Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Monday, March 19, 2007
Ordinarily we leave this sort of thing to the pros, but as you can see this is an extraordinary case.
SATURDAY NIGHT IN GEORGETOWN
The gracious and beautiful Fantagraphics Book Store, where their entire catalog is available for over-the-counter purchase, is hosting a show and sale of my work from Saturday March 24 through May 15 to stimulate interest in the release of the trade paperback edition of SEEING THINGS, with a new and superior cover.
The drawing in the invitation will not be in the show, but it is in SEEING THINGS.
The show will consist of copperplate prints (several new editions of which will be released during the course of the show), a few charcoal drawings, a few watercolor paintings, a few sketchbooks with one sketch in 'em, a few Frank pages, and a toy or two.
I'll be at the opening and I hope you will too. Promise? It's a date!
Saturday, March 17, 2007
PUP IN THE SACRED PRECINCTS
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Monday, March 12, 2007
THE IRON RAT
Ordinarily we don't go in for this sort of thing; I mean posting family snapshots on what is supposed to be a serious working "blog". This one, however, is special because it was taken by celebrity shutterbug Matt Madden, in Angoluéme, under circumstances that will forever remain dear to our hearts. We told that damn bird to tarry, but... o well.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Friday, March 09, 2007
New techniques for collapsable 3D sketchbook art are being discovered every day; soon it will be possible for the amateur recorder of the modern scene to recreate the Euclidean forms of the city, wilderness and mythical barnyard between the leatherette boards of his beloved pocket pal. Though the photo does not show it well, these two Jerry Chickens are not flat, but a cylinder and a cone.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
These are rugged times for the bench-hugger. I trained for one sort of life and now here's another, with all the laws turned backwards. That sweet plain of endeavor that teems in memory is as pale and blank as a snail's forehead. At night under the cotton the sad things drift upwards; the tight wrappings on the samskaras, which for decades have resisted all tugging, loosen on their own and the heavy slabs float into the light. The pitiful false achievements, the ameliorating daydreams, the pretended authorship, the comforting delusions, the willful distortion of history all dissolve into the shimmering spring sky and personally, I find it almost unbearable.