Also on deck will be some of the guest artists who contributed all-new pinups to the book.

Plus, debuting their new Image title, Five Ghosts, will be writer Frank Barbiere and artist Chris Mooneyham.

Come on down. Or up. Just be there!

You can’t see it here, but she wore her TRASH shirt, proving I didn’t make it up.

In conjunction with the release of Pariah, Entertainment Weekly’s web edition ran an item in which I recommend the work of some of my favorite contemporary horror writers. Now, maybe the title of the article (“Pariah author Bob Fingerman reveals his five favorite tomes of terror”) was a bit inexact. They were five faves that came to mind of authors I like and/or feel don’t get enough notice. So, I knowingly left out people whose work I’ve enjoyed, like Stephen King, because I figured he’s not hurting for readers. The thing is, by not touting King I’d committed the crime of omission and was dubbed a “moron” for such (and for not hyping Poe or Lovecraft, either). Thing is, over the course of my nearly hour conversation with Mr. Collis, I did mention Lovecraft in regard to one of the authors I commended, Ramsey Campbell, who is present day’s closest heir, having even started off as pretty much a Lovecraft imitator. But the article compressed and edited the discussion (of course), so I appeared to some as a culturally illiterate horror dilettante.

The urge to respond is hard to suppress. I want to address my critics and in a reasonable tone explicate what’s what and how, “No, really, I love Lovecraft and Poe! But again, they don’t need the ink (or pixels, as the case may be).”

And always Michele sagaciously instructs me: “Don’t you dare!” Because it’s a slippery slope that leads to a bottomless hole.

Today brought back memories, though. A piece I wrote went up on tor.com, today, about my aversion to Avatar and its elongated blue cat-like native critters, the Na’vi. I wryly posited that I regarded Avatar as a mainstreaming of the Furries, those people for whom dressing up as curvaceous cartoon animals is an erotic experience. I thought it was funny, but clearly I was wrong. I’d offended, big time. The fur flew. It was a dog-pile of censure.

Years ago, when I first got on the ‘Net—back in probably 1993 or ’94—my buddy John introduced me to the Furries. My gateway Furry was called AJ Skunk (you never forget your first). I thought it was a joke, but John assured me, “Oh no, this is a real thing. And he’s not alone.” I was gobsmacked that this was a lifestyle people would pursue (or would that be fursue? And don’t give me shit about the bad pun; they call their gatherings ConFurences.).

So, anyway, my Tor item brought the thunder. I had offended the sensibilities of this not officially classified special interest group. Thing is, that wasn’t my intent. In my own wiseass way I’d been quite naïve. I thought it was just a droll (humor being subjective) puff piece that turned out to be neither droll, nor puffy enough. Seeing the comments (which were, I must say, articulate and mostly fairly reasonable, given the subject matter) part of me thought, “Oh, get over it. Really? Really? This is what sets you people off?” Another part felt genuinely bad about offending. It was like I’d stepped into their clubhouse and taken a shit right in the center of the floor. The third part, the dark side, wanted to egg it on. Throw down.

But I didn’t. This is my response. The response is: never respond. Walk it off. Take a breath. Write a one-off essay about the self-destructive urge to participate and get on with your life.

Pariah started off, way back in the mid ’90s, as a pitch to Vertigo, DC Comics’ more adult/alternative imprint. Back then, graphic novels were still a novelty, and Vertigo hadn’t really gotten onboard with GN originals. Sure, they collected serial runs of their comics, but one-off books were still in the offing. Back then that had what were called “Prestige format” releases, which were basically 48- to 72-page original books. They were standard comic book size and printed on slightly better paper with paperback cover stock.

A young, freshly promoted editor named Axel Alonso (who had prior been assistant editor to my late friend, Lou Stathis, at Vertigo), wanted to work with me. I put together the proposal for Pariah to be one of these slim releases. The premise was essentially the same as that of the novel, but lacked the complexity the novel afforded. In spite of Alonso’s enthusiasm for it, Vertigo’s group editor rejected Pariah. I never knew the exact reason, but zombies definitely weren’t en vogue in those days.

In the late ’90s, Dark Horse Comics launched Zombie World, its editor one with whom I’d worked several times: Scott Allie. I submitted Pariah and this time the answer was yes—with a caveat. Scott envisioned ZW with a timeline, and Pariah was set in the advanced stage of a zombie pandemic. He requested I write a prequel to Pariah, and thus was born “Winter’s Dregs.” By the time he was ready for me to begin work on scripting Pariah, the series was canceled. Again, zombies weren’t popular at that time.

