the certain as happy as a lark lives

Happy New Years, 2008! You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here.

Last year (2007 if you're keepin' score) was a very peculiar one at that. I'm not at all political (in fact, I can't even stomach or spell the word) or too interested in current events, so I'll leave the "year in rewind" stuff to the all those high-priced teevee and magazine professionals out there. Without gettin' too personal (not until the third date, you masher!), there was a heapin' helpin' o' ups and downs; a veritable roller coaster of an edge of your seat thrill ride kind of a year for this here dumb doodler. The worst thing that happened? It definitely had to be starting this blog. I mean, come on. Have you even TRIED reading this garbage?!? What passes as social commentary (and basic grammar) these days is obviously a mystery to me. Sheesh and how! But I'd have to say the BEST thing that I accomplished this year was finally learning how to pee standing up. Seriously though, the most important thing I did was finally gettin' myself married (the first four times didn't count). I found a truly wonderful person (which I was able to build from a kit in about an hour!) who makes me happier with each passing day and has shown me the true meaning of unconditional love (so long as the money keeps rollin' in). Heck, if I had known this marriage thing was so great years ago, I would've NEVER had sold my horse!

So with a new year before us and a new calendar etched into my cellblock wall, who's to know what's in store (aside from the Amazing Kreskin). All I can promise is that there will be MORE pointless entries like this and even LESS competence in my work than ever before. Honestly, I'd LOVE to bore you at length with my New Years resolutions (all 108 of 'em), but I've still got a splitting keepsake from last night's hillbilly hullabaloo. Ugh... hey! I don't remember eating that.

Happy New Year ever' body, from Stephan, Maho, Edsel, Eddy and Potato Chip.

a very eddy christmas

Having been raised in a family whose religion didn't celebrate the holidays (or affection), I've never really known what or how to feel about Christmas. As an outside (fogging up your living room window) observer, it always looked like a brilliant way to score some rather "cracking" gifts just for having to spend a few grueling hours with the rents. Our Christmas was usually just another ordinary day, albeit one where I didn't have to go to school or wear pants (which is something I simply refuse to do on Tuesdays, holidays or not!), so it wasn't all bad. We never had any sorta special meal (unless you're like me and consider Swanson's pot pies fine dining) or gathering, although we did occasionally go to the movies to enjoy the camaraderie of any empty-house double Knotts matinee of The Apple Dumpling Gang Gets the Trots and Hot Lead and Loose Teeth (this of course was long before Hollywood and Wilber Smith got the smart idea of Christmas day blonkbusters). I still remember my mother telling me at a very early age just how pagan the holidays are, especially Christmas and that if you Boggled Santa's name you'd easily get Satan (with bonus points if you could use the letters "Q" and "U"), the true creator of such holiday must haves, such as Teddy Ruxpin's Junior Taxidermy Kit and the Cabbage Crotch Kids Littlest Sweatshop.

I mean, I could see how commercial everything was even when I was little, but you couldn't deny that it all looked damn FUN. Forget the whole religious aspects of Christmas (most of you folks already have!); the lights, the tree, the teevee specials and parades, the storefront decorations; heck, even the SONGS are pretty darn catchy (just like the Outbreak monkey!)! When it came time for the classroom to make glittery construction paper snowflakes and rows of majestic pipe cleaner evergreens, I was quarantined and assigned to do my "own thing" (since at the beginning of every year my helpful mother always informed the teachers that I was not allowed to participate in holiday activities and/or anything social). I never really felt left out too much, on accounta I usually don't like to follow the herd, but there was always a part of me that wondered what it would've been like, if just once, I coulda made a holly jolly cotton-ball Santa or sang off-key carols alongside the rest of my classmates (the lemmings!). Sniff, snoff...

Now that I'm an adult (it says so right here on my diapers) and have my own family and religious beliefs, Christmas still feels a bit distant and untouchable (my most favorite caste!). There's nobody around telling me I can't celebrate it (apart from the voices in my head), but having never had those beneficial childhood memories, it would feel odd to suddenly start stringin' popcorn and stuffing my stockings with kippers (I've been a sardine man since birth). Sure I could enjoy watching Charlie Brown smack Snoopy around for relieving himself on that mangy little tree (thus shorting out the lights of the entire blockhead block), and laugh at the hilarious childhood antics of A Christmas Story, when Ralphie finally snaps and guns down his childhood nemesis Farkus outside a gambling hall in Dubuque (I MAY be a little off on these as I'm basing my memories solely on the snippets I was able to catch while my parents weren't watching), but Christmas remained that forbidden fruit that I was never allowed to chew, nibble, spindle or mutilate.

