angels don't get the lung cancer. So they don't worry about it.

When my father died, I started to smoke. I like to think it started out slowly, but I had been a casual smoker while he was sick, and when it was all over, I started to smoke, hard. Somewhere around a package a day. This was a mechanism of distraction, a smokescreen.

Nice metaphor. Subtle.

Every night after work, I would go home and shower, and then I would go out for coffee. This was back in the old days when you could still smoke in restaurants...something future generations will never know. I would sit there for hours, sometimes preferably alone so I could write, draw, whatever. Sometimes not alone, but I would still draw through conversation. I created so many things. So much of it useless, some of it not.

I conceptualized an entire film there, and storyboarded it out, even as we were filming, and filmed it we did. I have a shoebox full of footage two feet away from me, overflowing with some forty hours of footage, and a two inch binder somewhere packed full of scribblings and script.

I finally have a computer to edit it on, and I just need to start. I fear, somehow, though, that I cannot edit together the same sort of film that I thought I was making back then. Life and children and age have conspired together to change the way that I see the world and the past, and ultimately I wonder and perhaps worry that the shoebox full of tapes next to my feet is no longer relevant. What if I have only two minutes of importance amongst that 40 some hours? It scares me somewhat, this daunting task of sorting through my old psyche.

Perhaps it was more the action of committing the things to tape that was the therapy, the meaning, rather than a finished film. Perhaps the few years it took to write and film it were its true purpose, the memories of a thing, rather than the thing itself. Almost as if the actions required to create something become the final result, and completely unrelated to the finished work. The act is the art. I guess any art can be said to be made up of the efforts it took to create it, though in this case, and at this point in time, the effort is all there is.

Somehow this feels unfair though to everyone else who sacrificed of themselves to help create it, and I suppose for their sake, that it would be a failure, wrong even, to not at least shape it into something. They did after all, blindly follow me down that road, with not one of them knowing what we were doing. Even now, none of them could tell anyone what we made...only me. And now I fear that I may no longer know, or cannot know, being so far away from it, both in mind and in time. I don't know that I ever properly thanked the people who helped so much, volunteered. You know who you all are, and if I owe you money, then please disregard this. I said nothing pertaining to you. You are dead to me, and you shouldn't be reading this. Leave this site immediately. As for the rest of you...

...you are also dead to me, and if you think for one damn second that ANY of you are going to be listed in those rolling credits then you are bloody well wrong. There's only gonna be ONE effing name up there and that's going to be MINE, if I even decide to do anything with it.

I may just roll those tapes up one by one in a big fat cigarette, and then smoke them until I'm blind. THEN what?!? Who's going to edit the film then, BITCHES?!?

WHO?!?

That's RIGHT.....I am.

I'll be blind, and have smoked all the footage, and ALONE on all the award lists.




(except for you, sweet wife...thanks for all your help, I never could have done it without you. I love you.)

sight and its ability to include you.

Today I wore glasses all day. They are glasses of the "incorrect prescription" variety, and as the day wore on I began to feel disconnected from the things around me, almost as though I wasn't completely there because my eyes were failing. I felt noticed, certainly, but in my subconscious, I was fading, my brain losing its sense of location, of physicality. I am by no means blind, and this prescription is wrong, but not entirely wrong. I just found it odd how we adapt to changes in our perception, however slight. To be blind, I think, must be akin to being unanchored, invisible. I have heard of the compensation of the remaining senses, but sight...

(contemplative pause during which the author attempts to hardscrabble even deeper, and comes up against an unending deposit of granite dipped in concrete.)

(Also said author needs to trim his beard.)

for this is perhaps the only truth.

Pencil on paper. And perhaps the only thing we shall ever truly know for sure. Except for the fact that my wife is applying hateful pressure towards the removing of my beard. I also know this...

I also know this.

(sidenote) I believe my beard is destined to attend at least one Christmas banquet, and, to that end, has expressed no small amount of interest in just such an event. Feel free to introduce yourself to my beard if you, by magic, happenstance, or pure fate, happen to find yourself in its presence. Give it a hug, and it will not spurn such an advance, no matter how platonic.

the recordist. written and illustrated by no one. no one at all.

