Sketches and Pictures: August 2003 Archives

...Or rather, found itself forcibly shellaced to Jesus over a three-day period this weekend. Matt took a few pictures before the last coat of varnish was applied.

Clicky-clicky for the unreasonably large version of this image.

I sometimes get handed religious tracts by street preachers and their glassy-eyed acolytes. I really, really doubt that anyone's ever been converted by these things, but they're not without value. Most of 'em have more than their share of hilarity, all of it unintentional. And unintentional humor is always the best kind.

There's something about the desperately earnest, froth-flecked ravings of maudlin, wobbily-drawn doodles that gets to me every time. I can just imagine the authors of the flyers laboring over their little cartoon everymen. Most of the drawings are horrible, sure, but you can't deny the sincerity. The creepy, overbearing sincerity.

I tried to get an decent variety of maniacs in the mix. The base is made up of pages from Michael, a psychotic Catholic propoganda rag from Quebec. It's the kinda paper that gets delivered to people's houses without them actually asking for it, and goes on a little too long about how Jesus Christ's first act upon his return to Earth will be the abolition of credit card debt. Take THAT, "International Bankers!"

GOD IS AN ALE-E-UM. Also: Clones.

Also puttin' in their appearances: Jews for Jesus, who regularly haunt downtown Chicago. The Jehovah's Witnesses, in English and Spanish. Those media darlings of the hour, the Raelians. Various and sundry Protestant and "Bible-Based" goofballs. A booklet from Chicago's very own clone farm, Moody Bible Institute, describing what your first seven days in Hell will be like. (Shakin' in my Chuck Taylors, fellas.) And my absolute favorite Christian denomination, UNMEDICATED SCHIZOPHRENIA.

No comment necessary...

This little gem was found in the Boston subway, and it's the centerpiece of the collection. If I remember Revelation correctly, what we're seeing here is The Whore of Babylon, complete with the "wine of fornication" (or possibly her booze, "the blood of saints"), captioned as "The Modern Union Between Church and State(?!?!?!)," flanked by plural-headed monstrosities labled as "Papal Rome," "The United States of America," and that ol' whipping boy of the ages, "Paganism." There was an email address scrawled onto the page, and a little Google detective work traced it to one Miss Shelley Senner, still quite active in a few windowlicker Yahoo groups (and apparently, married or once-married to a violin-maker). Search her name for extracurricular fun. Sadly, she doesn't seem to have a webpage.

Please, Lord... pay my taxes... and wash my van.

Also worth immortalizing: This flyer I got in the mail, advertising cheesy crucifix charms guaranteed to heap fortune upon the wearer. The text reads like the sermons from 1980s evangelical cable stations, casting honest-to-God miracles in the form of absurdly large inheritances, windfalls, and shiny new cars. Because apparently, once you get past all that "Bible" and "faith" crap, Jesus and Pat Sajak have a lot in common.

That's enough for now. Tomorrow: Back to drawing.

These are the Elliots.

Elliot Jackson is on the left, Elliot Bigelow is on the right. They go by EJ and Bigelow respectively, but most folks just call 'em the Elliots.

EJ's a little run down after years of squatting and alcoholism, so he takes things slower these days. He lives in a shelter, stands on the corners most mornings looking for a day's work, and he's sorta-kinda in recovery. He figures he's a little too old for the game.

Bigs is a lot younger, and would probably be a nice guy, if he could stop getting into fights, telling outrageously unbelieveable lies, and drinking/smoking/shooting/snorting anything he can get his hands on. Nobody in his squat really likes him, since he likes to spend evenings bragging about that time he killed those eight Jamaicans in Palm Beach for pinching his swimsuit model girlfriend's ass... while trying to steal the shoelaces out of a squatmate's boots.

Besides their names, the Elliots don't have a lot in common. But being homeless is a lot safer when you use the buddy system.

The Eliotts squat in Skinner and don't know anyone else yet, although they would probably recognize Reagan. She walks through their part of town on the way to work, and she's hard to miss. Oh, and the Elliots have been recently cut off by Bloom. He doesn't extend credit.

Hey everybody, look! It's Morgan! Golly.

Morgan's from Nebraska, which explains the wardrobe. But to her credit, she usually does wear shoes. Usually.