Years later when I started working as a commercial artist (ha!) and was first asked to illustrate Santa and other various holiday-themed items, I felt strangely guilty. While I worked, I could see the look of disappointment on my poor mother's face and hear her disapproving words haunting my very thoughts (nevermore!), even though I was merely drawing Santa and not bowing down to kiss his patent leather elf kickers. I never thought of it as anything other than work, but still I felt I had betrayed my mother and had etched my name on her permanent "naughty" list (right after Hitler and just before Charles Nelson Riley). I mean, a job is a job and you don't necessarily have to be a Christian to contribute to the holidays, right? Still I felt weird about it. As the years passed, so did the shameful feelings and the fact that I was never struck down by lightning or run-over by a streetcar helped to ease the guilt. Now I am finally able to draw Santa without nagging chest pains or the sudden impulse to beg for forgiveness, thanks to my deteriorating morals and Benedict Arnold conscience! What a marvelous time to be alive.

You see, my wife and I are practicing Buddhists and neither of us have ever really celebrated Christmas, which is why we decided to go ahead and get ourselves a tree. Wait... what? Well, we thought we'd try it out one year (you know, like Dianetics), just to see what all the hubbub's about. No, we won't be dragging the Manger Babies into this, but the lights and the presents and the excuse to overeat was too strong of an urge not to scratch. I look forward to seeing Maho's face light up with glee when she unwraps the canned botulism (with life-like metal-springed snakes encased in vinyl) and signed portrait of Claude Akins (that one's for daddy) on Christmas morning. I'm also looking forward to then setting the tree ablaze and dancing wildly (and nakedly) around the fire, hoopin' and a hollerin' like the evil heathen I've so sadly become. Naw, I still think a lot of Christmas is hooey and it seems like it's more trouble than it's worth (delayed flights, department store fights, Eight Crazy Nights, etc.), but I DO like the thought behind it all.

Setting aside a special day to spend with your loved ones, while exchanging gifts and over-indulging in every way imaginable, sounds alright by me, no matter WHAT your beliefs or background (unless your Irish). Perhaps if/when we have children, my feelings on the holidays might alter slightly (observing the experience through their beady, shifty little eyes), but for now it'll just be another lovely day (sans pants) spent with my lovely wife, morbidly obese cat and a festive bottle of Wild Turkey. And that, my dear friends, is the true reason for the season. Amen.

i'm a simple peple

Seein' how I started this big blog ball cookin' on the inexhaustible and sometimes inexcusable debate of "Fine Art vs. Wade," I thought I'd keep it rollin' straight through 'til next Tuesday or my next topic (whichever cries "Unca" first). Today I'd like to address the class as 485 Mapleton Drive... no, wait a tick, that's my address! Now where are my confounded notes? Aha! Here they are, behind my other ear. Now then, since the last two discussions were about "Art," I think it's high time (Miller Time's not for another few hours, son) I try and explain what it is that I do and why I sometimes (in the opinion of several of my esteemed colleagues down at the Surly Albatross Lounge) fail miserably. Gosh, for a person who made such a big to-do about hating art, I sure like to type a whole lotta 'bout it! But here's the rub Bub, I actually love art, in all it's forms, but since this is the blog of a doodler, let's just stick to the etchings for now, eh wot say? Oh, this is gonna be more fun than a rectal examination from Patch Adams!

