Bearded Lady

Red Balloon

And sometimes she was very sad...

My apologies if this post seems like a trite over-simplification. But for some reason this passage by Ludwig Bemelmans is all my brain can focus on. Maybe because Monsieur Bemelmans wrote Madeline to cope with the grief of his beloved childhood nursemaid's suicide. Maybe just because it's so simple, and life in my hometown has become quite complicated. I crave childlike simplicity.

Because everything else has already been said. A fucking million times: the gun rights arguments, the white male privilege, racism, religion, mental illness. AND WE'RE NOT GETTING ANYWHERE. Its all talk and no policy change. 

And all I can do is to come back to my children's books. Because that's the world I want for my children, not a world where they can't worship how they want, or dress how they feel, or express their sexuality or true personal identities, or go to school without fear of being shot. If the world can't measure up to ideas expressed at a second grade reading level, that's pretty damn sad.

I tend to take refuge in narrative. And mass shootings are just bad narrative. They just don't make any sense. What could a bevy of church goers possibly have done to someone to merit being blown away? Hating someone because of their skin color? That's absurd! Why not hate someone because they wear blue shoes or like potato chips while you're at it? Why that church? How many AME churches had he passed on the way down from the upstate? How many black people did he pass on the street before he got there? Sure, there's historical racial significance to that particular building, but I kinda wonder how many people were aware of it before Mr. White Supremacist showed up. If anything, this guys plan backfired because now I seriously want to learn more about Black History in my home town. I grew up going to school barely a couple of miles from that church. We learned Charleston history ad nauseum, but it was definitely the white baptist version. 

Maybe that's all I can take from this heinous tragedy. Get outside my own white middle class narrative and learn the history of others. More stories. Look for more "whys". Even if they never answer the terrible question of why these events took place, they may answer some other questions that need desperately to be answered.

A friend of mine posted that "not everything happens for a reason, but everything happens." That God was in that church and seeking the hearts of both the victims and the shooter. I can only hope that that was true. I can only hope that that young hateful man was drawn into that church, not because shooting parishioners is like shooting fish in a barrel and on par in both skill level and cowardice to shooting up a kindergarten, but because there was a tiny, hurting, yearning part of him that was looking for a reason not to go through with it. To find love that would replace the hate. 

I heard he sat through an entire bible study before pulling the trigger. Who does that? Why do that if you're really intent on going through with something? Why wait till the end? What were they studying? What did he hear? Did they pray for him? Did they acknowledge him or invite him to join them? What whisper of evil tipped the scale and sealed their fate?

In then end, perhaps the greatest wish you can give someone is the hope that they leave this world at a moment when they feel closest to God. I pray that sincerely for each of the souls departed that night. Let their terror, suffering and anguish be the briefest shadow before peace and glory. Let the living find their solace in prayer and community and restore that which is holy to the Holy City.   

Entry for SCBWI annual contest

This was prompted by this year's annual SCBWI art contest to reinterpret the cover of this classic children's book. I wanted to do something a little bit dark and mysterious. People always focus on Wilbur in this story, but really, the main protagonist is Charlotte. She drives the plot, she saves the day. She dies! For many of us growing up, this book was probably the first time we were confronted with the idea of death. Not in the abstract either, like when nobody wants to play the mom when you're playing house so you just say "The mom's dead." This is not "oh, the character is just not around anymore." I mean seriously, it ruins you for the whole week when you read this in school! I wanted something organic and elegant, but a little dark and bold, that really captured Charlotte's spirit and does credit to the real drama of this book. 

Je Suis Charlie

When I was in college, on the first day of my Drawing I class, my professor offered this wisdom: "Draw as if each line subtracted a minute of your life." Her intent was to teach us mindful drawing and economy, to make our marks boldly, and break the habit of tentative sketchy contours. It was a lesson I took to heart, but I'm sure none of us in that room imagined a scenario where we would pay for our lines with our lives.

On Wednesday, the cartoonists at the french satire magazine, Charlie Hebdo, did just that.

Until now, I was largely unaware of the magazine's existence. Yet this terrible tragedy has weighed heavily on my heart as an artist. I remember consciously choosing to pursue art because I knew it was a career where I couldn't hurt anybody. Not really. And I certainly never thought it would be a career that I could get hurt. Any mistake I made on my path to mastery would be paved with learning opportunities. My mistakes could never cost someone their retirement or their home, could never lead to the death of a loved one, could never cause an important package to end up in Bosnia instead of Boston. I thought at the end of the day, a picture is just a picture. The most juvenile and rudimentary form of human expression, and I don't mean that derogatorily. Even if it's an unflattering rendering on a bathroom stall, surely that could only bruise one's pride. Is that worth killing for?

