The other day, while coloring a new page for Periphery, I came upon something rather interesting; infectious, truly.
My weekends are now devoted to painting these pages since, whilst some may say unfortunately, demand a considerable amount of time each, upward of 6 hours per page. What helps to keep me focused are podcasts of different shows, some of whom I may know of but never invested any time into, others I've long since promised myself that I would.
Among these is a segment on WNYC called Radiolab, it's a phenomenally well choreographed one-hour segment that delves into some of life's many intrinsic topics, and can really cut deep into them, provide sound insight, the likes of which I'd never heard of before, nor since. Within that, there was a particularly new artist that was brought to my attention, he goes by the name of William Basinski.
Now, Mr. Basinski's work isn't new, as a matter of fact he's been at this for quite some time, however what was brought to my attention may just as well have existed for hundreds of years. At the turn of the century he stumbled upon a technique in audio recording that within itself embodied a genre of its own. The irony of this process, as it's title being apropos, is called disintegration looping.
There's much about this process that the helpful Wikipedia link provided in the text could do a far better job than I at explaining, what I want to stress about my "discovery" is my subjective insight on this atypical genre.
These loops are essentially a cataclysmic result of the destruction and erosion of prerecorded data from an obsolete medium being transferred to and captured on another medium. With each pass, a little piece of this element of history is lost forever, the ferrite ink on the tape being chipped away little by little until...
These are not songs, recorded with traditional intent with common aspects representing it's respective beginning, middle, and end; and yet, that indeed they were.
What Basinki has accomplished here, as far as I am able to identify, is the perennial death of a song; just a small 15 to 20 second segment looping eternally until the very essence of its own existence erodes to nothingness.
You listen, continuously; you listen until the song dies.
I still am unable to fully comprehend what these loops were able to signify, especially considering when Basinki first came up with this method of art.
People have always know that the preservation of data over time is shadowy, uncertain, why the very materials they're emblazoned on are not meant to last forever even in the most ideal environments. But this? This goes beyond preservation. This to me encompasses the same methodology as the narrative in The Fountain; a means to come to terms with one's own mortality, to embrace that even music, sound, generated wavelengths of sound that are cohesively and purposefully aligned to create a concise volume of melodies, are capable of death; I honestly do not believe anyone before this man has actually captured this.
I was humbled that night, I listened for hours to the various recordings he put together, and shivered at the first instant that that one piece, that one note, that one wavelength was gone from the loop forever. And just on and on and on, one by one, each little part that was at one point so important, so necessary to the collective that was this prerecorded entity, would be lost to existence for all eternity.
These notions are without a doubt intrinsic within life itself, I just never thought it so existential as to be applied to music.
I was humbled, and reminded of life's fleeting nature, oxymoronic though it may sound. So much so that this entry is actually meant to encompass an earlier one that I wanted to utilize to stress the current state of mind at the time:
"Fucking Christ, this is becoming taxing.
I really don't even know what to put on this any more, I've never appreciated blogs nor blog sites, they're just a trite means to bitch about stupid shit that has no merit or purpose to enlighten others around you; I guess except for those that do.
So yeah, I'll be the former right now; painted giant fucking hypocrite.
I hate being a fucking artist. I hate that this shit is so much of a goddamned struggle with no help or aide or fucks to give. I hate that I lacked the foreknowledge of not going to an overpriced shit-for-profit institution like my fucking school. I hate that I'm consumed by debt with no means of escape. I hate the fact that I've lost 5 years of my life NOT fucking being employed in the industry that validates my debt, thereby granting me the means of garnering experience, thereby granting me an opportunity to ACTUALLY FUCKING WORK in my industry.
I fucking hate all of this.
I really do."
And on and on it went, just like the loops. My weeks ebb and flow in this trivial battle of not knowing, but wanting. So I press on.
I've told my friends this, when they've come to me while under that looming cloud; just press on.
I sometimes have a hard time practicing what I preach, but I know I mean well.
I'm adamant of Issue 3's completion, I know what it will mean for my personal endeavors, however, I'm slightly frightened of what it may mean otherwise; a topic I'm currently not at liberty to share since anything can happen between now and this book's completion. All I know is that I've invested 2 of the most insanely active years of my life into this series, and I've enjoyed every second of seeing this thing come to life.
All things, are to and must, return to the Earth from which they arose, but sometimes, if you're fortunate enough, you can instill a pattern that describes you, emanates you in all possible ways; relive and reintroduce this into your existence day after day after day. And then you, too, will disintegrate, no more capable of fully capturing the essence of what was formally yours. But you'll have come from something so worthwhile, so magnificent, that perhaps maybe, somewhere, there's a record of you to be replayed on a different medium.
Saturday, September 27, 2014
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Count Your Blessings...
With roughly a stone's throw away from 2014's Florida Supercon, I've found myself seemingly breathless for the forthcoming excitement. It will have been exactly a year since I've started this campaign with the help and support of close friends and fledgling followers; a year of twists and turns, a great majority of which were not planned for (as it is with most in life).
I'm anxious for what the future holds, but I should probably start paying greater attention to the now; imagine how much trouble one can find themselves in when you do nothing and expect no repercussions. Issue 3 of Periphery is going strong, getting really close to wrapping inking, and very much on schedule for Fall's release. No dates yet, don't really want to rush it.
I'll be pushing FLSC on my own this year, which is kinda overwhelming but I think I ought to be able to handle it.
NYCC definitely isn't happening (got rejected), but I'm gonna keep my eyes open for other conventions to do one last HOORAH for Periphery.