Like I mentioned before, I'm an idiot and I like simple art. Not always terribly simple, but simplistic in nature (more about that later). While I can appreciate the various movements (tee hee!) in great art (renaissance, neoclassicism, realism, impressionism, drunkenism, etc.), it rarely stirs any emotions beyond the thrill of working on a jigsaw puzzle at the VFW. I also never really got too into comics or animation either. My older brother and friends always tried to get me into 'em (the pushers!), but there have only been a few comics (Pogo, Peanuts, Grickle, etc.) and a few animated films (The Point, My Neighbor Totoro, Fritz the Cat, etc.) that have wormed their way into my fatty two-bit transplanted pig heart. I touched on it earlier (hey, watch it!), but what I really love are children's books, editorial and commercial art... and I'm a bit of a selective schlemiel about what makes the grade too! In a word, "simple;" in more words, "stuff that looks like a kid drew it, but it was obviously created by a very talented artist whose simplified his craft down to a science." That's the kind of artist I'd like to be someday! But if I continue to keep drawing this poorly, my work will never look like it was created by a six year old with a learning disorder!!! Oh woe is me (and you too if you continue reading this dreck!)...

You see, I love mistakes and I'd like to consider I'm a bit of a mistake myself (at least that's what the nuns told me). Whether they were created purposefully or unintentionally, I like when art looks "wrong." A backwards foot, an arm that's a little longer (or uglier) than the left, a head shaped like a lightbulb... no, I'm not describing myself, but rather what makes me happy when I see "good art." My problem (well, one of them at least) is that as a commercial artist, you don't always get to let your freak flag fly (except on Thursdays). There are art directors and clients that don't necessarily see things the way I do (with one wooden eye), so I rarely get to leave in all those lovely "mistakes." "Yeah, the sketch looks GREAT except for one small thing. Do you think you could possibly "put some pants on the little boy and maybe straighten his teeth out a touch? Also, could you make him a robot and instead of pulling a wagon, could he be flying a retro-style rocket ship with a martini in one hand? Oh, and we need this by five o' clock." Now don't get me wrong, I'm not knockin' AD's, after all they're the ones who put food in my mouth and spinners on my hooptie. What I'm tryin' to explain is, why some of my art is not as "me" as I'd like it to be. When I draw for myself, I can draw whatever I wish and in whatever style or medium I desire (today's paint: butterscotch pudding - the canvas: my backside!). This is where I think it might be nice to be a fine artist, but then again, there's nothing "fine" about me. I digress...

Not surprisingly, the subject I'd really like to discuss today is, "what is the difference between good and bad art?" How can you judge whether or not a painting or drawing is a failure when it may be exactly what the artist had intended (which, if you asked him, might be considered "super gangbusters to the max!"). If the painting contains red trees and blue chickens and you happen to like blue trees and red chickens, is it bad art (a better question might be, "why in the hell do you like paintings of chickens in the first place?!?")? What if the artist is exploring a different technique/medium or has veered away from a style that was once deemed successful for him/her? Tracing the careers of a few of my favorite illustrators, I've noticed a similar pattern; they start off painting/drawing rather traditionally/realistically and eventually find their own unique voice in a much simpler, looser style (of women). This is something I've tried to do as well, since I happen to love the simple line (and box wine), but a lot of art directors and fans (all two of 'em) want ye olde style S.britt art on their lunchboxes. On several occasions I've heard the rather helpful critique "it's not your best" from a few fellow art friends, which always leaves me feelin' a bit high and/or dry (I own stock in Right Guard). What am I supposed to do with that? How does that help me to grow as an illustrator? How do you know that's not what I wanted it to look like (and why can't Mona Lisa have three boobs?!?)? Then they say, "well, you know that ONE THING you drew, awhile ago? THAT was your best thing!" Does that mean I'm not supposed to explore new terrain as an artist and continue to draw what others consider to be my own version of "good art"? Personally, I'm not a huge fan of artists who are stagnant, continuing to draw the same characters (well, look at me, what with all the Eddy Broth drawings stinkin' up this very blog!), backgrounds and motifs for years and years (comic strips & comic books excluded). I'm not one to stick with something simply because it works, which could possibly be the reason why I'm still eating moldy-old Spamwiches and drinking Aquanet instead of Cristal. Or maybe, JUST maybe, I'm not a very good artist? Shhhh... THAT'S my inner-most secret!

Now I know there are MANY, MANY astounding artists out there that could draw circles around my squares any day. Five minutes of flipping through Drawn's list of links is enough to make me seriously consider burning my brushes and eating my easel. But then I realize that I'm not trying to compete with a large percentage of those artists, as good as they are, and I'm simply trying to draw simply, the kind of art that really speaks to me (and says, "you shoulda been a doorman"). And speaking of speaking, I'll let a few of my heroes do a bit of the talking for me instead...