This was something I started with the intention of it being a joint venture between three. I wrote and illustrated the first chapter and then handed it off to writer/artist number two to do the second chapter. Said writer number two, either through lack of motivation, or a crushing self doubt, kept chapter one for at least a year and in the end produced, he claimed, "nothing that could be shown." "In all good conscience, " he pleaded, "I cannot show what I have done to any being that has eyes, or soul." He shook me as he said it. "It's shit, " he wept, "It's all complete shit, and I hate myself and you for asking it of me..." He fell to the ground as though in state of seizure, pants around his ankles and wept great tears of regret into the hem of my granulated trousers, the bloodied taste of earth and failure fresh on his particulated lips."


A perfect ten of inexplicable and ridiculous failure. Secretly though, I was relieved. During that year, while all the waiting was coming to pass, I had written and drawn some side comics starring those characters from MY chapter one, and was now enjoying them immensely. I found myself wanting no longer to share, and desiring only a selfish hoarding of these characters and the credit all to myself. It was, as it stands now, advantageous only to me, and I wish I felt bad about it. I do not. You will meet these characters soon enough, and know them as "octopus", and "the bird lady." Can't wait until you do.

Cheers.

Also thank you to my failure of a one-time potential artistic collaborator. No longer, my friend, no longer. Though 'tis a pity as he has, by far, one of the quickest and most intelligent of the wits that any man can possess.

In which we battle the forces of perspective and realism...and lose.

Here's a planning sketch for a thing I am working about. This will be physically large when it is done. If you want it, just ask. I also will be physically large, inexplicably, or perhaps not so.

I enjoy elephants, and elephants tied to long pieces of string being pulled by girls standing on rough perspective guidelines I THOROUGHLY enjoy, thus this composition. I trust you do as well. There is a group being started as we speak.

Please join us:

SUPER FANS of ELEPHANTS tied to LONG PIECES OF STRING being PULLED by GIRLS standing on ROUGH PERSPECTIVE GUIDELINES

niceberg.

This is a niceberg, and is exactly everything that you think it is. Niceberg. That's right. Its nice. I spent alot of time this weekend not doing artwork, and I was pretty miserable about it. Realistically though, this is one of those things that you have to either take in stride, or drown in alcohol. I am taking it in stride. It is like holding a newborn. You can't make the newborn do what you want, go to sleep at a certain time, sleep all night, not scream while you are on the phone. The more you think about all the ways that the baby is hindering you from a task, even if its brushing your teeth, the more frustrated and angry you will get with him, even though he is in no way setting out to make you feel that way. He's just being a baby. You have to devote yourself to holding the baby, put the baby first, and abandon all other desires in order to achieve the serenity necessary to not DO anything else. This can also apply when you have a full time job that isn't exactly your passionista. You have to let everything else go. This is how I am with art. I need a damn long runway to get in the air, but it is possible. Sometimes, however, you just have to let it all go, and be a dad.

Wouldn't trade it for the world.

The Lamentations of M.Night.

I just finished watching M. Nights latest film, which was somewhat akin to being naked in a train wreck, except the train wreck lasted for almost two hours, and I was being burned with cigarettes. Where the hell did Mark Wahlbergs testicles go? His voice was like a tiny whining machine, screeching inane things and cutting me in my face. For two hours.

I'm thinking about the film, and I'm trying to understand why M. Night would even put his name on this piece of shit, and the credits roll, and I'm stunned, what a complete travesty, I'm pissed off that I spent so much time on it, and THEN...I watch ALL of the extras on the DVD, hoping for an apology, or at least an explanation.

Anything.

I expected something along the lines of "well, M. Night gave us most of our instructions from a bathtub filled with crack cocaine and bleach. And then he died, so we got Denny the craft service guy to do rewrites and made the rest up."

No.

This was not said, or even alluded to in any way. Instead, we are treated to a definitively odd M. Night trying hard to seem normal, but coming off drugged and giddy about shooting the black kid in the back of the head with a shotgun. I'm confused. The plants decide that humanity is a threat, and so....THEY MAKE US STAND REALLY STILL FOR A SECOND, AND THEN WE WALK BACKWARDS AND THEN WE HANG OURSELVES WITH A GARDEN HOSE IN THE WINDY ENVIRONMENT. Who pays for this garbage? Who pays me to sit through it?

Someone does.

This was not an M. Night film. This was not even a film. This was a handful of people who can only aspire to be bad actors, wasting mine and everyone elses time and money. People are starving and they feed us THIS.

It makes me vacant.

Fail.

sometimes, the secret code word is "dirigible".

I remember the days when there was no Internet. And then I remember the days when there was Internet, but the Internet acts like its just arrived from 1986 and it doesn't have a clue where it is. Today is that day. The Internet arrived, breathless, listening to Corey Hart full blast, and then just stood there. "You are fascinating", I told it, "and f--king USELESS". It nodded and smiled like a jackass, clearly misunderstanding.