I'm still on the fence as to whether or not I'll continue to pursue being an indie comic artist once Volume One is done, so whatever convention I go to later in the year really may just be the end of it. Time will tell I guess.
Volume One is that short term culmination goal of mine that I'm ever so itching to smell, holding that book will, and I'm kind of giving away the page count for Issue 3, amount to what will be damn near 100 sequential pages of artwork! The highest I've EVER produced in my entire tenure as an artist. It really isn't anything to gloat about when put into perspective on an Industrial basis, but on my own, it's a goddamned milestone if I ever saw one.
I've had my hand in digital illustrations for a few months now, refining my skills and getting a lot of practice in to reach a small goal I've set for myself to become badass at it (I wanna get on Roxie's level but damn it'll take some work yo). Hopefully after a few more months of training I should be able to make a convincing portfolio that can open better offers for industry jobs.
Outside of all of this, it's all been another day in the fight, making the best of and adamantly pushing for greater things
Hope to see some of if not all of your dope faces at the convention!
I'm anxious for what the future holds, but I should probably start paying greater attention to the now; imagine how much trouble one can find themselves in when you do nothing and expect no repercussions. Issue 3 of Periphery is going strong, getting really close to wrapping inking, and very much on schedule for Fall's release. No dates yet, don't really want to rush it.
I'll be pushing FLSC on my own this year, which is kinda overwhelming but I think I ought to be able to handle it.
NYCC definitely isn't happening (got rejected), but I'm gonna keep my eyes open for other conventions to do one last HOORAH for Periphery.
I'm still on the fence as to whether or not I'll continue to pursue being an indie comic artist once Volume One is done, so whatever convention I go to later in the year really may just be the end of it. Time will tell I guess.
Volume One is that short term culmination goal of mine that I'm ever so itching to smell, holding that book will, and I'm kind of giving away the page count for Issue 3, amount to what will be damn near 100 sequential pages of artwork! The highest I've EVER produced in my entire tenure as an artist. It really isn't anything to gloat about when put into perspective on an Industrial basis, but on my own, it's a goddamned milestone if I ever saw one.
I've had my hand in digital illustrations for a few months now, refining my skills and getting a lot of practice in to reach a small goal I've set for myself to become badass at it (I wanna get on Roxie's level but damn it'll take some work yo). Hopefully after a few more months of training I should be able to make a convincing portfolio that can open better offers for industry jobs.
Outside of all of this, it's all been another day in the fight, making the best of and adamantly pushing for greater things
Hope to see some of if not all of your dope faces at the convention!
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
NYSOM I
An engaging 2 months it has been since I've moved out here, and quite the experience to say the least. If ever there was a proverbial fire to be thrown into, I'd be lying if I said I came out unscathed, or if I've even left at all for that matter. Some of my all time biggest fears living here were squashed almost immediately, the largest of which being driving. Having kept with my employer from Florida, their offices are in White Plains, NY, whereas I reside in Brooklyn. Since the majority of you are my comrades from FL, the distance traveled between both cities equates to driving from South Miami to Boca; it is quite long. On a good day with minimal traffic, the commute is a solid 55 minutes (it's that accurate, practically every time), on the average day, it's a lengthy hour and a half.
And yes, that's both ways.
The job is doing what it's meant to do: provide a means of income to supplement my craft, and my overall enjoyability of New York (tends to get pricey here). But unfortunately it's becoming a bigger hindrance to my accomplishments that any job I've held before, and this is due predominantly to the fact that I'm devoting an extra 2 and a half to 3 hours for commuting a day, robbing me upwards of 15 hours a week; subsequently the roadways up here are far more enjoyable, loads of twists and turns and inclines and declines, potholes and bumps, change in elevation, you name it! So yeah, coupled with WNYC on the radio, it makes it fun, but definitely does not change the fact that I'm losing so much time in a week.
I still devote a considerable amount of time at night to work on my projects, but there isn't much time to absorb the city in the week, I'm usually left to do so in the 48 hours I have in the weekend; a tangible goal, but who wants to that forever?
But, all quips aside, I can't get enough of this place. The environment SCREAMS hustle! Every man for himself but every New Yorker for their fellow New Yorker. As much as there is to loathe there is plenty still to humble yourself and admire. This is a beautifully crafted city, ugly in all the right places, many of which are blatantly visible to the public, all the while seamlessly and effortlessly incorporated into the very fabric of this culture. In time I hope to happily leave my current employment with a better and more career oriented job op, especially one where I can stay in New York City.
As far as projects are concerned, I'd like to utilize this time to talk a little about Supercon and what I plan to bring to the table. Literally.
Issue 3 of Periphery is still under way, however the release period has been set for Fall. There's still plenty work to do before that book is finished, and welp, it won't see the light of day for Supercon unfortunately. Upon Issue 2's completion, I was dead set on showing up this year with guns blazing, but with the move north and my trip to Trinidad (which was dope by the way, I've got pics, will share later) smack dab in the middle of it all, that cost me a few weeks of work time, but I'm not complaining.
Instead, I've decided to do not only one, but TWO new 12-page Issue Zero books to supplement Issue 3! Check em'! That's three titles with 4 books between them! Well above my singular Issue One from 2013, and far more exciting for the turn around!
There's Periphery's Issue One and Two, Issue Zero of KODA, my collaboration with Jorge Benitez, and another book which will be revealed the day of; my table is gonna be stacked! And I'm beyond stoked! I ought to be handling prints all through June in time for the convention, I really really hope to see you cats there!