I set Pariah aside and worked on other projects, but I always wanted to do it. In 2002 I wrote what was to be my first published novel, Bottomfeeder, a gritty, naturalistic, working class take on vampirism. And it hit me: I should write Pariah as my next. I had gotten comfortable writing prose (Bottomfeeder was my first published novel, but not the first I’d written). In fact, I loved it as much, if not more, than doing comics. And the one thing that always bugged me about doing Pariah as a graphic novel (for either Vertigo or Dark Horse) was that I’d have to neuter it. A lot. In comics form couldn’t push the material as hard as I’d want, nor have the luxury of space to flesh it out. Vertigo still hadn’t started pushing the limits in those days, and Dark Horse had a strict PG-13 edict.

Pariah needed to be a hard R or NC-17.

My first draft of Pariah pushed too far. It was unremittingly bleak and ugly. It was rejected, though never on the basis of it being poorly written. One rejection was from an editor who “loved this book whole-heartedly” but “the Powers that Be … were too repulsed by the graphic narrative to take it on.” I was both proud and heartbroken by that one. Is it really that harsh? I couldn’t be objective, so I had a horror writer friend of mine read it and he came back with the comment, “it’s unpublishable.” Ouch. Still, I took that as a challenge. I hadn’t come this far with my baby to abandon it.

I thought long and hard about how to address the core complaints without compromising my vision. “It’s too claustrophobic.” Okay, I’ll open it up a little. “It’s too bleak.” The original arc was bleak start/bleak middle/bleak ending. Yeah, that’s a bit unrewarding. “It’s too repulsive.” Even I had to admit, on rereading it, I’d gone too far. And not just with gore. There was some deeply unpleasant material in there. I did a big rewrite and preferred the new draft.

And then good stuff started happening.

Out of the blue, an editor from Thomas Dunne contacted me. He’d read Bottomfeeder, loved it, and wondered if I had anything else in the hopper. I pitched Pariah and he said it sounded great. He read the revised draft and wanted it. It didn’t ultimately find a home at Thomas Dunne, but this editor, a saint named John Schoenfelder, passed it along to Eric Raab, my editor at Tor, who made it happen. With his astute notes an even better draft was finished and here we are. It took a while, but Pariah finally got there. And I couldn’t be happier.

I just hope the next two volumes won’t take another thirty years…

Pariah is out now from Tor Books in trade paperback, hardcover, Kindle and iBook editions.

I like this one well enough, but it was more of a warm-up.

This one I quite like. Done very quickly (whole thing maybe 90 minutes).

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And yes, that’s Nixon reading an issue of Playboy.

During my lunch breaks I’d usually go home for something to eat, but on payday I’d take the money and run nearly a mile from the store to Walden Books in Forest Hills and my first purchases with my hard-earned money were the Peacock Press/Bantam Books trades of The Fantastic Art of Frank Frazetta and its follow ups. I savored each page of his work. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have that much talent. His work had so much power and vitality. His women had big asses and hips and even dimples on their thighs. They were fleshy and hot as hell. I admired his composition and palette.

Many years later the Alexander Gallery on Madison Avenue had an exhibit of Frazetta’s work and seeing many of those canvases in person was mind blowing. As in the case of Norman Rockwell, seeing the originals blew any reproductions away. I was surprised at how small some of Frazetta’s paintings were, but though they were modest in size the art was barely contained in those frames. The colors and textures were unreal.

My own art never aspired to be like Frazetta’s. There was no way I’d ever come close and fantasy wasn’t really my bag, but he was, is and always will be an inspiration. I hope all the matters of his estate are resolved amicably and ethically. His legacy and work should be in museums to be enjoyed and admired for the ages.

I have known, on and off (though mostly off), the brilliant comedian Marc Maron since 1999. Prior to our actual meeting I had been aware of him because I’d enjoyed him as host of Comedy Central’s (or was it still the Comedy Channel at that point?) Short Attention Span Theater. He had a febrile intelligence that popped off the screen. I enjoyed his stand-up specials and whenever I’d see him turn up as a guest on talk shows.

