“A man might go out and paint a beautiful landscape or a beautiful picture of the human figure, but he is copying nature. Men who paint or draw from life — roses, skies, objects of this and that, still life, etc. — are merely copying what they see. They are called artists. The cartoonist must create, he must see in his mind a situation, maybe full of life and comedy, maybe still of dramatic or tragic. He must draw it with all the feeling in him — without models or other aids that artists call to hand.”
– Winsor McCay, “On Being A Cartoonist,” reprinted in Daydreams and Nightmares
I wonder what McCay would’ve said about Google image search?
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I’m getting back into work on Calamity, after a brief, stress-relieving hiatus. Working on “Key” has really made me realize how much I miss working with pen and paper — how essential rough sketches and ink on the fingers is to the whole project of making comics. Working on short, quickly-finished projects while working on a longer, drawn out project seems to be the way to go for me…I still say the best way to work with comics is to write short strips and storylines around the same characters/setting and then later weave them into a lengthier narrative for publication.
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Part of my job at the library is teaching computer classes to (mostly) elderly patrons. Eventually, I want to write a long, lengthy post about this experience, but for now, I’m meditating on my own thoughts and feelings about old folks.
The good part of me wants to reach out to them, listen to their wisdom, and help them navigate the technology-obsessed terrain that is modern life. This part of me wonders why we don’t refer to them as “The Elders,” and seat them at the prime spot in front of the campfire to give advice to the tribe, instead of shuffling them away to nursing homes.
But then there is an ugly part of my being that wants to reject old folks — this is the part that doesn’t buy into the “Greatest Generation” Tom Brokaw crap, that blames the supposedly righteous and untouchable WWII generation for our current problems, that doesn’t respect the “I’ve been here longer than you so I have a right to be cranky” rule, and that wonders why those who can’t take care of themselves don’t say goodbye to their friends and family and walk out into the frozen wilderness.
Anyways, I guess what I’m thinking about is usefulness. People have to have a purpose. A place. An individuality, but also a role within a larger community. How do we accomplish this?
The singularity is near. What are we going to do with all these old people?