Sketching Superman: Man of Style

So, Project: Rooftop has another big redesign event coming down the pike, and this time, they're not fooling around.

Man, trying to redesign Superman is like trying to come up with a new flavor for oxygen.

Anyway, here are some sketches, as I tried to puzzle this particular conundrum out:

1950's Wolverine

Happy First Mother's Day!

Here's to a wonderful wife and mother!

You wanna know just how wonderful the Lovely Wife is? We went on our first date since Skeezix was born, last night. And she was the one who suggested seeing Iron Man!

Bug

I'm doing a lot of bug research*, right now, for an upcoming project. You may see more of these.

By the way, you might notice that I've expanded the blogroll of my students to include former students, as well. It seemed like a good way to keep track of what people are up to. If you're not listed, but would like to be, drop me a line.

* Research here, of course, means drawing lots pictures with no particular regard to accuracy, or even so much as bothering to read the captions under the photographs. I'm just collecting shapes, really.

Spring!

Maybe it's because I'm currently experiencing the zenith of the ol' circle of life, but, dang, I'm into this Spring. Trees are a'bloomin'; buds are a'bornin'. The potted garden is back, and and a big crop of seedlings are moving towards having pots of their own.

The Greatest News in the History of Humankind!

Welcome to the world, beautiful baby!

The Adorable Progeny was born on Wednesday. He was 7 lbs. 9 oz., a little under 20 inches long, and a sporting inch-long strawberry blond hair. Geez-o-Pete, but is he good looking.

Skeezix was born by way of an emergency caesarean, which was pretty scary. His umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck and head, and when labor began in earnest his heart rate dropped precipitously. The room was immediately full of people asking questions and issuing orders. Some blue scrubs were thrown at me and the Lovely Wife was whisked away. The twenty minutes or so before I was allowed to join them were awful. The only thing that kept me in one piece was knowing that I needed to look composed when I saw the LW again.

Once in the operating room, things went very quickly. Skee was dark blue when the pulled him out, and the split second it took for my brain to resolve the shape I was seeing as being separate from my wife's anatomy, as actually being a head with a face and features that were familiar but which I'd never seen before, was the most intense experience of my life. I wish I could describe it more specifically than that, but I don't know what I was feeling so much as how much I was feeling.

His color immediately went from blue to pink, and he passed his Apgar's with flying colors. The LW was not in a position to see any of this, and was asking me lots of sensible questions, like "Is he okay? Is he breathing?" But I was such a blubbery mess, I wasn't much help to her. I was blinded by tears and my surgical mask was full of snot, and I couldn't hear a thing that was going on around me. All I was aware of was this incredible little being that was suddenly in the world.

And, well, that hasn't really changed in the past five days.

Danger!

I'm blogging mid-movie, here. I penciled this during the first half hour of Danger: Diabolik, inked during the rest of the movie, and colored it and am posting it while listening to the commentary.

Danger: Diabolik is great fun, by the way. If you found a couple of thirteen year old boys who just happened to be cinematic geniuses and gave them a budget, this is the movie you'd end up with. Everyone either dies or makes-out. Highly recommended.

Or, you know, if you don't have time, you could just watch this. Same difference.

Everybody Dance Like There's Christmas In Your Pants!

Or Hanukkah in your hose!

Or Kwanzaa in your culottes!

December, 1997, pt. 5

And now, we near the end of the Sketchbook of Christmas Past. I think I'm back in Richmond for these pages, spending a day with the girlfriend before boarding a bus back to New York.

Two items of note on this page: 1. Me playing with words, perhaps with (gawd help us all) poetry in mind; and 2. I have made a note of Scott McCloud's peculiar notion, the 24-Hour Comic.


This drawing bears at least a passing resemblance to the girlfriend's cat, Gunther, who liked to have sex with my socks.


And we end as all sketchbooks should, with puppies.

December, 1997, pt. 4

Christmas Vacation, ten years ago, has been previously blogged here, here, and here.

Okay, so I've left my father's house for the maternal end of the ol' familial gauntlet. But first, a haircut.

The next several sketches are from my maternal grandparents' place. I'm not too sure why I was playing around with Latin (my one year of Latin has now completely degenerated to "Amo Amas Amat" and a phrase which I take on faith as being dirty), but the first quote's reference to the New Sun is a clue that I'd dug through some boxes of paperbacks in the basement, and was rereading Gene Wolfe. More on this, later.