I then saw him in Jonah Kaplan’s very funny short film Stalker Guilt Syndrome. I’d met Jonah through our mutual friend Dean Haspiel and told him how much I enjoyed the short, particularly Maron’s performance. Shortly after that I was having dinner at Olive Tree (not fucking Olive Garden, thank you very much), my favorite eatery downtown. Downstairs at Olive Tree, is the Comedy Cellar, an intimate spot to see stand-up. I spotted Maron seated at the table in the back where the comics who perform get their meals, so I introduced myself, telling him I’d just seen the short. Maron kind of frowned and said something like, “Oh yeah? Whudja think of it?” I told him I’d enjoyed it very much. I even got a copy from Jonah to add to my video library.

I guess Marc felt comfortable that I wasn’t going to stalk him (with or without guilt) because we exchanged info and started getting together from time to time. When I mentioned my burgeoning friendship with Marc to Jonah he said, “Yeah, good luck with that.” Hmmm.

In Marc’s company I got to know some of the ins and outs of the business of stand-up. I’d always been a fan of good stand-up but was now getting an inside look at how tough a career it was. I respected him and the craft even more. Marc was workshopping a one-man show back then (The Jerusalem Syndrome, which also became a great book). Michele and I attended several versions of it at The Westbeth Theater downtown. I think I was always the loudest laugher and the darker the material the heartier I laughed. I think Marc’s always had a soft spot for the guy (I’m guessing it’s almost always a guy) in the audience who is the only one to laugh at one of his uncomfortably truthful observations. Michele would look back and forth between me laughing and Marc performing and she’d afterwards tell me she thought Marc and I might be too alike in worldview. I dunno.

Then 9/11 came along, and swept up in the maelstrom of post-event trauma, our burgeoning friendship took a hiatus. Then a couple of years ago—maybe 2008—I’m at the urinal in the men’s room of the Comedy Cellar. Mid-leak a gravelly voice behind me says, “Is that Bob Fingerman?” I look over my shoulder and it’s Marc. We haven’t seen each other since maybe June or July 2001. I shake off and as I’m washing up—Marc having taken my place at the urinal—we catch up briefly:

Bob: How’ve you been?

Marc: Bad. Bad divorce. You down here or up there?

Bob: I’m up there. Dinner with a friend.

Marc: When I finish my set I’ll stop by.

And he did and we got back on track. None of this comes up in the conversation Marc and I had on the podcast. I don’t want to say any more. This is preamble. Backstory. Since he started the WTF with Marc Maron podcast, Marc has hosted some of the greatest talents in contemporary comedy (not to mention authors, his parents and other interesting characters) and engaged them in something rarely heard these days: bona fide conversation. I was thrilled and honored to be a guest at the Cat Ranch and appear on my favorite podcast. Marc has a genius for keeping it real and real funny. DOWNLOAD AND ENJOY!!!

In the Cat Ranch

It had been raining but when the show was over the sun came out. Hallelujah!

And the Meltdown Comics’ Meltcast audio interview (interview conducted by Chris Rosa and Caleb Monroe).

Coming soon: my conversation with Marc Maron on his awesome (and popular) podcast, WTF with Marc Maron. I’ll write more about that as the date it goes up nears.

These guys are my heroes. I wouldn’t be exaggerating to say that Bender Bending Rodríguez is my favorite cartoon character of all time, and that is mainly due to the unfathomably great voicework of John DiMaggio, who was also in this session. I can take to the grave that I made him laugh. Plus, as the voice of Marcus Phenix in Gears of War, John gave me tips on how to finally beat the climactic boss battle. How cool is that?

Phil LaMarr, me, Billy West.

Me and John DiMaggio.

Me, Billy West and Maurice LaMarche.

And I’d be remiss if I didn’t cap this by saying I was in the presence of the God of Cartoon Voicedom himself, the great Billy West. Astonishing. Witnessing him seamlessly and without pause slipping from character to character (Philip J. Fry to Professor Hubert Farnsworth to Dr. John Zoidberg in nanoseconds) was a thing of beauty. He’s a genius. I felt like a too-old/too-healthy version of a Make-a-Wish Foundation kid. I was in Heaven. These are my gods, people. And I walked among them.

Billy giving FROM THE ASHES the West Bump!

John DiMaggio giving me gaming tips for the final boss battle in Gears of War (the crossbow and the Lancer… I’ll try that).

Me, Michele and John DiMaggio.

I’ll be there Saturday, March 6th, from 3 – 6 PM.