At work we have multiple offices, in different cities scattered slipshod all over the country, but mostly in two major cities. As a result we have a good flow of information that needs to travel back and forth between the two cities, and so we have connected them through the miracle of technology, using something called a VPN tunnel. This VPN tunnel is the technological equivalent of two cups and a piece of string, except the string is a wet, toeless sock, and the cups are me glaring and stringing together random curse words in inexplicable and disgusting ways. I could get information faster if I literally stretched a toeless sock city to city, wrote my information on MEAT and then crawled through the tunnel naked, pushing the meat in front of me. That, or I could just hit you with the meat. That would also be faster.

I'm away from my family and I miss them.

"Even through the helmet, the distinct smell of burning black chubby ghost made her eyes water."

Pencil in fake moleskine. There is no explanation for this. None. Floaty girl, floaty burning black chubby ghost, random hardwood floor, chunks of things, helmets. This all stinks mightily of both the apocalypse and a disappointment. These are the things that happen when you have no direction, kids. These. (Short message for the Kids). These.

geometrics makes its debut, and the author breaks another toe.

Geometrics is something I have been dabbling in and about for a while now, and is a process in which I come to your house while you are asleep and stand by your bed, and then I make hissing noises just enough to scare you into that state where you don't want to get up to see whats going on because you are scared, but if you don't then your wife will think you are scared, so you get up and then I will smash you right in the face with a book.

Then I will choose something in your bedroom, maybe your wife, and I will sketch it in a geometric way.

Also I did break a toe...my ring toe on my right foot and I was just trying to kiss the baby so I could go to work.

Do not be dismayed. Its quite warm out, and the europeans know true hardship. The last thing she needs is a sweater.

This is pencil in small moleskine. By small, I mean 3.5 inches by 5.5inches. Not very big. The art then, is even smaller than that. I added eraser rain last minute and it was the first time I have ever done so.

This is a sketch of my great aunt on my fathers side. European. She was nearly 80 years old when she posed for this. Fascinating woman. Liked raw shrimp and hot air balloons. Once shot herself out of a cannon. She came to herself dressed as a clown on the wrong side of the Berlin wall, answering only to the name "Gershwin". In her handbag she kept a fully grown king cobra right until the day she died. It took three full days to access her body because the snake was attacking anything that came close. They found her wrapped in tinfoil, with the manuscript of a fully finished novel written all over her body in tiny Sutterlin script, a nearly impenetrable and abandoned German dialect.

I'd been saving this one, but now....its just raining so hard.

A high school drawing. My teacher at the time, (brilliant man, typically artistic), spent a LONG time trying to convince me to make the eyes red. Even going so far as to color red circles, cut them out, and then lay them gently on the drawing itself, so that I might KNOW that it was right. I still refused, and so I got a lesser mark than I could have. Its somewhat absurd, the theory and practice of grading art. Its such a subjective thing, that to grade it can only ever be one persons opinion. There is no right or wrong. Its not math, its art.

Not to say that the world isn't absolutely GLUTTED with terrible, terrible artists.

It is.

It so terribly is.

That being said, art class in high school was, for me, pretty close to my worst subject in terms of grades. It brought my average down every term.

This tells me several things, none of which are your business.

the reason for my extended absence.

My beautiful son was born on October seventh. Our third child. He is absolutely small, and perfect. Alexander. That is an actual quarter. And my actual baby.





I couldn't resist. Photoshop is like quicksand. I am actually developing a graphics program that functions exactly like Photoshop called "quicksand" (TM). Exactly like.

beautiful.

For my beautiful wife. I have missed several days, with good reason. Very good reason. Well...that and I slumped a little into laziness and complacency. Apologies all around. Reasons will be laid forth in the next post.

There are things worse than death. Windows Vista, for instance.

Sometimes I draw something and I think...."meh". Other times I draw something and I am giddy as though I am a heavily pregnant filly about to cross into the end zone of the Daytona 500 during the World Cup and then I look down, and I am, ON TOP OF IT ALL, carrying the Conch.

Today's posting is me as the latter example, sweaty and tired, giving my all, beaming ear to ear, about to cough out the placenta of joy. I love this drawing and I don't have the slightest clue why. It's not overly special or detailed or mind blowing, but as the artist, it is one of those sketches that makes me want to keep drawing. Artist's seldom love their work, they are by nature insecure, neurotically so. I suspect there is a story in this drawing somewhere, but as of right now, I don't know what it is.