Beyond Supercon, I'm eying entry for New York Comic Con this year. Outside of the ridiculously priced tables for artist (300 bones for a single, 500 for a 6 footer), there's a... how to say it... evaluation process? One does not simply buy there way into NYCC. According to the website, they're to contact all artists that signed up in something like June or whatever, so I'm not really holding my breath; I get in, fuckin' A right! I don't, welp, next year. I'll only hang up my comic cape once I've participated in at least THAT convention.
Maybe. I don't know.
Anywho. To all of you, a huge thanks, as always, and I hope all is well!
Cheers!
And yes, that's both ways.
The job is doing what it's meant to do: provide a means of income to supplement my craft, and my overall enjoyability of New York (tends to get pricey here). But unfortunately it's becoming a bigger hindrance to my accomplishments that any job I've held before, and this is due predominantly to the fact that I'm devoting an extra 2 and a half to 3 hours for commuting a day, robbing me upwards of 15 hours a week; subsequently the roadways up here are far more enjoyable, loads of twists and turns and inclines and declines, potholes and bumps, change in elevation, you name it! So yeah, coupled with WNYC on the radio, it makes it fun, but definitely does not change the fact that I'm losing so much time in a week.
I still devote a considerable amount of time at night to work on my projects, but there isn't much time to absorb the city in the week, I'm usually left to do so in the 48 hours I have in the weekend; a tangible goal, but who wants to that forever?
But, all quips aside, I can't get enough of this place. The environment SCREAMS hustle! Every man for himself but every New Yorker for their fellow New Yorker. As much as there is to loathe there is plenty still to humble yourself and admire. This is a beautifully crafted city, ugly in all the right places, many of which are blatantly visible to the public, all the while seamlessly and effortlessly incorporated into the very fabric of this culture. In time I hope to happily leave my current employment with a better and more career oriented job op, especially one where I can stay in New York City.
As far as projects are concerned, I'd like to utilize this time to talk a little about Supercon and what I plan to bring to the table. Literally.
Issue 3 of Periphery is still under way, however the release period has been set for Fall. There's still plenty work to do before that book is finished, and welp, it won't see the light of day for Supercon unfortunately. Upon Issue 2's completion, I was dead set on showing up this year with guns blazing, but with the move north and my trip to Trinidad (which was dope by the way, I've got pics, will share later) smack dab in the middle of it all, that cost me a few weeks of work time, but I'm not complaining.
Instead, I've decided to do not only one, but TWO new 12-page Issue Zero books to supplement Issue 3! Check em'! That's three titles with 4 books between them! Well above my singular Issue One from 2013, and far more exciting for the turn around!
There's Periphery's Issue One and Two, Issue Zero of KODA, my collaboration with Jorge Benitez, and another book which will be revealed the day of; my table is gonna be stacked! And I'm beyond stoked! I ought to be handling prints all through June in time for the convention, I really really hope to see you cats there!
Beyond Supercon, I'm eying entry for New York Comic Con this year. Outside of the ridiculously priced tables for artist (300 bones for a single, 500 for a 6 footer), there's a... how to say it... evaluation process? One does not simply buy there way into NYCC. According to the website, they're to contact all artists that signed up in something like June or whatever, so I'm not really holding my breath; I get in, fuckin' A right! I don't, welp, next year. I'll only hang up my comic cape once I've participated in at least THAT convention.
Maybe. I don't know.
Anywho. To all of you, a huge thanks, as always, and I hope all is well!
Cheers!
Sunday, April 13, 2014
S'about Right...
Chapters Are Written to Be Concluded...
There is a part of me that feels as though by the time this entry has finished, it will become a memoir of sorts, chronicling THE most hectic 4 years of my life. Hectic, if I may further extrapolate, in not so much a manner of uncontrollable chaos, but more so the stream of circumstances one man can bare relatively on his own.
But, I digress.
Today begins what will be among the greatest undertakings of my life, more so as an individual seeking to carve a niche into a world already saturated with thousands, if not millions, of like-minded individuals. But before I get into the theatrics of said "undertaking", I'll go back to the beginning.
Conditions at my former place of residence started to take a heavier toll on my patience, also too my conscious, and unfortunately became unbearable. For too long I sought only to escape but had no means to do so; no outlet, no privileges, left only to maintain a level of sanity and simply make do with my daily life.
Needless to say, when the opportunity I so desperately sought finally appeared, it didn't take much to convince me otherwise.
"Our landlords are selling the house; gotta be out be April 1st".
The first tell-tale signs of my course through life began to appear, crept secretly into my periphery (pun very much intended), slowly but assuredly proclaiming its importance, and more so its near damning inevitability.
The time came to make a decision: do I stay among my closest friends? Continue the long, drawn out path I halfheartedly create on a daily basis, with minimal success and even marginal happiness, but STILL among my closest friends?
Or do I leave? Take my journey somewhere that an emphasis of perseverance can offer a wider chance of success? And make better use of the craft I love so dear?
Hours turned days, days turned weeks. And now here, on this very night, the culmination of years of work in, around, outside, and furthest away from what I want to accomplish for myself, will be recognized.
With the knowledge of my job's recent merger, I sat with my boss and asked what it would take to be transferred to another of our many nationwide offices? His response a simple "not much".
I phoned my mom, whom lives in New York, where we have an office that offers the same position that I currently hold, and asked her opinion on the matter: should I take up the opportunity to not be tied down to another lease and move there?
Once again, needless to say, her response didn't take much thought.