"People Are No Damn Good" - William Steig The Lonely Ones 1942

Sam Gross An Elephant is Soft and Mushy 1980

Raymond Savignac Yoplait 1965

Quentin Blake Uncle Stories 1964

"The Private Life of the Gerund" -  Ronald Searle Molesworth 1953 

Charles Addams The Charles Addams Mother Goose 1967

So how do you continue to please your audience without selling yourself short? How do you handle criticism from (well-meaning, *cough* *cough*) clients or comrades when you yourself are satisfied with the end result? Have you ever changed styles mid-career and if so, what were the consequences? Lastly, why are you still reading this? Shouldn't you be working?!?The comment board is currently open and awaiting your answers, anecdotes and advice, regardless of what field of arts you're in (except for dancers. Nobody likes a showboat)!

move your brain. change a method

Well, it seems that I may have started off my shiny brand new blog with the sorta post that could've easily been mistaken for bitterness, ignorance, and a contempt for anything labeled "fine art." I have since had time to recuperate (never blog when your head is clogged, I always say!) and reflect on my initial gut-churning reaction and I'd now like to formally apologize to anyone I've either riled or ruffled during my previous rant. While I still may not "get" modern art, I do recognize it's huge contribution to the world and it's not my place (this is my place) to disperse derision upon a subject I obviously know nothing about.

Contrary to my experience at the SFMoMA, I actually quite enjoy museums in general and they're always at the top of my to do list every time I travel (right after "offend the locals"). In fact, on an earlier visit to San Francisco's Cartoon Art Museum, I nearly soiled my seersucker's solid when I saw some original Walt Kelly illustrations on display. I have quite a few friends who work in various facets of the arts (commercial art, fine art, sculpture, animation, music, writing, etc.) and while I may not always understand exactly what they do (or what it all means), there's no denying their enormous talent and hard work that goes into everything they create. Like I said before; save for basic public school education, I have very little training in art. And even then, I was usually a pretty poor student at that. I did enjoy painting and drawing, but rarely would I attempt anything the teacher had assigned. Eventually, I landed in "Independent Studies," which meant I could paint whatever I wanted, although I was sanctioned to the adjoining supply room, apart from the rest of my classmates. Below are two sorry samples from high school that I somehow managed to save.

I had always wanted to attend art school, but troubles at home (unsupportive parents) and financial difficulties (I had no money) kept me from achieving this dream. I know there are other ways around this, but I had to basically work full-time at various odd jobs just to put a leaky roof over me and my fat cat's heads (one head each). I worked for years as a graphic designer for both a large music distributor and a small silkscreen shop before giving it all up and pursuing a full-time career in the thrilling, cut-throat world (no, not really) of freelance illustration!

I was ill-prepared (and ill-skilled to match) to truly know what I was in for (countless revisions, sleepless nights, early-morning conference calls, never knowing when the next check would arrive, etc.), but being your own boss and working from home (and wearing nothing more than an old pickle barrel) far outweighs the bad. So what exactly is the difference between a commercial artist and a fine artist? Well, why don't we let our visiting lecturer, Sir Kenneth Muse tell us what he thinks about the subject. Mr. Muse, you have the floor...

"Fine art - commercial art - what is the real difference? If you're looking at just the artwork, there IS no difference. There is only good art and bad art. The difference is goal and discipline. Let's give an example: The fine artist is drawing or painting for his own enjoyment, whatever he or she desires... and at his own pace. There are few, if any, restrictions on his time or end result. His first concern is pleasing himself. The fine artist, if he wishes, can leave his work unfinished... and he often does. If the fine artist declares his work great, who are we to disagree. It could be bad art!

The commercial artist does the artwork the way his "client"... the one who is paying him, wants it done... but, he also wants the commercial artist's style... and he wants all this at a certain time. The commercial artist has disciplined himself to work to deadlines. He works in his own techniques, which he has mastered. They are his identity. The art must be "realistic" and must be completed! The client will not accept artwork that does not represent his product. And finally, the commercial artist does this for a specified amount of money. If the commercial artist doesn't deliver on all these counts... he's had it!