Oh, also, that lamp that's just barely doodled shows up again in my story "The Baker's Son." Should you be interested.

The mantle clock was made by Silas Hoadley. Hoadley was a clock maker in the in the early-19th Century, known for making clocks with wooden movements. My grandfather was pretty sure that he was related to Hoadley on his mother's side, and his two Hoadley clocks were prized possessions.

I have no idea how the chronology works here—these are sketches from the Museum of Fine Arts in Richmond, VA. Why are they in the middle of this visit? Maybe I made a quick trip up there? Maybe I just drew in the middle of my notebook when I was there earlier? I dunno. But, hey, "Shardula" is a pretty cool word, huh?

Here's the second of my grandfather's Hoadley clocks. This clock has been gracing my studio for the past year. And look! It's my mom with my then-brand-new niece, Sophie! Needless to say, Sophie has grown.

December, 1997, pt. 3

Still tracking my Christmas vacation during my first year of grad school; still at my Dad's place. The bird is Popeye, an Eclectus parrot. My father has quite a few parrots. They all hate me. Popeye here once climbed out of his cage, walked on his little bird feet in a straight line through three rooms, climbed up the side of a couch, across the couch to where I was reading, and bit my thumb. It is a resolute hate.

This was, apparently, the year I took up the foolish notion of learning the recorder, even though no one of the entire planet likes music played on a recorder. I practiced diligently for months, until I was defeated by "Short'nin' Bread."

Holy Moly! We're just getting to dinner? This may be the single sketchiest of day of my whole sketching life.

Uhm... and old lantern?

And me looking emo-tastic in a window's reflection that night when I can't sleep.

December, 1997, pt. 2

Continuing the look back through an old sketchbook filled up during a ten-day Christmas vacation, here's some more of my day out at my father's place.

I received this book as a Christmas present, a book I was inordinately fond of. It was stolen from my studio within the year. Ah, art students.

Bric-a-brac.

Chicken coop.

Hoss.

Happy Halloween!

Go get some good candy, everybody!

December, 1997, pt. 1

Here's some images from one of my favorite old sketchbooks.

My first year of grad school, I filled a pocket-sized sketchbook during a ten day Christmas vacation.

I drew the first page while waiting to catch the bus to Virginia, and drew last on the bus ride back.

Not only can I chart where I was during the each section of the sketchbooks (bus station, bus, girlfriend's, Dad's, grandparents, bus), but what I was thinking about.

The preceding pages were from the Girlfriend stage of the tour. The psychologically astute among you may to pick up on a certain ambivalence I had regarding the relationship.

Now I'm at my Dad's place.

This sort of relentless resposnive doodling isn't easy. It precludes all sorts of other activities, like, say, socializing because you're always nose-deep in your sketchbook.

But dang, if it doesn't keep the artistic chops up.

This sketchbook represents me at my sketching peak, but I kept the habit up pretty well for years... until I moved to Memphis. I've tried, but there's something about Memphis that I just find singularly uninspiring.

More to come!

Inkling

I'm in the process of reorganizing my studio (read: organizing my studio) in order to minimize clutter (read: shoving everything up in the attic) and free up a little space (read: nursery).

I emptied out a couple drawers of sketchbooks, this morning. It is both exhilarating and embarrassing to look back through these things. Sometimes I feel jealous of my previous self for having ideas that seem fresher and more earnest that my what I'm doodling now. Mostly, I just cringe at the naiveté and often-crappy drawing.

In any case, it is impossible to go through a pile of old sketchbooks and not flip through them, and these were some of the first pages I opened to. I remember thinking about two characters, Inkling and Spot, but not drawing these pages.




That's kinda fun, right? Maybe, before they go to live among the rafters, I should do a little more sketchbook scanning.

Beeswax Bound for San Diego

So I'm shuffling all my various ducks in rows, columns, and tiers in preparation for heading out to the Big Show, where I plan on being very graceful in defeat. And, just so I don't have to turn up empty-handed, I'll be taking along 50 copies of Beeswax Bound, a little sketchbooky sorta thing I put together through CafePress. It's mostly a collection of images you've already seen, for free, here on Beeswax (sell it, Joel, sell it!), but all re-contextualized through the power of imaginative typing. For instance, I have written profiles for all the various Fist-a-Cuffs designs I've drawn, and cobbled together a fun and educational game for them called Fracas. Play along at home!