Apparently.

So is it also worth dying for?

Even if their cartoons were political in nature, I believe the best cartoonists are in it for a laugh. They aren't out to spread meanness or hurt. Maybe make the audience think a little bit, but ultimately cushion to injustices they see with a joke. I'm sure not a single member of staff at Charlie Hebdo had reason to believe they wouldn't come home that evening. Few people outside an actual battlefield set out in the morning prepared to lay down their lives for their passions. But maybe that's what passion is: laying down your life every day for a thing you believe in. The thing you love. The thing you enjoy. The thing you give up time, and money, and other opportunities in order to do. Nothing justifies the horrendous violence wrought on them, but I hope they will rest in peace knowing they died with pen in hand, so to speak.

Bad Parenting

I feel like a bad parent.

Not towards my actual baby though. His needs are fairly simple: hungry, tired, poopy. At six weeks old worst he can do is pee on me or scream at me. No back talk, no breaking stuff. No real existential choices to be made on my part, did I do the right thing, did I discipline him right or teach him the right lesson. Most days, I feel like I've got a pretty good handle on it. I'm sure it will all change tomorrow when I have to go back to work and figure out how to balance Work Lucy with Mom Lucy.

But that brings me to the biggest thing weighing on me is whatever happened to Artist/Writer Lucy?

Not having time to doodle or paint or start my next book doesn't actually bother me too much. No, it's just one project. One person. The one that got left behind.

It's been nearly a year since I've done any work on my Kevin Zombie comic. Or has it been more? I don't even know. I created Kevin when I thought I wanted to be a comic book writer. Or artist. Or both. I had no idea what I was getting into, how big his story would be and what a time commitment comic book art truly is. How naive of me to think it would be quick and easy to build a world. To make a character real. I did the sketches, the pre-work, the rough drafts, the inking, the coloring. I gave him a world, and friends and enemies, and a family.

And then I just ditched him because he was too much work.

He was my Velveteen Rabbit: he became real because of all the love and work I poured into him. And now I feel like I abandoned my real son, for the Real one I physically gave birth to. Maybe writing Kevin was a wistful longing for Rowan. I don't think I ever really consciously wished specifically for a son, but when I began to think about having children, I began to think about the type of kid I would want for a son. And Kevin was it. Funny, flawed, noble, kind, maybe a little over-given to wallowing in angst, but he gets that from his mom. This was the kid I wanted to watch grow from a child into a man.

I take a small consolation in knowing that Kevin's story is written, that is, I've written the ending, or at least a conclusive stopping point. So I know it has a happy ending, an ending that I think any parent would want for their child. But maybe my subconscious knew I would have to walk out on Kevin, because it the story I wrote (***SPOILER ALERT!****) Kevin's zombie mother abandons him too. But he overcomes the anger and the hurt and is able to forgive her and rebuild the relationship by the end. In the end, he's able to stand on his own.

I just wish I could watch him get there. See it all play out on paper in front of me, not just in my mind's eye. It seems so strange to want to give a zombie the right to life, but it was so cool not just for me to watch Kevin, which would have been enough for me, but to have even a few people on the internet rooting for him as well. It's every mothers dream to send your kid out into the world and know that they are loved by someone, especially if they aren't finished becoming the person you know they can be.

So I hope Kevin will forgive me. And my readers as well. I do want to continue one day. I believe I will, it's why I just can't bring myself to delete the web hosting account. It just might be a long, long wait.

The Yule Ball

I love dances.
Or more accurately, I love the idea of them that I hold in my head.

In all of my attendance of required dance functions throughout my life, I don't really recall dancing that much. I spent a lot of time in uncomfortable plastic chairs arranged around the perimeter of gyms. Watching. Once you learn how to turn of the part of your brain that wants, not even as much to be invited by a particular boy to dance, but simply to be invited by any living person to participate in what is going on, it's like watching a living painting.

In paintings, the artist never lets on how sweaty the guy's hands are, how clumsy uneducated feet are, how bad the Prom committee's president's brothers' band really is. No. Everything is nicely arranged in paintings. We artists work hard to make it so. Perhaps because life is messy. Because we know in real life, somebody is going home with hurt feelings, or ruined shoes, or a broken heart. We know because we saw it from our flimsy plastic chairs. We heard who cheated on who. Who couldn't handle his snuck in Jagermeister. Who accused who of being pregnant with who's baby.