Meltdown Comics

7522 Sunset Boulevard

Los Angeles, CA 90046

(323) 851-7223

Friday, February 19th, 2010. 8 – 10 PM @

ROCKETSHIP

208 Smith Street

Brooklyn, New York 11201

718-797-1348

Saturday, February 20th, 2010. 3 – 5 PM @

A Comic Shop

114 South Semoran Blvd.

Winter Park, FL 32792

407-332-9636

I recently experienced the joy of being pirated. Somebody—no doubt some naïve teen or college kid who thinks, like, everything should be free, man—scanned and uploaded issues of From the Ashes onto a torrent site. I saw one issue had been downloaded about 1500 times. I’m not saying all those downloads would have translated to sales, but suffice it to say that if it meant some lost sales on a book doing as modestly as mine, that hurt me. It hurts every creator who’s trying to make a living plying his or her craft.

The book trade has been suffering steadily declining losses of revenue for some time. Between Americans by and large not exactly being readers and a bad economy, book sales are down. But now, with things like the Sony’s E-Reader, Amazon’s Kindle and Barnes & Noble’s Nook (and why such infantile names? Why not the Chaucer or the Tome?), and more and more books being digitally available, well, Publishers Weekly reports “Publishers could be losing out on as much as $3 billion to online book piracy…”

Like books? Love books? Keep buying them or taking them out from the library. Every time you download some creator-owned item that’s *readily available for legitimate purchase, be it a book or song or movie or whatever, just picture yourself taking food from its creator’s mouth.

*Note: This is an important distinction. If you’re downloading stuff that’s out of print or isn’t currently and won’t likely ever be available for purchase, that’s when I think file sharing is not only a-okay, but a commendable way of sharing odd and interesting materials.

As always, click for larger view. Cartoon ©B. Kliban

I really don’t want to start a trend here—especially not this kind of trend—but again I find myself adding another pair of obituaries. My most beloved art teacher, Irwin “Greenie” Greenberg, died yesterday, at the age of 87. He profoundly touched the lives of everyone who knew him.

I was fortunate enough to have had him as a teacher at the High School of Art & Design. Greenie—as his students and colleagues knew him—was a true inspiration. The adage “those who can’t do, teach” might have suited others, but not Greenie, whose work was, is and ever will be breathtakingly assured, graceful and lovely to behold. He was a master watercolorist and his teaching was commensurate with his talent.

Greenie lost an eye in WWII, but you’d never know it to look at his work. Though he often employed a small spyglass to see the models in better detail, his lack of depth perception never showed in his work, as you can see in the examples here.

Greenie was a beautiful person who shared his gift and his life, through stories told in class, with everyone lucky enough to have known him. I always regretted not staying in touch after I graduated. In a way, since I chose the path of cartooning, I always felt I’d somehow let him down. But that was on me. I’m sure he wouldn’t have felt that way. Greenie didn’t judge.

My uncle, Albert Weatherly, Jr., also died, today. He was 85. He was much more of an enigma to me. He was a concert flutist who left the orchestra to pursue fixing and selling flutes. He ran his own business, Albert Weatherly Flutes, in midtown. He brought an unsurpassed level of craft to servicing flutes that garnered him a clientele of all the biggest names in the field. Jean-Pierre Rampal, James Galway and James Moody were among his patrons, and all held him in the highest regard.

I did my first “professional” (ha!) assignments for him, doing art for t-shirts and tote bags for his business. Another late hero of mine, the cartoonist B. Kliban, had a cartoon called “Nephew Art”, which depicted bad art done by nephews. But it, like some of Kliban’s best work, was a metaphor for bigger, deeper things. That said, it might be my favorite Kliban cartoon, and that I am guilty of having created some “Nephew Art” of my own makes me both proud and humbled.

At thirteen I did a bag that boasted an anthropomorphized flute strutting along, à la Crumb’s “Keep on Truckin’”, only in this case it was “Keep on Flutin’”. Yeah, I know. I did many bags and tees for Uncle Al, and he actually paid me money. That meant a lot to me. It made me feel a bit more legit at an early age.

Al was very hard to know. He was quiet and, as I say, a bit of an enigma. But when he did share I always appreciated it. I never really knew him well, but I’ll miss him. I’ll miss them both.