I drew this during a staff meeting, and I am beginning to suspect that if ever my employment there is terminated, I will still request that I can sit in on the meetings and draw. I do some great work in there, and I'm not sure why.

Maybe its as simple as having 3 consecutive hours with pencil to paper.

Ah, time. How poorly you are sometimes passed through.

Portrait of a Monger, in which the commodity in question consists of brilliant songs you WILL NEVER HEAR.

This is a friend. Daniel S. He does not look exactly like this. We were in a band together, for a year or two. We spent some time writing music, and it felt inspired. He was inspired. He wrote so many songs he couldn't keep track of them and many a brilliant melody has been lost.

He wrote songs for the guitar and now composes chiefly using another instrument called "World of WarCraft." The music is beautiful, can you hear it? I can...it's sooo beautiful.

Come back, Dan.

Music needs you.

A long time ago.

This was drawn in pen only. Back when we all smoked. Ah, the folly and joy of youth. What a treat it is to be young and foolish, secure in our naivete. It was only seven years ago, but it feels like hundreds. We lose ourselves, our old selves, one year at a time. Slipping from memory and looked back upon vaguely, strangely even, as though we had never existed, as though we had never truly inhabited those smaller versions of ourselves.

snowman, his father, and the snake.

Here's another concept sketch for snowman. He is standing behind his father, small. This is from my moleskine proper, done in pencil, with a little pre-post digital manipulation to satisfy my egotistical nature. Nothing major. A little clone stamp here, a little clone stamp there. You know. Also, please stop sending money in the post. I am obviously NOT receiving it. Lets do PayPal or something. Something not quite so evil. Like EBAY evil.

You know what I mean.

An interesting sight. Ah HA.....

This is both pencil and completely unfamiliar to me. I cannot remember creating it, but I have no doubt that it is mine and probably drawn while I was on the phone. I tend to draw while I am on the phone, talking or not. Also while having conversations with people.

Occasionally I will draw through a conversation with someone, and when what I am doing becomes more interesting then what we are talking about, I will simply stop looking up or responding until they leave. Sometimes this can be awkward, in which case you just have to power through, pretending they aren't there, regardless of what they are doing. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.

Other times it is so rewarding that I want to have a cigarette afterwards.

I wouldn't though.

I gave that up long ago.

Duplicitous behavior. In which he tries to pass off a photoshop corrected work as original. He fails, due to his explanation.

I corrected this in photoshop. I drew it maybe 10 years ago or more, and have always hated the trunk of the tree due to the fact that I colored it in with a wax crayon. Wax crayons do not erase well.

Now due to the wonders of computer "aids", we'll call them, I can make it, if not pleasing, at least presentable.

Please ignore the shoddy photoshop corrections around the edges. I am in a hurry. My incredibly pregnant wife and, I confess, myself as well, are waiting for the bags of chips which I have yet to go buy. I will now be going to the store to buy 2 bags of chips. One for my lovely pregnant wife, and one for me, who has no such excuse for buying chips at 10:30 at night. Be that as it may, I bid you adieu.

Father.

I was sitting by his bed as he fumbled with a tape recorder, thinking maybe he could still fix it. His hands weren't working very well by this point, but he refused to admit that he was no longer able to repair something so delicate. I used to sit there every day and draw while we talked. It was worth it just being there. He would always ask to see what I was drawing, and laughed and shook his head when I showed him this, but I could tell he was pleased. I was holding his hand when the cancer took him four months later, just down the hall from where I drew this.

Intense sadness. The shedding of past lives through fire. This is the Thorn.

Pen in moleskine small. Colored in photoshop. One of those things that comes from mulling a plot point. In this case, its a mans life deconstructing around him. An all systems failure. Granted, it looks more like an android than a man, and perhaps it is. If I'm not mistaken, even machines feel pain.


I may be mistaken.

The beginnings of our quest started here. High Five! ....right? ...high five.....?

The quintessential portrait of a genius. The man has talent. Lets just accept it and move on. This is around thirteen years old. Pencil on paper and has some bad water damage. It may actually be coffee damage, but whatever it is, I sort of covered it up with photoshop. It mostly affected the hair, but there is actually several large orange stains across his face which I took out. I am tempted to include an inverted edition of this.......aw hell, I can't resist...
Looks like a photo when I hide all its imperfections.

I saw him in concert when I was 15 or something. Wouldn't trade it for anything. That man can SHRED an accordion like no other.

