I like to think I've come a long way since then, but the "Portrait of a Friend" is still one of my favorites. Want a comic portrait like that? Drop me a line, we'll talk.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Old Work
I hit something of a wall a few years ago and was unable to continue doing the work I'd been doing. Rather than mess about trying to import it all and re-scanning pictures I haven't seen hide nor hair of in years, here's a link to my old Deviantart page.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Teaser
I don't normally do this, but something about the story seems to want to be told. With that in mind, here is the opening of my terrifically terrible NaNoWriMo project.
Watch the World Burn
It was magnificent, sublime, finished. Nearly. A ceiling fresco to rival Michelangelo himself, and done in considerably less time, with much poorer resources. Not that he couldn’t purchase them if he wanted; the man was, if nothing else, good with money. Or at least he had been, before he stopped checking his account balances. Before he stopped taking calls from his stock broker, or indeed anyone. Before he turned his back on the wheelings and dealings of his financial empire and began to focus, instead, on his artwork.
The piece in question, which the man was currently admiring, occupied the entire ceiling of his not-entirely-undesirable Manhattan apartment and had, on several occasions in recent weeks, drawn the attention of the neighbors. Not necessarily the artwork itself so much as the smell. Bereft if art supplies or indeed anything other than the twice-daily pizza delivery and a phone with which to call Frankie’s Pizza, the only thing the man possessed, aside from empty pizza boxes, was that which he produced himself. Namely, shit.
For weeks now, his neighbors, both upstairs and down, had been banging on his door repeatedly, demanding to know just what the fuck smelled so goddamn awful, and just who the fuck he thought he was, that he could murder someone and leave the body to rot. At least he should have the goddamn common courtesy to dump the body, they said. He had stopped answering the door for all but the pizza delivery man several days ago. He wondered, in his weaker moments, if perhaps the delivery man might be put off by the smell of his flat. Then he remembered that he tipped $100 per delivery and assumed that the money bought silence. Evidence seemed to support this.
He sat down in his corner, procuring the last slice of pepperoni and olives from its box, and admired his handiwork. Depending on what day, what pizza toppings and anything else he had had, he had devised a system by which he would store various day’s worth of shit in various empty boxes until it had turned the desired shade. Then he would paint the ceiling with it. He looked at the empty Meat Monster’s Supreme box next to him; tomorrow would be a bit of a light brownish, maybe with a hint of green. If he still needed paint. It all seemed according to plan though, so he ignored the box, deciding instead to finish his pizza slice.
Later that evening, when the city lights burned through his many windows, when the flies had settled down for the evening and when the evening breeze gave a little reprieve to his senses, did the man decide that his work was finished. With only a pair of ceiling lights to illuminate the work, he could only guess at what needed touching up, but to his sensibilities, it was enough. The picture, after its fashion, was profound. It struck him, despite his hand in creating it, that, given other circumstances, he might be immortalized for his work. He still might, he thought. He thought about checking the clock outside the Eat’N’Greet diner across the street, but decided against it. Time was no longer important. Not to him. Though, he decided, it may not be important to anyone in a few weeks.
But that didn’t really matter to him much anymore. Nothing did. Later that night, the man accepted his final pizza, tipping the delivery man $100,000 in cash. He ate his pizza, pleased with his work and that all would unfold as it should. He wiped his hands clean, took a bath for the first time in forty two days, removed what remained of his clothing, and left his apartment. He passed several people, all equally baffled at his appearance, on his way up the stairs.
Calmly, cooly, serenely, he walked towards the edge of the roof, taking in the city. Manhattan really did agree with him, but deep down, most cities did. Something about the bustle of life, the energy of people living in close proximity…made him feel alive.
And then he let himself fall forward, off the roof, to the pavement, sixty stories below.
3-D Art
One of the constants in my life has been scale modeling. Ever since I was a kid, I've enjoyed building model airplanes, robots, tanks: you name it, I've probably built it. More recently, I've gotten into resin modeling (figures from Japanese comics & animation) and wargaming miniatures. Some things never get old.
And rather than repost everything I have, I'm taking the lazy way out and just directing you to my modeling page. Enjoy!
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
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