Detail from final art (click for larger version):

In the late ’80s/early ’90s, David Aaron Clark was an editor of mine at Screw. I wrote my comics review column, “Panel Debasement,” for him (the one that a few posts ago I lamented having written—or at least the way I wrote it). My friend John Walsh—who at the time was also an editor at Screw—suggested I write the column in the first place, but for whatever reason—conflict of interest? No, that sounds too professional—he passed along the actual editing to Dave. Dave and John had a funny working relationship/friendship. Very prickly; lots of insults and verbal sparring.

Dave was the basis for the character Elvis Seward Foucault III (so-named because Dave loved Elvis Presley, William Seward Burroughs II and Michel Foucault) in my comic series Minimum Wage (later Beg the Question).

When Dave first arrived at Screw he was just a portly nerd whose path had led him there. He’d had loftier literary/journalistic ambitions, but such is life. He dressed in jeans and sweaters and was clean-shaven. He found a groove at Screw and fit in. He was a funny guy, but dry of wit. Very dry. Walsh’s humor was broader and he scored laughs easily. Dave’s humor kind of snuck up on you.

Dave and I hung out fairly often in those days. But he metamorphosed during that time period. The sweaters and jeans were replaced by leather pants, full-sleeve tattoos, elaborate facial hair and big leather dusters and cowboy hats. All black. His personal life was often tumultuous and took an irreversibly dark turn with the suicide of Jean, his then girlfriend and band mate (he had a band called the False Virgins). This forever altered him (as such an event would do to anyone with a pulse). Dave always seemed in conflict with his lapsed—but never cured—Catholicism. Though a self-professed agnostic, he took to sporting a large crucifix pendant. Guilt was a big theme with him and after Jean’s death he started a course of both personal and public atonement.

He started performing S&M rituals in videos and onstage. He’d be cut up and pissed on. Later on it provided darkly comic fodder for my cartoon version of him, but at the time and in reality it was disturbing and I wanted nothing to do with it. He often mocked me for my “cloistered” and “safe” approach to life. His humor became more acid. When one goes from being a spectator of porn to a participant, it’s a slippery slope. After some ugly tabloid incidents in his personal life he left Screw and headed west to pursue creating porn full time. We lost touch, though on occasion we’d run into each other. Last I saw him in the flesh was at the San Diego Comic Con. I wasn’t sure why he was there, but I suspect that you could take the boy away from the geek, but you couldn’t remove the geek from the boy. He still liked comics, etc. I hadn’t seen him since before I’d started Minimum Wage and I wasn’t sure if he’d seen it. He had and he told me he thought it was “brilliant.” His word. But it meant a lot to me to have his blessing.

I tried many times over the years to reconnect with Dave, via the Internet. We sometimes would start a correspondence but it always derailed almost immediately. I think maybe my life was just a little too prosaic for him. He’d chosen his path and the two didn’t overlap, even via email. About two months ago I tried again on Facebook. I wrote him and he wrote back and not much was said and that was it.

He was 49. He was never a likely candidate for the Old Pornographers’ Home, but still.

Buried amidst the treasures and dross are many examples of my older work, which I just perused with no small horror. I’ve never slacked. I always worked very hard at what I was doing. But, Jesus, so much of it is wretched and ugly. Ugly in style, execution, content. Rigid and overworked. I also read some of my old columns (from 1990) for Screw, in which I was tasked with reviewing “adult” comics. So much vitriol. I guess it was my job, but yeesh. I actually feel a bit ashamed. That’s not to say that most of what I’d reviewed didn’t deserve scorn, but there was such callow self-righteousness, smugness and malice in my words. Some of it is kind of funny, but still. I always tried to find some praise-worthy offering to balance the column, but I dunno. They’re predominantly nasty pieces of work. Much of it is attributable to being at the time 25, recently divorced, resentful and angry. But that doesn’t excuse everything. The first issue of From the Ashes was recently reviewed by some youngster online who seems to take the same relish in trashing stuff as I did at his age. Hopefully he’ll learn. If not, he’ll have plenty to look back on twenty years hence and feel embarrassed about.

And my own offerings in comics. (Deep sigh.) It’s a hazard publicly learning as you go, and I am glad that things go out of print. This summer, at a hippie-ish store upstate, Michele saw a copy of an adult comic I did in ’91. I asked her not to tell the owner it was my handiwork, but she did anyway. He, of course, then wanted me to sign it (to presumably—ha!—make it more salable). I inscribed it “With regrets, Bob Fingerman.” To paraphrase Sinatra, “Regrets, I’ve had a few / And when I do, I have to sign ‘em.”