But with a stroke of a brush, it can all be different. The whole scene can be the golden moment trapped forever. The moment he felt ten feet tall. The moment she really knew how it felt to be a princess. Let there be twinkle lights. Let's forget we're in a gym that may or may not have had the floor scrubbed since the wrestling championship. Or the "Regal Room" at the Holiday Inn with its 1970's carpet. We're at Hogwarts now and it smells of snow and evergreens. It's Christmas. Anything can happen.

Because art is magic.

Figure study

It's strange, yet inspiring to me how art and the process of making it can help us live vicariously, or moreover appreciate a quality in a subject that we can't appreciate in ourselves.

I think I've been fairly emotionally removed from my pregnancy. It's probably a defense mechanism, because I know it will end in pain. Also joy, but notable amounts of pain. And here in my thirtieth week, in the dead of August heat in the South, all the discomfort refuses to be ignored any longer. I don't feel beautiful or feminine or whatever. People say "you look amazing!" or "you're carrying so beautifully", and I suppose I need to just take the damn compliment, but I can't help but feel it's unearned. "Oh, thank you, I've been parting it down the side," or "Oh, I decided to wear my belly 'up'" this season.".....I don't know what I'm doing differently from any other pregnant woman, so I don't know what to say. It's just interesting to see how people perceive you: They think you're beautiful when all you can think about is your brand new pair of cankles and how the baby seems 10 lbs heavier as the humidity climbs. I guess I should be grateful, either I have great self-confidence or am just oblivious. Lots of women feel this way from the moment puberty sets in. Whether hair, weight, freckles, lack of thigh-gap, etc, there's usually something about our appearance everyone wishes they could change.

Yet somehow, it all melts away when I'm drawing. I've always loved drawing the female figure. The curves and soft angles, lumps, bumps and all, there is something so soothing and therapeutic about the way the charcoal or pencil traces their paths. I feel like women just come in a greater variety of sizes and shapes than men do to, so the ever changing topography of the vast array of models is a constant source of delight and fascination. As I fill my page with studies of pregnant women the feeling is the same. "These women are beautiful!" I think. And somehow through the connection of observation and reverent study it's as though I feel more beautiful simply by taking part in that beauty by putting it on paper. 

We're all pretty familiar with the Dove ad that had an artist draw subjects based on ways they described themselves. But I think one of the magical things about art is that it can change how the artist perceives themselves as well as their subject. How different would the world be if we took the time to draw each other? 

*or draw on each other for that matter

The Boy Who Lived

Started reading Harry Potter to the bump.

Throwback Thursday: The Eleventh Hour

Mmmm...my cravings are back again. If you're craving a tasty literary treat, look no further than Graeme Base's The Eleventh Hour. It's a classic who-dun-it with a romping animal twist.

The story follows Horace and his attempt to throw himself a fabulous birthday party to be ended by a magnificent feast and the prescribed Eleventh Hour. All his animal friends are invited to the costume party. After various games and party shenanigans, the animals stampede to the dinner hall, only to discover that one of their number has beaten them to it and scarfed down the whole thing! Readers are invited to solve the mystery (or for the impatient, rip open the sealed answer pages) and retrace the story looking for clues. 

Not only will you read the story again and again searching for clues, you'll want to just soak in the marvelous illustrations of all the fantastic animal friends. The feast scene in particular has been dancing in my brain for several months now. All the tortes and cakes and fruits and treats just glisten, it's enough to make your mouth water. Anyone who loves animals, food, or mysteries will treasure this book!

Toucan study

I downloaded a demo for Corel Paint and have been messing around with it..............................IT'S SO COOL I WANT IT RIGHT NOW WHY DO I HAVE TO BE SO POOR ALL THE TIME?!?!?!? 

I'm usually so good at denying myself stuff, just because the world is so full of things I either legitimately don't want or concretely know I don't need. But this falls into the really-want-and-kinda-need-I-mean-I'd-use-it-even-though-I-already-have-Photoshop category. Insert massive whine here.

Swarms of babies

Drawing for my sister who is about to become a Certified Nurse Practitioner/Midwife. So proud!

Just us chickens

Beach Party Palooza! circa 1899

Donnie & Irma

WIP

work in progress based on a dream I had

Throwback Thursday: Dudley Bakes a Cake

BAAAAAAAAAAAAKED GOOOOOODS!