And so there I was, hands outstretched ready to grasp at one of two extremely important decisions; both of which as appealing as they were daunting to consider. But, even after the many back and forth settings, looking for any reason to stay in Florida, identifying all the reasons moving to New York would be beneficial, I knew what I had to do.
Twenty-Two Hours...
The drive was arduous to say the least, but necessary to make the most of the time we'd be there. If I were to work at the New York facility, having a car was an absolute must. The commute alone will be tumultuous, though I've never driven in New York, my time inside vehicles were always slightly fearful; then again, cabbies can get like that.
So my buddy and I take to the road, dead-set on making this a straight shot with no overlay at any point, wanting to get started as soon as necessary. After work, I drove home, packed my car, driving partner included, topped off the petrol, and by 1 a.m. we were on our way. There was plenty to discuss in the time behind the wheel, that of what lay in front of us both, and to reflect on what has transpired.
For me, the duty never changed, only the place where it could possibly happen easier. In my heart I feel that I can sometimes over estimate my capabilities, my attendance to MOCCA was an overwhelming reminder of just how much work I've yet to cover, and just how diminutive I am within the illustration community that, though I may be proud of what I've accomplished with Periphery, relocating to New York, I now stand in the midst of giants whose very existence is not aware to me; and there in lies the key.
I take it upon myself to be seen, to be heard, to be recognized by every one of them, because this time I can.
I needn't wait until a convention transpires once every 6 months to a year just to see a talented individual, an established artist, or the company responsible for establishing them, I get to see them now.
Most of whom live in the same damn city that I do! Many of which take the same trains I take! This, ladies and gentlemen, is how one man can move within empires and among them. It behooves me to make good on what IS New York's most vital asset: networking.
And Then There were Three...
I've been putting my nose to the grindstone, in a manner of speaking, for the past 4 months working on Issue Three. Looking back at my past 2 issues, I'm well within my 6 month average turn around time for a completed issue, conceptualization to print (nothing to gloat about, obviously), but this time, I may be playing it too close to the flame. A week or so ago I capped 15 pages penciled and inked, which, is not a BAD turn around time given that at the end of October I had to pencil the 12 pages of KODA's Issue Zero, and wrap my freelance book. However, the more scarier aspect of issue three? After 4 months of consistent work, 15 pages is not the half way mark.
Shaggers.
(I just learned this word today, it's fucking awesome! Thanks Adam!)
My ultimate goal was attending Florida's Supercon in July, armed with single prints of Issue 1, 2, and 3, AND the creme de la creme, VOL 1 hard cover (I'm gleaming with excitement if you can't tell).
I don't want to reveal the final page count until the book's wrap, but it looks like this has turned out to be a bigger problem than I anticipated. Reasons why you ask? Well I'd be more than happy to share!
So as not to be forced to pay out the ass in turn around time for prints, you'd want that solid month window to appropriate the printing process at the most cost effective measure. Sadly enough, that only gives me roughly a month and a half to not only finish drawing the book, but also inking it, coloring it, lettering it, and added effects, all in time for printing in June.
This is in no way an easy accomplishment, the sheer daunting measures involved are very scary, but I'm so confident in this third issue that the reveal will be monumentally worth it.
Enough so that perhaps maybe, just maybe, it'll take exactly the time it needs to prepare for New York Comic Con.
And With That...
As of Friday, April 11th, I have left Florida to become a resident of New York.
This opportunity fits the most golden scenario anyone could ask for when uprooting their livelihood to live in a new place; a place to live and a place to work. It’s exactly what I need to take the next step in my life and my career of being a comic artist, New York ought to be the kind of place where I can take advantage of the resources that actually exist in this city.
I only wish to share this one last thing for all of you that have taken the time out of your life to read this: I have worked my ass off for four years since graduating the Art Institute, but more importantly, I have grown up. That school fed me such a plate of bullshit that it stifles my breath by the mere mentioning of its name, but I am grateful for it. I worked for years doing shit jobs with 4 hour daily commutes by bus, being caught in the rain and shat on by birds on one too many occasions, but it has made me tougher. I met the love of my life and lost her just the same; a woman who at the time became exactly what I wanted, but regrettably not what was necessary, but I learned to endure.
In all of the years I've experienced post-college grown-up life, every day of hardship, every day of shortcomings, every bus that was late, every mile I've walked, every storm I was caught in, every hour spent waiting, every disappointment, every dissolute guarantee, every smile I've faked, every boss I've ever had, every home I've had the pleasure to come to, every minute behind a pencil, every moment of silence, everything I've had to let go, every trial of endurance, every tribulation; it’s people like you, and what you represent, that will forever remain one of the most important aspects of my journey in life.
To new beginnings.
Cheers.
There is a part of me that feels as though by the time this entry has finished, it will become a memoir of sorts, chronicling THE most hectic 4 years of my life. Hectic, if I may further extrapolate, in not so much a manner of uncontrollable chaos, but more so the stream of circumstances one man can bare relatively on his own.
But, I digress.
Today begins what will be among the greatest undertakings of my life, more so as an individual seeking to carve a niche into a world already saturated with thousands, if not millions, of like-minded individuals. But before I get into the theatrics of said "undertaking", I'll go back to the beginning.
Conditions at my former place of residence started to take a heavier toll on my patience, also too my conscious, and unfortunately became unbearable. For too long I sought only to escape but had no means to do so; no outlet, no privileges, left only to maintain a level of sanity and simply make do with my daily life.
Needless to say, when the opportunity I so desperately sought finally appeared, it didn't take much to convince me otherwise.
"Our landlords are selling the house; gotta be out be April 1st".
