I’m heading down to ICON later this week, and am excited to be part of a group show that is tied into the conference. The exhibition is titled ICON 6: A Labor of Line, and features a great lineup of illustrators. The knight painting above is my contribution to the show, and it is for sale. Contact Wade Buchanan at 626.458.7477 for inquiries.

The show opening is this Friday, July 16th, from 7 to 11 p.m., and I’m planning on being there. Gallery Nucleus is located in Alhambra at 210 East Main Street. Come on out!

Afterwards, there was a signing, and I was able to slip in line with my brother who had managed to luckily secure a spot only about 60 people back, out of literally hundreds of fans. I had brought along my out-of-print hardcover copy of Angels & Visitations, Neil’s first short story collection. Out of all the books by Neil that I own, this one has always remained a favorite, and it’s become a bit of a collector’s item now.

A little background here before I move on with the story at hand: I discovered Neil’s work during my freshman year in high school, via the fourth issue of Sandman, published in 1989. It was the stunning Dave McKean cover that compelled me to buy it:

I had never seen anything quite like it. McKean had painted a portrait in acrylic in his full Barron Storey-influenced style, set it up with shelving, and then set it on fire—those are actual burn marks on the piece. Talk about an image that jumped off the stands. And for my melancholy/fantasy-obsessed personality at that time, it drew me in like a magnet. I bought it, took it home and read it, and upon finishing it, did something I don’t think I had ever been interested enough by any comic to do before: I promptly re-read it on the spot. I distinctly remember then going to have dinner with my parents, and telling my mom how I had just read this really good story. And after dinner, I went back to my room, re-read it a third time, and stared at the cover forever. That was the beginning of my love for Gaiman’s work, as well as the massive stylistic influence that Dave McKean came to be on my artwork. I quickly bought up the previous three back issues. I was now a Sandman fan, and by extension, a Neil Gaiman fan.

So that summer, I attended my first full-length San Diego Comic-Con (Technically, I had first gone the previous year, but only for a day, so this was my first real immersive experience at the Con), and it turned out that it was also Neil’s first Comic-Con as well. After attending a panel at which he was a speaker, I was bold enough to go up to him and tell him how I much I liked his work, and was even bolder in asking if I could get my picture taken with him. Hey, I was fifteen and he was my favorite writer, so I guess it seemed like a logical thing to do at the time. I’ll likely come to regret this, but posted below are the two of us in all our youthful glory. I’m guessing Neil was in his late twenties at the time. Check out that sun tan on me—that’s what being on the high school swim team in Santa Barbara would do for you.

The author and me. Taken at the end of a writer's panel at the San Diego Comic-Con, 1989.

I was reflecting on this first encounter with Neil as I waited in his signing line last Wednesday. I remembered how he wasn’t accosted by anyone at that convention; after the panel, I had gone straight up to him with no one else vying for his time, and I remember seeing him later on the convention floor browsing books at one of the vendor booths, completely unnoticed. I had that special childish pride of feeling on “the inside,” of being a fan of someone that not a whole lot of people knew about yet. That level of secret fame was short-lived: nowadays, Neil often needs a security detail when he attends cons, such is his fame and legion of worshipful fans. And as I was waxing nostalgic on all of this, I realized that this all happened twenty years ago. At my present age of 35, I don’t tend to think of myself as old, but man, I’m sure not getting any younger.

Back to the present and to the point of this whole story. As I was waiting in line at UCSB to get my book signed by Neil, I was thinking in the back of my head of what I would say. Because every fan longs for the Meaningful Encounter; the quick exchange where you don’t just babble nonsensically about how much you love their work, but instead have some moment, however brief, of genuine conversation and connection. I’m smart enough to know that all fans want this to happen, and cynical enough to know that it pretty much never happens. When you have creators with a level of nova-like fame such as Neil Gaiman, the truth is that you’re only going to be one of many, many faces in a crowd and there’s little to nothing that he hasn’t already heard. But nonetheless, whether the interaction is remembered or not, any fan hopes that they’ll make some sort of personable comment that will go beyond mindless gushing praise, or, at worst, something completely incoherent.

So all the same, I resolved that I wanted to thank him, and even though he’s heard it hundreds of thousands of times, add my voice to the chorus that has said “your work has meant something to me. In its own small way, it has played a part in shaping my life.” So after about 45 minutes of waiting, it was my turn, and I could feel my wife’s eyes on me—I’m pretty sure she was silently praying that I wouldn’t make a total idiot of myself. Neil looked up, made quick eye contact and smiled, made a comment about how he doesn’t see this particular rare book very often anymore (which of course delighted me to no end—that’s right, Neil; I’m a true fan), and then he began drawing a nice little sketch in addition to the inscription. As he drew, I mentioned to him that his first Comic-Con and my first Comic-Con were the same one, and he recognized the year as having been 1989. I told him how I had a pretty funny photo of us from that time, and then quickly related how I had discovered his writing with Sandman #4 and had followed his work ever since. With literally hundreds of people waiting behind me, feeling the urgency to wrap up the conversation as fast as possible, I ended by simply saying “so all this to say, you’re the author who brought me through adolescence into adulthood, and I just wanted to say thanks.” It was one of those moments where you don’t really know what you’re saying until the words are actually coming out of your mouth.

