Sunday, February 11, 2007


or How I Learned to Start Caring and Loathe the Art

Sham On. Last night, I was inking the first panel of the new page one. I was liking it. Things were loose. Times were high. Moved it from the light table to the drawing board once the forms were down. Put the second panel on the light table and started that.

I always like to work on one or two things at the same time. Helps with making sure things are dry and gets your eyes focussed on something else for a moment. Breathing while working.

So, I'm coming close to finishing panel two when I stopped. Wha hoppen? Something went wrong. I couldn't see the image anymore. Or, rather, I could see it and it had sort of dissolved into some abstract mess. All the positve spaces were the same size and shape. The negative spaces were all the same size and shape. Even the lettering seemed to dissolve into the overalledness of it. "Here's your wallpaper, Mr. Smith, I hope it won't distract from the furniture."

Out came the correction fluid. (Side note: this is the term an ex thought I should use to refer to spermicide. Aw, snap! Oh well, she's an ex now. How you like THAT correction fluid, toots?*)

After whiting out a ton of ink, I started losing some of the proper lines. And the thing was turning into a sloppy mess.

I knew I was going to have to redo the whole thing, but I was frozen. I couldn't work my head around what was right and what was wrong. Worse, I was suddenly terrified of finishing the first panel. What if I poured it all out, in an effort to seal in the greatness, and wound up with another complete mess? So, I cracked wine and popped Infernal Affairs. The joy of drink and convoluted plot structures helped heal the wound.

I came back to the panels today. I realized two things:

1) I needed to rethink that second panel with freshness.
2) I was going to have to finish the first panel on tracing paper to make shure things worked.

Well, things look like they're going to work, but I need to redo the first panel anyway. I actually need it to be less loose. More tight. Born-again virgin. More stylized, less Bettie Davis eyes. We don't need another hero.

Now I'm just hoping I can get through these first two panels before the weekend is over...

*This story isn't even remotely true. I wish it was, though. That would've been awesome.


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