The first tell-tale signs of my course through life began to appear, crept secretly into my periphery (pun very much intended), slowly but assuredly proclaiming its importance, and more so its near damning inevitability.
The time came to make a decision: do I stay among my closest friends? Continue the long, drawn out path I halfheartedly create on a daily basis, with minimal success and even marginal happiness, but STILL among my closest friends?
Or do I leave? Take my journey somewhere that an emphasis of perseverance can offer a wider chance of success? And make better use of the craft I love so dear?
Hours turned days, days turned weeks. And now here, on this very night, the culmination of years of work in, around, outside, and furthest away from what I want to accomplish for myself, will be recognized.
With the knowledge of my job's recent merger, I sat with my boss and asked what it would take to be transferred to another of our many nationwide offices? His response a simple "not much".
I phoned my mom, whom lives in New York, where we have an office that offers the same position that I currently hold, and asked her opinion on the matter: should I take up the opportunity to not be tied down to another lease and move there?
Once again, needless to say, her response didn't take much thought.
And so there I was, hands outstretched ready to grasp at one of two extremely important decisions; both of which as appealing as they were daunting to consider. But, even after the many back and forth settings, looking for any reason to stay in Florida, identifying all the reasons moving to New York would be beneficial, I knew what I had to do.
Twenty-Two Hours...
The drive was arduous to say the least, but necessary to make the most of the time we'd be there. If I were to work at the New York facility, having a car was an absolute must. The commute alone will be tumultuous, though I've never driven in New York, my time inside vehicles were always slightly fearful; then again, cabbies can get like that.
So my buddy and I take to the road, dead-set on making this a straight shot with no overlay at any point, wanting to get started as soon as necessary. After work, I drove home, packed my car, driving partner included, topped off the petrol, and by 1 a.m. we were on our way. There was plenty to discuss in the time behind the wheel, that of what lay in front of us both, and to reflect on what has transpired.
For me, the duty never changed, only the place where it could possibly happen easier. In my heart I feel that I can sometimes over estimate my capabilities, my attendance to MOCCA was an overwhelming reminder of just how much work I've yet to cover, and just how diminutive I am within the illustration community that, though I may be proud of what I've accomplished with Periphery, relocating to New York, I now stand in the midst of giants whose very existence is not aware to me; and there in lies the key.
I take it upon myself to be seen, to be heard, to be recognized by every one of them, because this time I can.
I needn't wait until a convention transpires once every 6 months to a year just to see a talented individual, an established artist, or the company responsible for establishing them, I get to see them now.
Most of whom live in the same damn city that I do! Many of which take the same trains I take! This, ladies and gentlemen, is how one man can move within empires and among them. It behooves me to make good on what IS New York's most vital asset: networking.
And Then There were Three...
I've been putting my nose to the grindstone, in a manner of speaking, for the past 4 months working on Issue Three. Looking back at my past 2 issues, I'm well within my 6 month average turn around time for a completed issue, conceptualization to print (nothing to gloat about, obviously), but this time, I may be playing it too close to the flame. A week or so ago I capped 15 pages penciled and inked, which, is not a BAD turn around time given that at the end of October I had to pencil the 12 pages of KODA's Issue Zero, and wrap my freelance book. However, the more scarier aspect of issue three? After 4 months of consistent work, 15 pages is not the half way mark.
Shaggers.
(I just learned this word today, it's fucking awesome! Thanks Adam!)
My ultimate goal was attending Florida's Supercon in July, armed with single prints of Issue 1, 2, and 3, AND the creme de la creme, VOL 1 hard cover (I'm gleaming with excitement if you can't tell).
I don't want to reveal the final page count until the book's wrap, but it looks like this has turned out to be a bigger problem than I anticipated. Reasons why you ask? Well I'd be more than happy to share!
So as not to be forced to pay out the ass in turn around time for prints, you'd want that solid month window to appropriate the printing process at the most cost effective measure. Sadly enough, that only gives me roughly a month and a half to not only finish drawing the book, but also inking it, coloring it, lettering it, and added effects, all in time for printing in June.
This is in no way an easy accomplishment, the sheer daunting measures involved are very scary, but I'm so confident in this third issue that the reveal will be monumentally worth it.
Enough so that perhaps maybe, just maybe, it'll take exactly the time it needs to prepare for New York Comic Con.
And With That...
As of Friday, April 11th, I have left Florida to become a resident of New York.
This opportunity fits the most golden scenario anyone could ask for when uprooting their livelihood to live in a new place; a place to live and a place to work. It’s exactly what I need to take the next step in my life and my career of being a comic artist, New York ought to be the kind of place where I can take advantage of the resources that actually exist in this city.
I only wish to share this one last thing for all of you that have taken the time out of your life to read this: I have worked my ass off for four years since graduating the Art Institute, but more importantly, I have grown up. That school fed me such a plate of bullshit that it stifles my breath by the mere mentioning of its name, but I am grateful for it. I worked for years doing shit jobs with 4 hour daily commutes by bus, being caught in the rain and shat on by birds on one too many occasions, but it has made me tougher. I met the love of my life and lost her just the same; a woman who at the time became exactly what I wanted, but regrettably not what was necessary, but I learned to endure.
In all of the years I've experienced post-college grown-up life, every day of hardship, every day of shortcomings, every bus that was late, every mile I've walked, every storm I was caught in, every hour spent waiting, every disappointment, every dissolute guarantee, every smile I've faked, every boss I've ever had, every home I've had the pleasure to come to, every minute behind a pencil, every moment of silence, everything I've had to let go, every trial of endurance, every tribulation; it’s people like you, and what you represent, that will forever remain one of the most important aspects of my journey in life.