And Neil stopped his drawing mid-stroke, looked up at me with a look of genuine pleasure (even mild astonishment, I think), offered his hand and said, “Well, that is absolutely wonderful. Thank you so much for saying that.”

I was completely taken aback. I had somehow stumbled into a Meaningful Encounter—I had managed to say what I wanted to say, and he had sincerely appreciated it. He finished his drawing and his signature, shook my hand again, and we walked off the stage and out to the parking lot. It wasn’t until we were in the car that I turned to my wife and told her how much that little but meaningful encounter had meant to me. Definitely a moment I’ll remember. I have no illusions that Neil would recall it, but nonetheless, it was a genuine, brief connection.

So thanks again, Neil. Your work did indeed walk through me through some pretty tumultuous adolescent years, and I love the fact that you’re still creating fiction that moves and inspires me.

The sketchbook project with Peter Cusack moves along, albeit at a snail’s pace, and it’s my fault it’s taking so long—I had a busy February and finally got to work on it just in the last few days. I know I keep saying this, but I’ll get to it quicker next time, Pete!

Last time, I riffed off of Peter’s walking couple and came up with a different kind of walk. Peter took that idea and came up with a different idea for a leash. So for my turn, I decided to riff off of his man with a fedora, and in honor of the Watchmen movie finally coming out, painted a portrait of someone else well known for wearing fedoras, the vigilante Rorschach. This was painted with acrylics, which I am slowly getting more comfortable with.

I’m going to shamelessly name-drop here for a moment. Two Fridays ago, I had the privilege of taking my Publication Design class at Westmont down for a visit & talk with Margo Chase of Chase Design Group. If you like graphic design and are not familiar with Margo’s work, you need to be—she’s recognized as one of the top designers in the field today. In addition to being a truly original and profoundly inspirational designer, she’s also a warm, friendly and charismatic person to be around.

I first met Margo back in 2004, when she graciously accepted an invitation to deliver a lecture at Westmont, which was quite literally the finest lecture I’ve ever heard to date. This past summer, I had the pleasure of getting to hire Margo for the re-design of the Westmont Athletics Department logo, and it was a real lesson in design management to watch how she deftly handled a tough audience of administrators and managed to finesse a logo through the various chains of command while maintaining the artistic integrity of her design concepts. It was a formidable assignment, but Margo and her team (including key personnel Shannon and Clark on that particular project) handled it beautifully.

So naturally, I boldly asked if I could bring a class of aspiring print designers down to meet her and tour the studio space. Not only did she say yes, but we were treated to an over two-hour visit, which included meeting all of the staff and viewing a slide presentation by Clark and Shannon which was truly inspiring. Margo and the entire team were incredibly friendly and accomodating, and extremely generous with their time on a workday. The students, needless to say, were pretty blown away. Thanks Margo!

So, I’m pretty late to the game here with an Andrew Wyeth tribute, but I’ve been thinking about his work constantly since his passing on January 16th. I had literally been talking to my students about his work just hours before he died.

I didn’t care for Andrew Wyeth’s work at first. His subject matter was uninteresting to me, his palette was uncomfortably earthy, his brushwork seemed obsessively tight, and he suffered from the inevitable comparison to his father, N.C. Wyeth, who has long been an artistic hero of mine.

And then during my college years, there was a retrospective of his paintings held at the Portland Museum of Art, and it drew enough media attention that my good friend Jen Hess and I decided to go check it out. It was at this exhibition that I realized what my problem with Andrew Wyeth’s work had really been: I simply had never seen it in person. Wyeth painted relatively large—large enough that reproductions in even the most generously-sized art books simply cannot do justice to the work. The obsessively rendered tempera brushstrokes can only be appreciated when seen up close, because it’s when you see the work in person that you see the wild, expressive watercolor underpainting that lies beneath those tightly controlled brushstrokes. It was a revelation to me. A year or two later, I bought the A.W. biography by Richard Meryman, and was absolutely fascinated by the ferocious art spirit of Wyeth. There’s a memorable passage in the book where someone (can’t remember if it’s the biographer or someone else) recounts being in the studio with Andrew while he was painting, and his artistic process on that particular piece involved literally kicking and chasing a watercolor around on the floor, yelling at it the whole time and attacking the piece with fury as he worked. Not the process one would suspect from looking at reproductions of his paintings. But when you see them in person, you can see that chaos and fury peeking through the refined outer layers.