In the recent years my work is finally getting somewhere close to being almost what I want it to be. But the past. Oh, golly, the miserable past…

The Amazon listing has an incorrect page count (it will be longer, because of the nifty bonus section; details to come) and cover art. I guess this is a place-filler until I deliver the real cover art.

This was done as part of a panel in an American Splendor thing I illustrated. I think it might make a nice print.

Recently, I sold my second novel, Pariah, to Tor. I am thrilled (and relieved) beyond belief. It’s a story that I’ve yearned to get out there for many, many years. I first conceived of it as a graphic novel (before my ambitions led me to write the regular kind), back in the mid-’90s. Fortunately (though I didn’t feel that way at the time), it didn’t come to pass in that format. I finally wrote it as a novel and the end result is much better.

The interesting thing is that part of my deal with Tor is to provide the book with some original interior art (I might do the cover, too, but that is pending). My approach is not to do illustrations of any scenes or characters in the book. I prefer to let the readers picture that for themselves. Instead, one of the characters is an artist and he does studies of the undead to pass the time (no more TV or Internet, so one must pass the time doing something). The conceit of the accompanying art will be that these are his drawings. I don’t want any of the art to be typical EC-tinged stuff. The approach is to do sensitive, objective drawings. The zombies didn’t ask to be this way. They’re not evil.

To whet your appetites, here is one of the drawings. I might post some of the rejects here as the months go on, but here’s a sample:

Pariah is due out July 2010.

It’s an enjoyable movie. Check it out.

Recess Pieces makes itself comfortable on the main character’s desk:
Auteur/star Clement having a “WTF” moment:

Video store clerk Darla Vogel is fed up — fed up with her job, fed up with her wake-and-bake roommate, fed up with everything. But when one of the customers at Kwok’s Video offers her some of his meat-flavored candies, Darla takes a plunge down the rabbit hole into a surreal world of throbbing, veinous buildings, compulsory public nudity, weird creatures, and more. If William Burroughs, Lewis Carroll, H.P. Lovecraft, and Harvey Kurtzman ever collaborated, the result might resemble Bob Fingerman’s bold confection of words and pictures — the copiously illustrated prose novel Connective Tissue.

“This is a genuinely monstrous book that made me laugh until something burst and now I think I might be dying. You really need to buy one of these.” – Warren Ellis, author of Crooked Little Vein and Transmetropolitan

“Fingerman does it again! He disturbs, entertains, amuses and charms with his unholy Fingermanian mixture of perversion, humor, and pathos.” – Jonathan Ames, author of The Alcoholic and Wake Up, Sir!

134-page duotone 7.25″ x 8.25″ hardcover
ISBN: 978-1-60699-143-5

In stock: April 2009
In stores: May 2009

Normal pooch.

Monster pooch (version in book).

Rejected version. I like the face, but the body is bad, especially the forepaws. It looks like Clifford the Big Red Dog after huffing a snootful of speed.

Final version. (Thanks to my friend Mikey P. for sending me pix of his pit bull, Hiro.)

Really, though, what kind of “artist” would I be if I didn’t think about demons?

Connective Tissue is my reverse-engineering experiment in art and prose. Instead of a normal illustrated book, in which the pictures illustrate (duh) the text, this time around I’m doing the art first, then supplying the prose. To ensure it flows well, I’ll likely add some art at the end of the writing stage (the titular connective tissue). Here’s a recent drawing:

]]> http://www.bobfingerman.com/2007/10/01/recess-pieces-thumbnails-part-1/feed/ 2 http://www.bobfingerman.com/2007/09/22/inaugural-post/ http://www.bobfingerman.com/2007/09/22/inaugural-post/#comments Sun, 23 Sep 2007 00:30:00 +0000 bob http://www.bobfingerman.dreamhosters.com/?p=28 Okay, so this is my inaugural post here.

So, art. Art’s a subjective term. You know, one man’s meat and so forth. I spend a lot of time in modern art museums frowning and being annoyed by what passes for art these days. Hence, letting my membership to MOMA expire. But I also am amazed at how much good stuff is being done currently. Lots of it displayed on this Blogger thing. People like Marlo Meekins, Kristen McCabe, Bill… uh, mean William Wray, and on and on. Superb and varied stuff. Enough to inspire me to join up.

So, enough words. Picture time. These couple are from an on-again/off-again project featuring the girl with the pigtails. I’ll post more later. Figuring out this interface is making my puzzler hurt.