To new beginnings.
Cheers.
Monday, February 17, 2014
Remember When I Said...
Hello, friends!
There was something that happened to me late last year that I ought to have contributed to my blog; I'm over it enough now that I'd like to share it with the lot of you! Your time and patience, and this I cannot stress enough, is of the utmost value to me.
So, in the words of Mr. Keenan: Alrighty then. Picture this if you will..."
I had a truck, this beautiful, 1993 Ford Ranger (beauty being within the eye of the beholder goes without saying on this one), of which became my second car after the Civic died in the great Blown Motor Event of Summer 2013 (let this be a lesson to all: utilizing a 20+ year old car as a delivery service vehicle for an establishment like Jimmy Johns is borderline insanity, it is by comparison a 55 year old healthy man taking on chain smoking and binge drinking, there should be no surprise he's dead in a few years). This Ranger was plagued by various vehicular hick-ups and a slew of issues that turned it into a really expensive lemon. But, be that as it may, I really, reaaally loved that truck.
The time came for us to part ways, I needed to become smarter with my choice of second hand vehicles, maybe even looking into the option of financing, so I started identifying some of the more obvious problems it had, fixing it, and putting up for sale on the Listcraig's (there's absolutely no reason for me to spell it that way, it's just funny to me). My former roommate, Mr. Fernandito as I like to call him, has a 2002 Honda Civic coupe; a sexy, forest-green, 5-speed bad-assery with what? Mother. Fucking. Air. Conditioning; it was not a luxury to turn my nose up to.
Mr. Fernandito was asking for fifteen hundred, a novel price for a car in its condition and age, I shook his hand, and told him "within a few weeks, the truck will be sold, the money will be yours, and all will be well with the world".
Yes.
Indeed it would.
Mr. Fernandito was making plans to relocate to Puerto Rico, and I wanted to be the guy to lift the Civic off his hands. I knew it wouldn't take much to get the Civic to my standards, given especially, that it had a working HVAC system, hell as far as I was concerned it would inevitably be the wisest choice I could make financially. So by the time he was ready to make the move back home, Christmas was right around the corner: boy, was it beginning to look a lot like something.
The Ranger was up on Listcraig's, looking pretty as fuck in all of her under-powered, Inline-4 glory, and within two weeks; a buyer.
"Hello!"
She said, in an as eloquent a greeting could be poised to a would-be salesman of goods.
"My name is <redacted>, and I'm interested in taking a look at your truck!"
Let's stop there for a moment. Already I'm beyond elated to have the truck sold in such a short amount of time, allowing me a chance to get over the vehicle-less hump I despise ever so greatly. So I glossed over the email I received from Listcraig's through my phone, and went on with the rest of my day at work with a brimming smile on my face.
Later that night, I sat at my computer to read and subsequently re-read the email:
"I'm the creative director for an advertising firm in Canada, we're shooting a video in your area this weekend and we'd like to rent your truck for the two days!"
So at first, after catching myself, I was only slightly heart broken coming to the realization that I may not be able to have the truck sold, and that <redacted> wouldn't be the little lamb's new owner.
"But...wait" I then thought aloud, "she's the creative director of a company in Canada; she's a creative director; she's my fucking ticket out of here!!!"
Immediately, I replied to her email, and for one week, we texted (apparently Google spell-check doesn't like the word "texted"... but is OK with "gonna"...hmm) back and forth, fine tuning details about how, and when, and where, it was all gonna go down. I began ignoring the "sale" of truck, and focused on the "sale" of me; what would be the odds of her being my opportunity to get out of this <redacted> of a life, and begin my career as an artist? What would be the odds that this opportunity would want MY fucking Ranger?!
It was beginning to look a lot like something.
Two days prior to our scheduled day of transaction, I spoke with my roommate <redacted> whom is a very talented mechanic, to identify this lingering ignition problem that has plagued the Ranger since I bought it; off an on, the truck would start fine for weeks, then all of a sudden, not. My work schedule doesn't allow for a lot of free time during the work week, so I begged him to utilize his scanner to figure out what the problem is, what part I need to buy, and if I can install it without the need of taking it to the shop. By this time, Mr. Fernandito was already home in Rico, and I was using his Civic, with permission, in preparation to buy it and sell my truck.
The day before the schedule date of transaction, my mechanic roommate finally got around to testing the truck's ignition issues, and narrowed the problem to the Ignition Control Module; apropos. It was a $150 unit, and required a wrench and I forgot the size of the bolt head but it's like, mad small yo.
The night before, Florida decides it drop to the mid 50's (Fahrenheit); with respect to my Northeastern brethren; tis but a scratch in the eyes of cold. But for a Floridian living in 38 Celsius (for my European peeps), that was a very real and very COLD twenty degree difference. I begged my boss to let me leave work one hour early to pick up the part at the only Advance Auto within a fucking 30 mile radius of my house that had it, go to FedEx Kinko's to print the waiver, AND I needed an extension cable to use my other roommate's flood lamp to work in the dark.
I left work at 8 p.m., got to work on the truck by 10 p.m..
It was beginning to look a lot like something.
One hour into the repair, the time came to test the newly added device. At this time, my life would go one of two ways: option A? Nowhere. Figure out the rest.
Part installed, connector pins re-fucking-connected, fingers crossed.
Dead start.
Head scratched, fear sets in.