The fine artist does not want all of these restrictions. But they are not restrictions, they're disciplines. It's obvious that both enjoy their professions and both turn out good and bad art. The sad part is, commercial artists can't survive on poor artwork.

To go on defining this difference between commercial art and fine art would serve no purpose. But simply put: commercial art is art for commerce. Fine art is not! But it can be.

When a fine artist is commissioned to do a painting or a sculpture for a client, for a specified amount of money, and to be done over a certain period of time – that's commercial art! The fine artist can say anything he wants... but if he walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, he's a duck! Remember - the actual artwork has nothing to do with it." 

- Ken Muse The Secrets of Professional Cartooning

I'm not gonna say who has the easier job, but I do have to agree with a few of the things ol' Ken said. As a struggling commercial artist, I know that one's main goal is to please the client, even if it goes against your own artistic aesthetic. I've learned over the years never to submit a flat drawing or painting to a client and to keep everything on various layers (even though it may take longer) as there will almost always be changes at some point. I'm not one to submit multiple roughs for a project, because inevitably they end up choosing your least favorite idea/sketch from the batch (also I'm too stupid to think of several good ideas at once anyway). When I first get a gig, say for a magazine spot, as I read the article I jot down notes for ideas and items that I want to include in my initial sketch. Then I go for a walk, a bike ride, or a drink (sometimes all three), all the while thinking about the best way to tackle the illustration (and my impending hangover). By the time I get back to my doodle room/sick bed, my head's spinning with ideas (read: alcohol) as I sit down to draw and/or sleep. Once I sober up and the sketch is finished and sent to the art director or client, they then let me know if there are any changes they'd like made and what sort of colors or style they were envisioning for the final piece (there have been several occasions where clients have a specific color palette for a particular campaign). Sometimes a project is heavily art directed which leaves very little room for creativity and one ends up feeling much like a hired hand (or an old cowhand, you pick). Other times the client is very open to ideas and simply allows me to illustrate a piece the way I see fit (the fools!). In the world of commercial art, the client is King Ding and sometimes they make decisions that you may not necessarily agree with. I've found it's best not to get too attached to your work or unwilling to compromise, as they are the ones paying you to draw (plus, you don't want to burn any bridges, connections or teepees - the smell is just awful!). Just know that another project will come along soon and perhaps the next client will be a bit more open (as well as their wallet, haw haw!). Either way, every illustration is a learning experience no matter how the final piece ends up. And that, my friends, is one to grow on!

I know that art, like sundae toppings (sprinkles or jimmy's?), is extremely subjective and everyone has their own unique taste and opinions. For me, I tend to prefer commercial art to fine art and printed matter over original art (always have). However if I had to narrow things down to a favorite genre, it would have to be children's book art. I go gaga over Richard Scarry the way others may flip over Matisse. I'll take William Steig over Pablo Picasso any day. Roy McKie, Ed Emberley, Miroslav Sasek, Charles Addams, Ronald Searle, Roger Duvoisin, Bill Peet, Don Madden... the list goes on and on. But that's just me and I don't in any way wanna discount anybody's favorites simply due to my own personal lousy taste. Well, for now at least.

Perhaps my Bic ballpoint poison pen shoulda been aimed at the art snobs and uppercrusties that make modern art feel so gawl-dum elitist and highbrow (I also don't "get" lowbrow art either, but let's save that for another time, shall we? Let's!). Since I'm not a fan of such folk in any walk of life, I really shouldn't have singled out the SFMoMA in my previous diatribe. And now that I think about it, there were a few pieces by Klee that I rather enjoyed. Hey, getta loada me, Maw! I might actually LEARN somethin' (outcome not very likely)!

my stomach is just before an explosion!