I prefer his watercolors to his finished temperas—they’re far looser and more expressive. Still, one has to respect the patience of his tempera technique and the kind of dedication it takes to meticulously create these paintings. This dedication to his craft was further proven by the creation of the infamous Helga series—in order to keep the creation of the works a secret, he upped his output from roughly four finished paintings a year to an average of seventeen in order to produce the more than 200 pieces in the series. There’s been much suspicion (and understandably so) as to whether he had an affair with his model, but if he did, he certainly was quick and efficient about it, because the fact remains that he more than tripled his normal output of work!

Wyeth has been dumped on by art critics for so long that it’s a knee-jerk reaction to many in the field. The most laughable has to be Hilton Kramer, who audaciously claimed that Wyeth “can’t paint.” It doesn’t bother me that some critics don’t like his work—taste is too subjective to ever be forced on someone, and it’s fine if someone doesn’t care for his particular brand of realism. But it rankles me when Wyeth isn’t shown proper respect for his prodigious, haunting body of work. Whether you are drawn to it or not, there is no question that he was an artist of tremendous originality, ability and power. For a great write-up on Wyeth, check out Charley Parker’s excellent Lines and Colors blog, where he posts an excellent tribute. Charley and I have essentially the same take, but he’s far more eloquent in his defense of Wyeth’s legacy.

Rest in peace, Mr. Wyeth. Thank you for the work.

Just a quick post to give a big thumbs-up review to the new J.C. Leyendecker book. Good biographical information, well-edited, and most importantly, filled with top-notch reproductions of Leyendecker’s work. I’ve been waiting for a book like this for a long time, and it’s gratifying to see that they got it right. Go buy it right now at your local bookstore, or order through your online retailer of choice. Worth every penny.

Now if only we could get similar full-color monographs on Dean Cornwell (yes, I have the Broder-authored book, but there’s too few images in color in that one), Harvey Dunn, and Mead Schaeffer, I’d be content. And while I’m dreaming, books on Al Parker, Coby Whitmore, John Gannam, and Austin Briggs would be nice too. Note to any aspiring illustrators reading this blog: if any of the names I just mentioned are foreign to you, well, you’ve got some homework to do. These are some of the greats and you’ll love their work if you seek it out.

For those just tuning in, Dialogue is a pretentiously-titled moleskine sketchbook that Peter and I are passing back and forth, each of us doing a two-page spread painting that is informed by the one preceding it. I started with a self-portrait, and Pete responded with a painting of himself taking a walk. I decided to riff off of his theme by showing someone else out for a walk. Your move, Cusey.

Here’s Robin and I at the critique. The Academy is set up so that students receive an assignment on Monday; work like mad throughout a week that is interspersed with instructor demos, slideshow lectures, and figure drawing classes; and then the next week’s instructors critique the final work the following Monday, so that there’s a fresh pair of eyes looking at their finished illustrations. Robin and I critiqued the assignment given to them the previous week by C.F. Payne, which was to depict two people having some kind of a conversation.

Robin and me being introduced to the students at the critique.

Critiquing the work.

L–R: Robin, and full-time Academy instructors John English and Doug Chayka.

Sterling Hundley, also a full-time Academy instructor, observes the crit in progress.

Australian illustrator or Hollywood marquee idol? You make the call.

We ended the crit by debuting a new finished illustration by artist Chris Payne, who had left it with John English before leaving the week prior: a portrait of myself. Chris and I had agreed last fall that we would swap portraits of each other, and John took great delight in showing off the piece.

John English unveiling the portrait of me by C.F. Payne.

Everyone kindly assured me that my ears are not, in fact, that big in real life.

After the crit and a quick lunch, it was time for me to show my slides. Rather than do a “best of” of my portfolio, I decided it would be of more value to use my slideshow to pass along some words of wisdom, along with select samples of my work.

Dispensing some advice from the trenches.

After the slideshow, Robin and I gave the students their assignments. That’s right, assignments as in two separate projects. Given that it was the second-to-last week of the program, we had been urged by Academy founder John English to turn up the heat and give them two assignments, with the caveat that only one had to be brought to a complete finish, but the other one had to be brought to at least a tight sketch if a finish was impossible. The first project given was a conceptual portrait assignment, as if for Rolling Stone, but added in the twist of assigning each student a letter from the alphabet in order to quickly limit their choices as to who they could portray, because we didn’t want them wasting the entire week being overwhelmed by all the possible choices. Giving them one letter to choose from made them focus in quickly on a handful of options, and it also helped to prevent the “superfan” syndrome where someone wants to illustrate a musician of whom they’re such a huge fan, that their familiarity with the minutiae of that celebrity’s life ends up getting in the way of them making an clear, readable concept.