My mechanic roommate comes out and checks everything, to make sure I didn't FUCK it up like I did on the Starter Solenoid many months before.
Everything is cleared, he runs the electrical test once more; all green.
Dead Start (to my non mechanically inclined peeps, by the oxymoronic term that is "Dead Start", it essentially means the engine is turning over, but is not igniting, it just makes that ju ju ju ju ju ju noise.)
Head scratched, fear becomes real.
I switched out the new part for the old part, now two hours into the repair, wondering, what the hell, right?
Starts.
Head scratched, shoulders shrugged.
I close up shop, pack away my tools, and proceeded to take the truck around my block to make sure she's good for my 8 a.m. date with the would be buyer.
Half way around the block, there's a loud BANG! And the truck rolls to a silent and dead stop for the last time ( just as a hindsight insert here: after I junked it, I was informed that the starter motor blew up).
Dead Start.
It was beginning to look a lot like unadulterated hatred and despair for EVERY. FUCKING. THING.
So it's now midnight, the temperature has dropped considerably, and alone I sit in the road with my dead truck that is no longer starting, two blocks away from my house. I get out, turn the key into the ignition enough to unlock the steering wheel, and I push.
Sweat barreling down my face against the now frigid cold, my shirt soaked through and exposed to the atmosphere, and my hoodie doing very little to guard against the cold, luckily enough that sonofabitch was pretty lite, didn't take a considerable amount of energy to move, and for the first time in as many years as I have lived in the state of Florida; thank, fucking, GOD, for flat roads.
By 1 a.m. I've gotten the truck back atop my driveway, flood light blazing and tools in-tow, with only the will to succeed and a silent prayer on my breath; by 2 a.m., to no avail, and I decided to be a man about this situation, and contact <redacted> now, and not wait until the morning where she would be even more disappointed.
My friends, I must really, really do my best to convey just the absolute depth of pain that phone call was for me. It lasted only 30 seconds, but the overwhelming sensation of sadness, guilt, regret, hopelessness, and any other adjective better suited for this scenario, was numbing. I sat alone outside for nearly half an hour.
Beaten.
I came to, ate the second half of Subway sandwich I bought earlier that day for lunch, and slowly swallowed, along with the soggy bread, flavorless meat, and sodden lettuce, the absolute depth of pain.
This all transpired well over a month ago, in a lot of ways, there were many things I did wrong, like not coming clean with the condition of the Ranger from the get go, rather than thinking I could pull off a miracle repair the night before it was all gonna go down. I should've thought of a contingency should such a thing transpire, I should've done a lot of things differently, but man, I really really tried to do this right. But sometimes, it is what it is.
It's now nearing the end of February, Issue 3 of Periphery is underway and making great time for its summer release, my freelance book is underway and due to be completed in a few weeks, my collaboration with the cover artist of Issue Two is underway, also, and should prove to be a spectacular book!
All in all, things are at their darkest before the dawn. But what scares me, is that the night has not ended.
Hm.
There was something that happened to me late last year that I ought to have contributed to my blog; I'm over it enough now that I'd like to share it with the lot of you! Your time and patience, and this I cannot stress enough, is of the utmost value to me.
So, in the words of Mr. Keenan: Alrighty then. Picture this if you will..."
I had a truck, this beautiful, 1993 Ford Ranger (beauty being within the eye of the beholder goes without saying on this one), of which became my second car after the Civic died in the great Blown Motor Event of Summer 2013 (let this be a lesson to all: utilizing a 20+ year old car as a delivery service vehicle for an establishment like Jimmy Johns is borderline insanity, it is by comparison a 55 year old healthy man taking on chain smoking and binge drinking, there should be no surprise he's dead in a few years). This Ranger was plagued by various vehicular hick-ups and a slew of issues that turned it into a really expensive lemon. But, be that as it may, I really, reaaally loved that truck.
The time came for us to part ways, I needed to become smarter with my choice of second hand vehicles, maybe even looking into the option of financing, so I started identifying some of the more obvious problems it had, fixing it, and putting up for sale on the Listcraig's (there's absolutely no reason for me to spell it that way, it's just funny to me). My former roommate, Mr. Fernandito as I like to call him, has a 2002 Honda Civic coupe; a sexy, forest-green, 5-speed bad-assery with what? Mother. Fucking. Air. Conditioning; it was not a luxury to turn my nose up to.
Mr. Fernandito was asking for fifteen hundred, a novel price for a car in its condition and age, I shook his hand, and told him "within a few weeks, the truck will be sold, the money will be yours, and all will be well with the world".
Yes.
Indeed it would.
Mr. Fernandito was making plans to relocate to Puerto Rico, and I wanted to be the guy to lift the Civic off his hands. I knew it wouldn't take much to get the Civic to my standards, given especially, that it had a working HVAC system, hell as far as I was concerned it would inevitably be the wisest choice I could make financially. So by the time he was ready to make the move back home, Christmas was right around the corner: boy, was it beginning to look a lot like something.
The Ranger was up on Listcraig's, looking pretty as fuck in all of her under-powered, Inline-4 glory, and within two weeks; a buyer.
"Hello!"
She said, in an as eloquent a greeting could be poised to a would-be salesman of goods.
"My name is <redacted>, and I'm interested in taking a look at your truck!"
Let's stop there for a moment. Already I'm beyond elated to have the truck sold in such a short amount of time, allowing me a chance to get over the vehicle-less hump I despise ever so greatly. So I glossed over the email I received from Listcraig's through my phone, and went on with the rest of my day at work with a brimming smile on my face.