This baby has kicked my normally endearing-yet-controllable craving for carbs into high gear. I dream of pies. Muffins. Cupcakes. Bread. Sweet delicious croissants! (pauses to wipe drool off keyboard) It's gotten pretty bad.

So I'm attempting to fill the void with literature. Never far behind my baked goods cravings are memories of one of my favorite childhood books, Dudley Bakes a Cake by Judy Taylor.

The story itself has a sort of Winnie-the-Pooh vibe as it follows the endeavors of a dormouse to create a culinary confection that will win the county fair baking competition. The quaint charm of the story is surpassed only by the adorable illustrations by Peter Cross. Details abound of mischievous rabbits, sneaky bees, and all matter of frolicking furry field folk as they take their day at the fair. But my favorite illustrations (in addition to showing Dudley's messy kitchen that reminds me of my own) is seeing the magnificent would-be carrot cake that Dudley bakes, slathered in pink icing that looks like, as he puts it, "pink snow". However, the cake proves to be anything but ordinary, and by the time the competition is over, it's been a very interesting day for everyone!

If you're looking for a book that's sweet as pie, check out Dudley Bakes a Cake from your local library or used bookstore, as the book is no longer in print.

Somehow this image of a gigantic cupcake with its pink icing has come to represent all party-related baked treats to me. It's the first think I think of when I set out to make a cake and there's always a small part of me disappointed when it doesn't look like Dudley's cake (not to mention that it's never three times the size of me!) This cake is just the quintessential cake to me. 

Fair warning: the next few reviews will likely have a food theme. Got a book that makes your mouth water? Post it in the comments! 

 

Wearin' o' the green

Happy St. Patrick's Day! Have an evil leprechaun. 

Space Prawn

So this is the project that has been consuming me all year. Literally sucking life out of me.

I'm in the first trimester of my first ever pregnancy and a post-it of art is all I can manage. It's my interpretation of the ultrasound. Apparently we are having a prawn. That's alright. We'll name it Gerald and arrange play dates with other prawns.

I used to be able to boss and bully myself into getting work done. I released two books last year! Unsupervised! I used to be capable of setting goals and doing studies and workshopping and all those things that set the wannabes apart from the soon-to-be-professionals.

And now it's all I can do to get out of bed and go to my day job so the power bill gets paid, but all I wanna do is sleep when I get home, so the power may as well be cut off anyway. I can't seem to muster the energy to wield a pencil, let alone make progress on my artwork.

I knew this would happen. Part of the reason I pushed myself last year is because I knew I wouldn't be able to do it this year. Babies just take everything you've got for a while (sidenote: HOW THE HELL DID TINA FEY MANAGE TO WRITE FOR SNL WHILE SHE WAS PREGGERS?!?) But I feel like I raised the bar for myself and now I just feel like a major slacker! It's like I bronze medaled in track last year after training really hard and now I've switched to intramural cross-stitch. I'm playing a totally different game in a totally different field now, but still trying to hold myself to the same standards I was last year. And nothing gets done, my baby-eaten brain just looks at my boss brain and is like "Pffft! Yeah, whatever". I just lay on the floor mentally poking myself with a stick.

All my other mommy friends say it will pass.........My other mommy friends say LOTS of things. I guess I just want to feel like myself and not like I'm half dosed on cold medicine. I feel like so much of my identity is invested in actively creating, I feel like I'm not me when I don't have the physical strength to create. I know, I'm creating life, blahblahblah....I'm not actually doing  anything. I am ultimately not responsible for how any of that turns out. If he comes out with his nose on sideways, that's God's business. My job is to not drink or have sushi. Which just sucks. I feel like I've had the closest thing I had to a superpower sucked away. Like the Avatar took my Bending.

Maybe I'll try to do a post-it every day. A teeny drawing with just a teeny amount of energy. If it's all I've got, I should learn to count it as enough.




On a side note, lest you think I'm a completely emotionally dead monster, it was pretty nifty to see the heart beat on the ultrasound. It was like a little blinky space satellite, far, far away, blinking "I'm here! I'm here!" I kinda felt like Wall-E looking at the starry sky beyond his polluted atmosphere wondering "What's out there?" Only about this thing in my guts.

WIP sketches

Some developmental sketches for an upcoming book. Meet Edward Irving.

Super Ladies

Some commission work I did for a friend of mine expecting her own little super lady in April.