In the footsteps of the masters...like KLIMT. My personal favorite. This is NOTHING like Klimt.

So, was this drawn from memory?
No.
So, you were looking at someone while you drew?
No.
A photo then?
Yes.
Is this someone you know?
No, it is not.
Did you take the picture you drew it from?
No I did not.
Did you compensate the photographer and model for the use of their photo?
No, absolutely not.
Would you if you could?
Of course.
Does the girl in this photo speak English?
It is very unlikely that she does, no.
Did you steal this photo from the Internet and then draw it without permission?
Yes I did.
Do you feel bad about it?
No I don't.
Isn't looking at a photo while drawing akin to cheating?
Yes.  You might as well be tracing.  In fact, you are tracing, you filthy ass.
Are you a talentless hack?
Perhaps, but who cares?
Is this girl from Russia?
Of course.
You disappoint me.
I want to be surprised by that.
How many beans are in this jar?
That's a seagull.
Yes.  It is. 

If I were a scientist, then perhaps I would just invert everything and like it better.

"Tricycle".

Charcoal on newsprint.

Done in 30 seconds or less. A lesson in impressions. The least amount of thought and planning sometimes gives birth to the most poignant of expression. Instinct is so-called for a reason.

Do not, however, apply this rule to buying gifts. Or do so at your own risk.

in which the moleskine realizes its importance in the scheme of things and vanishes, blindly into the night.

The title of this piece is as follows:

"It is somewhat of a presupposition, I suppose, as it were, if someone could be so naive, as to presuppose a supposition, what folly, and oh such erroneous advice leveled upon such an individual so as to encumber him with such a grave forecasting of this immediate future."

pencil on paper. In my moleskine proper.

And I am absolutely kidding about that being the title. That title is hardly english, let alone well written, not to mention nonsensical. This is a concept sketch for SNOWMAN, yet again. I fully intend to do an entire slew of new scans and thus vary the field a bit, at least in terms of posting, and I hope to do that very very soon. Please bear with me.

If you are at all bored, please shoot me a digital letter and i shall do my very utmost to remedy that posthaste. Also my analytics has told me that absolutely no-one has been to this site for the last four days, but I sincerely hope that that is not the case. I suspect that analytics is broken, but I hesitate to pry.

much like me myself, all glower and no real threat, but you did not hear it from me.

My absolutely stunning and beautiful wife has informed me that this looks exactly like something pretending to be scary.

It is, of course, nothing of the sort, and is indeed terrifying and more threatening than anything else I have ever drawn while on the phone. I tend to get a lot of sketching done whilst on the phone, most of it garbage, and only when driving.

"he stared at them in silence, dumbfounded, both limbs hanging limply in front like tea soaked toast."

A meercat. Possibly should be two words. More volatile than nitro-glycerine dipped in butter and gasoline and then lit on fire. A tiny furry statue made of CHAOS.


Graphite on paper. 20x30 ish...I am too damn lazy to go dig this up and measure it. In my MIND it is 20x30ish.

We may all have to live with that.

Also, I feel like a fraud when I write the word "graphite". Just who, exactly, do I think that I am? Its a pencil. Nothing more. I am not the kind of artist who says things like "graphite".

We may all also have to live with this as well.

kermit courtney: her o' the fern hair

Here's another turn of the century piece, once again from 1999. It was based on a picture of Courtney Love, but I adjusted her features, most notably the eyes and hair, in an effort to create something slightly surreal. I now see that adjustment for what it truly was:

...PURE LAZINESS.

I think I was struggling with her eyes and threw the proverbial towel in. This is quite big, 20"x30", graphite on paper, and the only thing I like about it is her shirt.

What a waste. I am truly sorry. I will not disappoint you again.

That also is not true.

I will.

The twentieth century suitcase.

This is a suitcase. Created in 1999. Inkwash. Using a brush. I have always loved it. What IS inside? It haunts me. If you know, please share with everyone.

I really need to break out the ink and brush more often. The results are CLEARLY stunning, not merely pedestrian as when I interpretive dance. Take now for instance.

Right?

Yes.

Obviously pedestrian.

Thank you.

Also, please note on your calenders the soon to be enjoyed...

"an indecipherable poem in seven parts"

...to be unveiled slowly of course, written and illustrated by myself.

That sounded vain and pretentious. Please bear with me. The poem is indeed vain and pretentious, AND indecipherable, (for what good poem isn't), but it will be good practice for future work...more of an exercise really. I am looking forward to it. Much like whatever is inside that damn suitcase.

a potential beast of untold horrors....will also serve tea if asked politely.