Later that night, I sat at my computer to read and subsequently re-read the email:
"I'm the creative director for an advertising firm in Canada, we're shooting a video in your area this weekend and we'd like to rent your truck for the two days!"
So at first, after catching myself, I was only slightly heart broken coming to the realization that I may not be able to have the truck sold, and that <redacted> wouldn't be the little lamb's new owner.
"But...wait" I then thought aloud, "she's the creative director of a company in Canada; she's a creative director; she's my fucking ticket out of here!!!"
Immediately, I replied to her email, and for one week, we texted (apparently Google spell-check doesn't like the word "texted"... but is OK with "gonna"...hmm) back and forth, fine tuning details about how, and when, and where, it was all gonna go down. I began ignoring the "sale" of truck, and focused on the "sale" of me; what would be the odds of her being my opportunity to get out of this <redacted> of a life, and begin my career as an artist? What would be the odds that this opportunity would want MY fucking Ranger?!
It was beginning to look a lot like something.
Two days prior to our scheduled day of transaction, I spoke with my roommate <redacted> whom is a very talented mechanic, to identify this lingering ignition problem that has plagued the Ranger since I bought it; off an on, the truck would start fine for weeks, then all of a sudden, not. My work schedule doesn't allow for a lot of free time during the work week, so I begged him to utilize his scanner to figure out what the problem is, what part I need to buy, and if I can install it without the need of taking it to the shop. By this time, Mr. Fernandito was already home in Rico, and I was using his Civic, with permission, in preparation to buy it and sell my truck.
The day before the schedule date of transaction, my mechanic roommate finally got around to testing the truck's ignition issues, and narrowed the problem to the Ignition Control Module; apropos. It was a $150 unit, and required a wrench and I forgot the size of the bolt head but it's like, mad small yo.
The night before, Florida decides it drop to the mid 50's (Fahrenheit); with respect to my Northeastern brethren; tis but a scratch in the eyes of cold. But for a Floridian living in 38 Celsius (for my European peeps), that was a very real and very COLD twenty degree difference. I begged my boss to let me leave work one hour early to pick up the part at the only Advance Auto within a fucking 30 mile radius of my house that had it, go to FedEx Kinko's to print the waiver, AND I needed an extension cable to use my other roommate's flood lamp to work in the dark.
I left work at 8 p.m., got to work on the truck by 10 p.m..
It was beginning to look a lot like something.
One hour into the repair, the time came to test the newly added device. At this time, my life would go one of two ways: option A? Nowhere. Figure out the rest.
Part installed, connector pins re-fucking-connected, fingers crossed.
Dead start.
Head scratched, fear sets in.
My mechanic roommate comes out and checks everything, to make sure I didn't FUCK it up like I did on the Starter Solenoid many months before.
Everything is cleared, he runs the electrical test once more; all green.
Dead Start (to my non mechanically inclined peeps, by the oxymoronic term that is "Dead Start", it essentially means the engine is turning over, but is not igniting, it just makes that ju ju ju ju ju ju noise.)
Head scratched, fear becomes real.
I switched out the new part for the old part, now two hours into the repair, wondering, what the hell, right?
Starts.
Head scratched, shoulders shrugged.
I close up shop, pack away my tools, and proceeded to take the truck around my block to make sure she's good for my 8 a.m. date with the would be buyer.
Half way around the block, there's a loud BANG! And the truck rolls to a silent and dead stop for the last time ( just as a hindsight insert here: after I junked it, I was informed that the starter motor blew up).
Dead Start.
It was beginning to look a lot like unadulterated hatred and despair for EVERY. FUCKING. THING.
So it's now midnight, the temperature has dropped considerably, and alone I sit in the road with my dead truck that is no longer starting, two blocks away from my house. I get out, turn the key into the ignition enough to unlock the steering wheel, and I push.
Sweat barreling down my face against the now frigid cold, my shirt soaked through and exposed to the atmosphere, and my hoodie doing very little to guard against the cold, luckily enough that sonofabitch was pretty lite, didn't take a considerable amount of energy to move, and for the first time in as many years as I have lived in the state of Florida; thank, fucking, GOD, for flat roads.
By 1 a.m. I've gotten the truck back atop my driveway, flood light blazing and tools in-tow, with only the will to succeed and a silent prayer on my breath; by 2 a.m., to no avail, and I decided to be a man about this situation, and contact <redacted> now, and not wait until the morning where she would be even more disappointed.
My friends, I must really, really do my best to convey just the absolute depth of pain that phone call was for me. It lasted only 30 seconds, but the overwhelming sensation of sadness, guilt, regret, hopelessness, and any other adjective better suited for this scenario, was numbing. I sat alone outside for nearly half an hour.
Beaten.
I came to, ate the second half of Subway sandwich I bought earlier that day for lunch, and slowly swallowed, along with the soggy bread, flavorless meat, and sodden lettuce, the absolute depth of pain.
This all transpired well over a month ago, in a lot of ways, there were many things I did wrong, like not coming clean with the condition of the Ranger from the get go, rather than thinking I could pull off a miracle repair the night before it was all gonna go down. I should've thought of a contingency should such a thing transpire, I should've done a lot of things differently, but man, I really really tried to do this right. But sometimes, it is what it is.
It's now nearing the end of February, Issue 3 of Periphery is underway and making great time for its summer release, my freelance book is underway and due to be completed in a few weeks, my collaboration with the cover artist of Issue Two is underway, also, and should prove to be a spectacular book!
All in all, things are at their darkest before the dawn. But what scares me, is that the night has not ended.
Hm.
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