Happy Thanksgivin' to you and/or your loved ones. But what're you doin' sittin' on the couch, removin' your trousers and massaging your now fully expanded belly in all it's glorious gluttony? If the hundreds of teevee commercials today have taught me anything, it's that there're sooper sales to be had, starting as early as "what in the sam hill were you thinking" o' clunk! So put on your dungarees and grab your knapsack, 'cause those early bird bargains aren't gonna milk themselves! After all, it's what the founding father's woulda wanted.

i like me learn things, where i cans develop more

First, let me start off by saying I have absolutely no business being here. I've never kept a diary, I haven't updated my website in ages and I've been told numerous times that the only reason my writing is mildly amusing is because it appears to amuse myself. To that I say, "How am I supposed to know what others find humorous, informative or enlightening unless you tell me I'm not?!?" After all, why should anyone listen to the uneducated ramblings of a high school dropout; who's working in a field in which he can't stomach a fair share of his colleagues, past and present? Perhaps that's the funniest joke of them all, dear readers; I can't stand artists. Okay, not all artists, but some, especially if they refer to themselves as "an artist." I've always said, "Once you label yourself as such, it's time to hang up your smock, Pablo!"

I've felt this way for as long as I can remember, but it really came to the forefront when my wife and I recently visited the SFMoMA. Upon entering, we watched a crowd of amazed onlookers staring slack-jawed at a standard electric house fan, dangling on a wire from the third floor. It swung freely around the room, suspended by an extension cord in what looked to me like a typical diy hillbilly ceiling fan installation from Grubbs, Arkansas. I seriously doubt any of the spellbound museum patrons would film the decor of Earl and Dody Payne's doublewide, but then again they might (if they were told that it was a "witty and subversion" installation by that British envelope-pusher, Banksy). It only got worse (for me) from there. I saw many things that day (a half-frozen ice car that looked like a giant melting pillbug, a video of a man painting his hands entirely black with a Sharpie, a room that made everyone appear to have jaundice, a urinal [not in the bathroom, mind you], boxes and boxes filled with painted buttons, spools and miscellaneous junk that resembled a yard sale more than a museum, and so on and so forth), each display befuddling me just a bit more than the last. How am I supposed to feel when I see a giant 20' canvas covered solely in bright blue paint? Should I stop and reflect on man's inhumanity to man or why I suddenly crave a blue-raspberry Icee? Perhaps the artist had lost someone he loved dearly and he was left empty and without the ability to regain that "life" that he once felt while that person was in his presence... or maybe Dick Blick was having a closeout sale on French Ultramarine? You know, now that I've had time to truly reflect on Mr. Rothko's (or should I say Mr. Farabutto?) piece, I'd have to say "Good show, ol' chap! But be careful, I think the Emperor just might be on to your magic threads."

Maybe this is entirely due to the fact that I am uneducated in the finer things, and if I had some proper learning I'd know that two giant rectangles on a canvas really means something... and it's worth millions more than whatever the museum paid for it! But seein' how I obviously know nothing about real art, I left the SFMoMA feelin' a bit duped and a tad irritated. We spent the remainder of the day wandering aimlessly around the streets of San Francisco, which afforded some lovely sightseeing and allowed me to cool-off after the days earlier artistic excursion. Like every other out-of-town tourist we eventually wound up in Chinatown, with a serious yen for sizzling panda. Having failed that (we settled instead on hot & sour mogwai), we found ourselves in Asian Renaissance where we picked up a rather splendid original painting by Beijing's Zhan Yian for the low, low price of $Deluxe Bargain (with complimentary egg rolls). Now see? Here is a terrific piece for a great price and I didn't even have to ask anybody what it meant! I like me that kinda art.

You see, I'm a bit of an idiot when it comes to culture and yet I can clearly tell when somebody's tryin' to pull the wool over my cataract-covered eyes. I like really simple, honest work that speaks directly to me and not down at me, like the know-nothing I know I am. There are a lot of amazing artists out there (past and present) that make me both giddy and jealous (I've linked a good number of them on this very page) and it's their contributions to the world that continue to inspire me on a daily basis. I guess I'm just not clever or talented enough to doodle at the cool kids table, but then again, I'm perfectly alright with that. Besides, I left my Son of Big Chief tablet in my other pair of Toughskins anyway.

The following day Maho and I went to the Grandma Moses exhibit at the Crocker Art Museum (in Sacramento) and I felt completely rejuvenated. She may not be one of my all-time favorite painters, but you could clearly tell that what she did was from the heart and she truly enjoyed painting, despite any formal training or killing herself and her mistress in an alcohol-induced automobile accident.

Just like me (the painting part, not the cheating/drunk driving bit).