When she was seven, Morgan asked her mom why it rained. Her mom said it was God crying for the sins of the world. Morgan didn't believe her, and went to look up the answer herself. Her curiousity about meteorology evolved into a fascination with astronomy. Now, she's one of those people who's pissed off that she's not living on the moon.

Stargazing from the center of a metropolis like Templar isn't possible, due to light pollution. She makes up for it by buying every book on astronomy she sees... And more recently, books on theology. She spend more time trying to reconcile the two that she probably should.

Still, she probably knows a lot more about the unified field theory and catastrophic star death than most administrative assistants.

Morgan's a little shy. She doesn't know anyone else, not yet. Ben knows about her, though, and she makes him pretty tingly.

Consider Scipio.

Around and just after the Civil War, it became popular for emancipated slave families to name their male kids after ancient Roman figures of note. Why? Jesus, who knows. Like all fads, though, it eventually fell out of favor... but Scipio's family never stopped. Which explains Scip's Uncle Jupiter, cousins Nero and Augustus, and nephew Constantine.

Scipio himself is named after the general that flattened Carthage after the third Punic War. His name's properly pronounced "SIP-ee-oh", But "SKIP-ee-oh's" a little easier to get by with. Problem is, most folks want to turn it into "Skippy." Undignified.

That problem kinda fixed itself when he broke six and a half feet.

Scip's a nice enough guy, but... well... exhausting. He alphabetizes his canned goods, and thinks everything imaginable is a carcinogen. He likes to pick at lint that's not there. And I won't even bother trying to explain where he got that chicken. It's just too stupid to recount.

But you've got to admit, not too many guys can wear a black suede kilt with a gila monster sporran and get away with it.

Scipio lives with Epiphany. He's buddies with Gene, Ben, Sonny, and Reagan. He doesn't know Lorne, Eli, Bloom, or the Elliots. His mother is Astrid. She scares him.

This is Epiphany. Isn't that a pretty name? Too bad she prefers Pippi.

Pippi... Well, Pippi lives an unexamined life. You might know the type. She does what she feels like doing. Like setting her brother's hair on fire. And kicking holes in drywall that doesn't belong to her.

The principal told her not to come to school anymore, which is fine with her. She doesn't like school. She likes TV. TV and cigarettes. Sometimes, she even likes her boyfriend, Scipio.

Pippi isn't friends with anyone except her little sister, Trinity. She hates Reagan, because she's fat. She hates Gene, because he's stupid. She hates Zora, because she's a kid. She hates Lorne, because he's a smart-ass. She hates Bloom, because he doesn't give freebies. She hates Curio, because she's rich. And she wants to beat the crap out of Ben, simply because she probably could.

This is Eli. Hi, Eli.

Eli's a stockbroker. He should be pretty well-off, but he's not. He says that's because his ex-wife is vicious, gold-digging cunt, but I'm sure that's just the gin talking.

He's sort of sensitive these days, but that's okay. The firm talked the intern he threw that fax machine at out of suing, and everyone else is pretty much used to Eli breaking their coffee mugs when the market gets bearish. He makes them all lots and lots of money, so they don't mind. But they try to make sure he's not in the office when important clients drop by.

Eli refuses to talk to any of his neighbors, except for Ben. He thinks they're all criminals or morons. Or both.

(Drawing old characters is fun. I think I'm getting nostalgic.)

Who's for seconds?

This is Gene and his daughter, Zora.

Gene plays guitar. Gene never stops smiling. Gene's a few shades dumber than your average twelve-year-old. Umbilical cord nooses can do that, sometimes.

Gene can't read music, can't remember what he had for breakfast, and can't really read or write past a third grade level, but he has perfect pitch, composes unusually difficult music and could commit an opera to memory. He's funny that way.

He's friends with Reagan, Curio, and Scipio. He thinks Ben's a genius. He thinks Eli's a little creepy. He thinks Epiphany is from Hell. He's lost Bloom's number.

And don't worry too much about Zora. They have an understanding that she can't smoke out with Dad 'till she's old enough to roll her own.

Goodness, just look at the state of you. You haven't had a sketch in ages. Tsk. Well, I've got just the thing for that.

