth to a tentacled devil-spawn, and ultimately resulted in my giving birth to this piece.
I swear to God...I couldn't help myself. |
Sunday, 1 September, 2013:
A friend filled a gap in my knowledge of urban legend, cyber-mythology, and general cultural weirdness by turning me on to something called Marble Hornets, a sort of faux-documentary, psychological puzzle and video Rorschach test currently available on YouTube in a seemingly endless series of installments. The subject is an occult figure known as The Slender Man, a stealer of children and all-around shifty and darkly ominous entity who, once he gets in your head, becomes a consuming obsession - at least for me, as well as for the characters in the series. A number of interpretations and visualizations of this spook exist on the web; I have been compelled to draw him repeatedly of late, and have yet to render a completely satisfying portrayal, but that only compounds my fascination and deepens the mystery. He made an appearance in my last set of entries and here he is again in a different context, along with a couple of pieces in which I willfully had to keep him at bay to stop him from entering the picture. |
Second entry for Wednesday, 21 August, 2013:
Finished this a little while ago, didn't feel like waiting to post it. If I have to explain this one to you, you ain't gonna get it anyway, and you probably already don't like me much. One of J.F.K.'s lasting quotes is, "Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country!" ...what a load of clams! That's exactly fucking backwards if, as most folks seem to do, you interpret "country" and "government" as synonymous. People do not exist to serve governments - governments must, if they are to be considered legitimate, exist to serve people. That this government exists not to serve its citizens but to serve an elite class whose intent is to enslave us, is beyond reasonable denial. That nationalism is a variety of bigotry, as much so as racism or sexism or religious intolerance, is an observation that is understood by every awakened person who calls this planet home. By the way, the word allegiance derives from those duties owed by a vassal or serf to his feudal lord, under pain of swift and brutal punishment. |
Wednesday, 21 August, 2013:
Our story used to be commonly told using the mythology of the "western" genre. These days the story of the world we have made may be better served by the iconography and mechanisms of the horror tale. Yet I have always had a great fondness for a solid western yarn either in print or on film (that I still speak of print and film as something other than the outmoded methods of the past perhaps reveals me as a relic), and the archetype of the range-riding hero was permanently imprinted on my psyche by the time I could speak the word, "cowboy." Today, while watching a dvd copy of an early Johnny Mack Brown serial (Fighting With Kit Carson - taken from a print at least as damaged by the brutalities of time as Johnny's mortal remains must be by now), I learned that Elmore Leonard, one of the finest writers ever to peck out a page on a typewriter, had died. Though his greatest popularity came in recent decades as a writer of contemporary crime novels, much of his early work was within the classical tradition of the western genre, and some of it is among the best of the field. All of which, I guess, conspired to bring a western themed comic-cover out of me. I've drawn a few other cowboy type images, but haven't done one recently - must have been time. This one has a dark flavor.
Also included in this post are three other pieces from recent days. "Mystics of Bali" was inspired by the dementedly goofy Indonesian flick of the same name - who could remain uninspired when presented with a floating head, trailing guts and a spinal chord, that sucks unborn infants out of the vaginas of its victims? Fortunately for the mental well-being of all of us, I made no attempt to represent this outrageous act.
The other two pics are just the result of not being able to keep my pen still.
Our story used to be commonly told using the mythology of the "western" genre. These days the story of the world we have made may be better served by the iconography and mechanisms of the horror tale. Yet I have always had a great fondness for a solid western yarn either in print or on film (that I still speak of print and film as something other than the outmoded methods of the past perhaps reveals me as a relic), and the archetype of the range-riding hero was permanently imprinted on my psyche by the time I could speak the word, "cowboy." Today, while watching a dvd copy of an early Johnny Mack Brown serial (Fighting With Kit Carson - taken from a print at least as damaged by the brutalities of time as Johnny's mortal remains must be by now), I learned that Elmore Leonard, one of the finest writers ever to peck out a page on a typewriter, had died. Though his greatest popularity came in recent decades as a writer of contemporary crime novels, much of his early work was within the classical tradition of the western genre, and some of it is among the best of the field. All of which, I guess, conspired to bring a western themed comic-cover out of me. I've drawn a few other cowboy type images, but haven't done one recently - must have been time. This one has a dark flavor.
Also included in this post are three other pieces from recent days. "Mystics of Bali" was inspired by the dementedly goofy Indonesian flick of the same name - who could remain uninspired when presented with a floating head, trailing guts and a spinal chord, that sucks unborn infants out of the vaginas of its victims? Fortunately for the mental well-being of all of us, I made no attempt to represent this outrageous act.
The other two pics are just the result of not being able to keep my pen still.
Sunday, 11 August, 2013:
The latest batch. A friend relayed to me that he was thinking of using a rendering of mine as the basis for a tattoo; I'll take that as a compliment whether he ever carries out such a mad scheme or not. The design he was contemplating was the Black Iron Prison from the last panel of a brief graphic rant I did awhile back, and I was inspired to do a new version of the drawing from the unusual (for me) perspective of actually knowing what it was I wanted to draw. I did not deviate from the design or intent of that work, just thought I could improve a bit on the hastily executed original; the result is here, along with the rest of the recent crop of stuff. Weird Shit is a a perfect title for an imaginary comic book , "underground" style. Having had great fun drawing one, I couldn't help drawing another. |