Also found within the covers:
How to Kill and Skin an Animal the Size of a City Bus
A Vigilante's Personal Ad
Words of Advice from Bell of Splendid Awakening
A Thrilling Rock Grant Assignment Log
Full Frontal William Blake Nudity

All in all, it's 52 pages of black and white single-signature stapled fury, available via your nearest information appliance, or where ever I can be found at SDCC.*


* Namely, the AdHouse table at the following times:
Thursday July 26th, 2-4
Friday July 27th, 10-12
Saturday July 28th, 2-4

LOLSICKOS!

Since arriving in Toronto on Monday, I have barely left the couch. I'm not sure what I have, but it seems to be a combination of the flu, mono, conjunctivitis, and a brain tumor. It's all I can do to occassionally haul myself over to the Lovely Wife's computer to check on Rock Grant, Agent of BRAWN!

And, yeah, it should probably say "PLAYG!!!" Whaddayoo want? I'm sick!

Cops 'n Robbers!

So there I am, standing in my front yard, tending to my little garden, when suddenly four cop cars come haul-assin' down the street, screech to a stop in front of my house, and, hands on sidearms, come running at me.

If regular medical check-ups and concerns about house-keeping weren't evidence enough that I'd crossed over to the long, gray days of adulthood, how about the fact that my only reaction to being rushed by cops was to think "Gee, I wonder I set the house alarm off?"

Anyway, the cops ran right by me, and into my back yard. And then they ran back out and into the neighbor's back yard. And then they ran out and back into my back yard. This went on for awhile. It seems that they had a malfeasant (of the breaking and entering variety) on the run, and he was hopping fences to escape the somewhat winded arm of the law. Cop cars kept piling onto my block, and keystone cast got larger and larger, until they finally got the guy. Many "thumb's up" signs followed. Hurray for justice!

All I actually saw of the Fence-Jumper was a flash of white T-shirt, so this sketch should not be used as evidence.

Victory Calzone!

So, I've reached the age where I don't just go to the doctor when bones break the skin. I need maintenance. During a recent check up, I was informed that, while my general health was at a level that is typically associated with wearing spandex under your clothes, my blood was, basically, gravy.

What followed were some undignified palpatations to make sure my liver hadn't turned into pâté, a second blood test, and a stern admonishment against ingesting any fat whatsoever.

In looking at my diet to eliminate the fat, pretty much all I could find was olive oil and milk fat. It's pretty easy to cut down on the amount of olive oil I cook with, but I'd rather drop dairy all together than eat its various nonfat iterations. And, man, I can live a low-cheese lifestyle, but no-cheese? That is unkind. Especially since friends had just clued me into a really decent purveyor of calzones within walking distance of my house.

On Monday I got the results of the second blood test, and HURRAY! It's normal! Apparently, the first one was a fluke.

Guess how I celebrated?

If my thumb is black, it's 'cuz it's covered in ink (I hope).

This is my garden. We don't have a sunny spot in the backyard, and I didn't want to make a permanent plot in the front yard, so, instead, I'm growing veggies in pots. I started out with three plants: a tomato plant (Early Girls), a bell pepper plant, and a Japanese eggplant. A few weeks later it occurred to novice-me that solo plants might have a tougher time with the whole pollination side of things, and I bought another pepper and eggplant, and—since I was out—a grape tomato plant and two bunches of basil.

I'm a little obsessed with these plants right now. The mundane miracle of a seed turning dirt, water, and sunlight into a great big plant that I can eat is ample subject for hours of mediation while I sit on the lawn, just kinda staring at them. Right now there are two green tomatoes on the big tomato plant, and a little tiny fruit has started to grow on the older eggplant. The older bell pepper has just begun to bloom.

Of course, since they're in the front yard, it's a forgone conclusion that they'll get stolen a day or two before the first harvest. But I'm enjoying the process in and of itself.

Also: You can now pre-order copies of the new issue of Ballyhoo Stories. This is the first issue to carry comics, and I'm pretty danged proud of the line-up of cartoonists presented. They are: JP Coovert, Ray Fenwick, Andy Hartzell, Joseph Holsapple, Simone Lia, and Corinne Mucha; with front and back covers by Paul Pope!