Describing the two assignments to the students.

The other assignment was to do a narrative children’s book illustration from one of three stories: The Tortoise and the Hare, Jack and the Beanstalk, and The Gift of the Magi. This range of stories allowed for the students to pick the overall direction they’d want to pursue for children’s book work: the whimsical, the magical, or the realistic. Not surprisingly, the vast majority of them went with Jack and the Beanstalk, as we had predicted they would.

Turns out that giving a three-hour crit, followed by a slideshow and Q&A session is thirsty work. So it was back to our hotel, the lovely Lido Beach Resort, for daiquiris and quesadillas. The weather was beautiful and we enjoyed being regaled by stories by resident Academy comedian Brent Watkinson as we watched the sun set amidst cumulous clouds straight out of an N.C. Wyeth painting.

Refueling after a long day of talking.

L–R: Jodi Watkinson, Brent Watkinson, Doug Chayka.

Talking shop with the Hundleys.

Brent, Doug, Rachel (Robin's lovely and charming fiancee), and Robin.

Brent Watkinson, undoubtedly in the process of telling one of his infamous dirty jokes.

The following days were very full ones. We critiqued the students’ thumbnail sketches the following morning, and the students set to work on gathering photo reference and further refining the designs of their sketches. Figure drawing that night was run by guest instructor Natalie Ascencios, who dropped in for a whirlwind 36 hours.

Natalie Ascensios working with the students.

On Wednesday, it was Robin’s turn to take the slideshow spotlight. Robin wowed the students with an incredibly well-thought thought-out slideshow that managed to weave together great words of advice, samples of his amazing illustrations, and some truly hilarious potshots at the full-time instructors.

Robin pacing nervously before his talk. Robin takes his lectures very seriously and delivered a homerun.

The full-timers had a dinner obligation that night, so Robin, Rachel, Anita and myself went out to The Old Salty Dog that night for dinner. The conversation was lively and the food was mostly deep-fried.

Dinner with the crew.

On Thursday, it was time for me to do my painting demo for the students. Demos are nerve-wracking, because you don’t want to tank in front of a group of talented students. Thankfully, it seemed to go over well. One of the highlights was having all of my co-instructors present while I worked, and we ended up having a spontaneous roundtable discussion on our individual hopes and dreams as illustrators. Having a good discussion going like that during a painting demo makes the time fly by much more quickly for all involved.

My demo piece before I began painting, a portrait of Henri Matisse. I transferred the drawing and toned the panel with acrylic before arriving at the Academy.

The tiered seating setup for students to view demos.

I start by painting the shadow areas thinly.

Blocking in simple shapes and keeping it nice and graphic before doing any rendering. As I told the students, I'm just a dumb guy trying to paint smart.

Once the block-in is complete, that's when the fun of building up the lighter values begins. The bright red background was placed with the intention of covering it up with a complementary color at the very end.

Having your demo observed by pros like Anita Kunz and Doug Chayka will help keep you on your A-game.

George Pratt. George is the unofficial photographer for the Academy, and most of the photos in this post were taken by him.

Starting to render details at this stage. A demo never has the finish that one would achieve in the studio working without 50 people watching you, but hopefully captures a sense of vitality due to the speed at which you have to work.

You can see my photo reference here—one that is printed light so I can see details in shadows when needed, and one that is printed darker, so that I keep my eye on the overall light/dark pattern.

Very close to being done at this point. I picked at it for a while longer that night while the students were figure drawing.

The next day, Robin did his demo, a portrait of Sean Penn. He nailed it. I’ll let the pictures tell the story.

Showing the underpainting and dark values washed in.

Robin uses a very limited palette, to ensure color continuity in his pieces.

Anita conferring with Robin.

Putting on the finishing touches.

Robin amazed all of the oil painters in the group (myself included) with his incredible facility for blending acrylics as if they were oils.

The last night of the Academy was capped off with a group dinner and followed by a few rounds of pool at a Sarasota nightclub, where we were joined by many of the students.

The Academy crew, outside Marina Jack's.

Robin and me at the end of a great week.

All in all, it was an incredible week. Thanks to John, Brent, George, Sterling, and Doug for treating us like kings while we were there, and thanks to the students for pushing themselves and for having such good attitudes. You guys were a joy to work with, and if any of you happen to read this post, please send me jpegs of your finished pieces!

Big ups to Johnny over at Drawn! (one of my favorite websites for finding out about cool new artists), for featuring me a few days ago. I found out about it right as I was leaving on vacation, so I’ve only just now been able to get on the internet and check my blog and website stats. There was a HUGE increase in hits, so I appreciate the Drawn! love and hope some of you new visitors will continue to come by every now and then.