This is Reagan. She likes Hammer films, Faces of Death videos, and clothes entirely too small for her. She dislikes haircuts.

Last Halloween, she was Female Trouble Divine. Halloween before last, she was Pink Flamingos Divine. Next Halloween, she's going as Hairspray Divine.

Reagan works the night shift at KINGDOM CUM, an adult novelty shop in the Skinner neighborhood of Templar, Arizona. The bat belongs to the store.

She knows Ben, Scipio, and Gene. She doesn't know Eli, Lorne, Bloom, or the Elliots. She wishes she didn't know Curio or Epiphany. You'll meet all of them later.

Dum de dum dum dum.

Verdict: S'okay. B-minus/C-plus. I know I can do better. But this picture's important; It means the project's officially moved from the planning stage to the "in progress" stage. That's a nice feeling.

Next up: Nik-Nik the Coney Boy. Stay tuned.

Bum chicka bow wow.

I can see a problem with the shoulder on the right only just now, but beyond that, this is ready for ink. Wait'll I completely ruin this. You'll be amazed once I'm done, it's look like a palsy patient's been at it.

That thing above Christian's waistband, by the way, is Charity's right hand. Most of her arm is buried in Christian's body.

Finished this just now; first rough for the first image.

Christian is the male. Charity is the dwarfish female protruding from his side. They're twins. Take a minute and harken back to high school biology, and you'll pretty much figure it out for yourself why they qualify as impossible.

Their clothing is roughly mid-1850s, referenced from photographs in the online archives of the Library of Congress. Charity's bad case of "midget face" was copped from Lavinia Warren, famous circus midget and bride of General Tom Thumb, another midget of note.

Fun facts, now: Charity's what they call a parasitic twin. Carnies called them "one-and-a-halfs," and they usually consisted of one fully formed twin and the deformed limbs of a second sticking out from somewhere, like extra arms and legs. Cases of the head of the parasitic twin being outside the host twin's body have been reported, but they're uniformly stunted in size (like Charity) and permanently comatose (unlike Charity).

Christian is a rough-and-tumble type. Note the surly expression and missing eye. Charity is a teetotaling, pious lass. But it's sort of pointless the refuse liquor when you share a liver with a boozehound.

Okay, shutting up now. Next time you see this, it'll be as the final pencils on bristol.

Fun bonus extra, now: The "original" to the new Sketchbook image.

I found this thing while clearing out a pile of originals from beside the bookcase. It was too much of a wrinkly mess to try to save, but I liked the design on the clothing too much to trash, so I just recreated it.

Betini's from BLIKADA, a comic I'll probably never do. You know how it goes. Details here and here.

Oh, and I've decided I'm gonna go ahead with the FREAKS sketchbook. I've made a list of ten subjects; each gets one extremely detailed ink portrait, and maybe a page of pencil sketches to supplement. The three I'll be posting works-in-progress reports and images for publicly: Juliette the Ape-Girl of Eddington, Christian and Charity, the United Twins, and Nik-Nik the Coney Boy. You also get to hear me drone on endlessly about why, exactly, each one qualifies as "impossible." What fun! Stay tuned.

Ever since Comic-Con, when I saw the digest-sized "sketchbooks" Karen and Clio had for sale, I've been sort of considering something similar.

I like circus freaks. Lots. And I wanna make a sketchbook full of 'em. Original ones. Ones that couldn't possibly exist.

Like this guy, who I've decided was hanged for murder, awakened in the middle of a dissection at a medical college, miraculously survived the removal of most of his organs, and now exhibits himself as The Flayed Man. He stuffs his trousers with cheesecloth to keep 'em up; He doesn't have the flesh necessary to constitute a waistline.

I like the idea of a some nicely-inked, portrait-style illustrations, maybe with short blurbs of carny-talk text, packaged as a booklet. I'd call it FREAK: A Collection of Celebrated Prodigies.

Tell me if this is a stupid idea. Because otherwise, I'm probably gonna do it.

Frank Villarreal drew me. So special. Dig that fabulous blowout comb. I've never been quite so Plympton-esque.

Unfortunately, he was eaten by Saucer Nazis seconds later for the crime of being brown.

I miss him.