Concept sketch for unnamed project.....also best project I have ever invented, and most exciting for me, a virtual smelting pot of genius. This would be assassin persona II, done in my fake moleskine with a mechanical pencil...a glorious staedtler 0.5mm. It was supposed to be an upside down moose face beast, but it turned into this lion-type tea butler.

detail. the antithesis of prolific. also laziness...and neuroticism.

done in pencil in the fake moleskine...the love child of a long staff meeting and my magic fingers. (?)

small...about 6"x5"

I find it entirely impossible to concentrate or comprehend anything in a classroom/meeting setting unless I am drawing. I find that I have to focus the dominating section of my brain...(the creative side) on something I don't have to think about, so that the other parts of my brain...(the ones responsible for real life), can gather necessary information important for survival. Its a constant struggle.

Needless to say, If I'm not drawing, I'm probably not hearing you. Also I really struggle if I'm wearing pants.

meet snowman, now of an abandoned world...offspring of a murdered father, avenger of a destroyed people, brave savior of us all.

Here is the previously mentioned 'SNOWMAN', from my 'real' moleskine. He is not made of snow. He is of a more substantial constitution, but has been codenamed as such, for obvious reasons.





Please support your local Tarsem Singh, if at all possible.


Fincher and Jonze do.


You should too.

where would we be without Neil Gaiman. And his famously nasty temper. Oh that temper...what a pity and a shame, he had such promise.

This one spawned in my full size knock off moleskine, cheaply made but with a glorious mid/heavy weight white art paper inside. I have never seen another like it. shame, really. i would buy them all. Well no, i wouldnt, but I would have bought at least ONE more. It doesn't lie flat, but that was something i managed to ignore and or destroy.


This was inspired by sandman, although you wouldn't know it entirely, but for the hint of gas mask hose trunk just there. If Dream was just a tiny bit more Desire...and the Terminator.

That reminds me, i'm still short Absolute Vol II and III.



But seriously, SIGUR ROS: TAAK.

Revel in it. I cant walk away from it.

Here is a sketch from my mini moleskine. quite small. pencil and eraser on moleskine notebook paper. I actually enjoy the notebook paper much better than the actual thick art paper, and i will tell you why. Right now I will tell you. Here is why: The note book paper takes a fountain pen like no ones business, while the art paper is absolutely too smooth and surfaced to take it. The ink beads off, causing no small annoyance. I will only be buying the notebook paper from now on, based simply on the fact THAT I CAN WRITE ON IT. Oh moleskine....where is your 18th century counterpart. I'm sure it was quality.

Tonight I listened to "Saeglopur" by Sigur Ros. Parts of that song are like standing in front of God, enveloped completely. It took me off guard, and i wept, moved. I found a translation of the lyrics.

Saeglopur

a lifi

kominn heim

saeglopur

a lifi

kominn heim

pao kemur kafari

Translation:

"a lost seafarer"

alive

has returned home

a lost seafarer

alive

has returned home

a diver comes

that song brought me to tears and I FELT GOD.

I dont even care if that translation is wrong. That was the translation i needed.

socktopus III.

This sketch is somewhat of a departure. It is a concept from my webcomic 'octopus and the birdlady'. I've been calling it that for so long i'm not sure i can change it. Now...would you know if i did? what if i called it the......imaginar..nevermind. you'll see, and it will please you in odd ways. much like daisies.

the advent of nude figure art may portend the end of the world.

heres a little gem, dutifully inspired by the stunning work of a certain audrey kawasaki. i've just started ripping her off...and I intend to again. As if you don't.

snowman - concept one. like dessert, only more papery, depending on the dessert. obviously.

this is a concept sketch for an online graphic novel i'm working on....and WORDLESS even! I guess actually it would be more of a short story, but its not humorous in any way, so i shall call it a graphic novel.

Coming soon, (tentatively and somewhat inappropriately) under the working title of....'SNOWMAN'. This title is seeming to stick, so i'm fairly certain it shall remain so.

I will keep you abreast.

For those of you curious as to how I am dating my work.....the middle numbers are the month.

Thank you so much.

Timing is everything.

chair-stairs-tree

from my sketchbook. pencil. paper. solo.

basic training. cute yet ferocious.

this is another collab between myself and my four year old. beautiful isnt it?

the illegibility of your life.

this is a collab between me and my four year old daughter. she painted the background. what a genius.