I should preface this before I really dig in just to be sure i am being very clear: any perceived cynicism or over the top irony should be taken with a massive grain of salt, as indeed any or all of my writings here need to be.
It is nothing more or less than a self applied bandage over a freely bleeding heart. Art cannot be made without deep feeling, and much of what passes as the real thing these days is no more than a Hollywood zombie film, all fake blood and clever illusions. By contrast, my work is a snuff film. I'm dieing right on the page/canvas/ paper.
Right then, San Diego. Dear God, while I was away, somebody feed the fucker a shitload of vitamins By the last day I had my doubts if I was going to get out alive. There must have been twenty people there I hadn't seen in years that I simply couldn't get to. If any of you are reading this you understand, I hope.
frankly I worked my ass off. Seriously off. I was very, very deeply touched by the shear number of people who took the time to find me and say hello, get something signed or just to shake my hand. As a "Special Guest", (whatever that means, I had no special, different or otherwise out of the ordinary treatment i could discern) off course one is obliged to host a panel, though, thinking to myself, what in gods name would any comics fan or art aficionado want to see me for? I mean, I hadn't even made a public appearance in seven years, and none in San Diego for over a decade. Granted I do have a new book out this November, (fingers crossed.) so one gathers that a convention of San Diego's shear apocalyptic magnitude would need more half assed panels than not.
I was wrong. I was loved, and appreciated, in equal measure to the love and respect I try most heartily to give each and every person that has ever put down their hard earned money to feed me, ok mostly mega corporations of which I would get a table scrap or two. But still, you know, it felt wonderful. While i was there I certainly didn't come home having inked a huge deal, or with pockets full of cash , oh no, far from it.
I am however most grateful for the response to the book and hopefully it will translate into respectable numbers bearing in mind that it is coming out through the smallest of small publishers. Canny business man that I am, I am very good at shooting myself in the foot. I suppose I would rather be appreciated than rich.
Believe me, a huge influx of cash would be more than welcome right now. If I had not bashed out the requisite convention sketches and the amazing Ryan Graff of Eidolon Fine Arts had not hand bound four extremely beautiful copies of "Boy" to sell I would not have either eaten or made it home. ( A hundred and fifty dollars for five days of airport parking and another sixty for gas to get two hundred plus miles home...at the ungodly hour of two thirty am.)
And speaking very briefly of Eidolon Fine Arts, It is distinctly possible that I may be signing with them if and when the bugs can be worked out. More on that in a future posting.
So, to sum it all up as the day begins and the sun rises as ever, San Diego has become a monstrous, cynical venue of mass exploitation and naked ego, where every one and absolutely everything has been marketed down to the lowest common denominator, it is also,if you look one of the most amazing destinations for serious and astute popular art lovers the world has ever seen. Just pack a lunch and tranks.
So , my hello's: Dave and Claire, Jim and Bebe, Shelly Bond, XmadmX, Barron Story, Jason Shawn Alexander, Shelly Wan, John Watkiss, in abstention, Lee Moyer, Sioux and the GG's, Stephen Murphy, I felt your ghost hovering, and last but not least, Death...she was a total sweetheart. And it goes without saying but I will, I simply couldn't have done it without my dear Karen. Thanks for the ideas babe.
ps: photo, the lovely Gail Potoki and me own Karen, aka Fhionn.