REPORT FROM COMICON, part 2

Every artistic choice represents a struggle over the significance of information:

• How much information needs to be included in the picture and what should be left out ? 

• How large should an element be in relation to other elements?  

• What colors give it the proper emphasis?

• How much detail should it have, before detail starts to become counterproductive?

These choices about information establish the artist's priorities; they are at the heart of what makes art great and important.  They affect not just the content but the timing of art's revelations-- the strategic places where art pauses as it lifts its petticoats.

But in our era of information technology, "information" has been radically redefined, and consequently so has the artist's struggle to manage information with taste and style.

The ability to evaluate -- "assign value to"-- information may be the central identity crisis for art in our time.  Technology enables us to automate information management with search engines, data mining and similar tools.  (For example, it would be impossible for you to make sense of those 120 cable TV channels without the software to scan and make those channels comprehensible.)  But so far such tools provide little assistance for the kind of meaningful evaluation traditionally performed by artists. 

Andy Warhol recognized very early that the mind of the artist would be outmatched by our new ability to gather information.  He abdicated the artist's editorial role in films such as Sleep which simply recorded a man sleeping for 40 minutes.  By turning the camera on and collecting information unfiltered by human taste, Warhol showed the muscularity of technology when it comes to capturing raw data.  But in the long term that revelation does not help us isolate the elements that are worth saving and thinking about.

Since Warhol's day, the ratio of information to idea has become increasingly anemic.  Live video captures and video installations drone on indiscriminately in the world of fine art.  Digital installations create immersive environments and even virtual realms but they are adrift.  In the words of Karrie Jacobs, "With information technology our reach is infinite but our grasp is weak."

Which brings me to ComicCon, the real subject of today's post.

Each year when I return to ComicCon, I am impressed with the progress that picture making and story telling have made in moving into the digital space.  I attend a dozen programs with titles such as "Reinventing the Graphic Novel for the Ipad" or "New Methods in Digital Painting" or "The Future of Graphic Novels." At these programs, talented and energetic entrepreneurs out to make a buck describe their latest innovations in curating the vast sea of information.  They talk about "the heritage of story telling colliding with the digital space," and look for solutions that "celebrate the valuable and the good in digital" while avoiding the vast quantities of "disposable junk" which has no human or commercial value.

Sometimes the images from these projects are weak, often photoshopped from photographs, but these creators have at least made a good start; they have learned to employ apps to make a monster in the background of one panel get up and crawl out of the panel and across the page of your e-book.  They have wrestled earnestly to find the best way to support a drawing with a historical film clip, and unlike Andy Warhol, they fight to remain in artistic control of the technology: "Even though it would be easy to incorporate a whole Wikipedia article at this point, we want just the right amount of content, and in the right form, to make the reader curious" and enhance the story.

Good ol' commercial art.

When "gallery" art becomes overwhelmed and superfluous and decadent, art in the service of robust commerce retains its center of gravity.  It has an economic incentive (which "art for art's sake" lacks) to put up a good fight to keep information relevant and comprehensible.

For me, art has greater value when it is integrated into life, in the service of the story or the hunt or the sacred, or even just decorating our environment with folk art the same way the bower bird decorates its nest.  Commercial art tortures artists with the need for prioritization,  but there seems to be no better antidote to the self-indulgence and pretentiousness that have robbed gallery art of the critical faculties necessary to make important judgments about digital information.

Obligatory Picture

Since this blog is all about pictures, any of you who have plowed through all this verbage deserve at least one picture.  Here is what appears to be an insightful bit of social commentary from your old friends at Playboy Magazine:  as I left my hotel one morning, I discovered  that Playboy had sent "bunny Avengers" to ComicCon. They were assembling in the hotel lobby; if you look closely, you'll see "bunny Hulk," "bunny Thor," "bunny Captain America," etc.

 What could possibly be cooler than that?

REPORT FROM COMICCON, part 1

Once again, this year's ComicCon brought together the world's most diverse array of pictures of large breasted barbarian women wearing skimpy chain mail halter tops and brandishing broad swords. 

A sampling of the large banners behind the tables in ComicCon's exhibition hall

Because artists at ComicCon come from all over the world, attendees can view a cross section of approaches and philosophies: sometimes the warrior holds the sword in her left hand, sometimes she holds it in her right hand.  One groundbreaking artist was rumored to have depicted a woman holding the sword with both hands.

The long rows of banners created an army to rival the army of emperor Qin Shi Huang. 

The similarity of these images occasionally made it difficult to navigate the hall.  If you were instructed to "turn left at the eight foot banner of the half naked warrior girl," you might quickly find yourself in an endless loop. 

Many of the artists responsible for these images showed considerable technical skill, although it is difficult to predict how they might fare with more diverse subject matter-- for example, a guy.

I'm sure this subject was a sensible choice for marketing purposes, and I give wide latitude to any artist trying to earn an honest living.  However, after fifty years there are only so many refinements that can be made to the prototypes established by Frank Frazetta and a handful of other true creators.  Time for some new prototypes.

THE LENGTH OF YOUR LEASH

James Williamson for the Saturday Evening Post (1949)

There is a gap, at least 12 tugboats wide, between what an artist can imagine and what that artist can actually put on paper.

It does no good for working artists to imagine a picture they lack the technical skill to implement. Famed illustrator Seymour Chwast confessed that he avoids pictures “that require craftsmanship and a drawing ability I do not have.” Elwood Smith maintains that his inability to draw the images he envisions forces him to be more creative: “if I can’t draw it, I struggle to come up with a different idea that’s invariably more original."

Lots of artists today seem limited by their skills to a depressingly short menu of alternatives.  Many pictures are reduced to elementary line drawings with basic compositions (or even worse-- Photoshopped montages).  In graphic novels or syndicated comic strips-- art forms that once attracted skillful draftsmen--  a simplistic approach has become common.
   
We live in a culture that is forgiving of poor execution skills, and sometimes that's a good thing.  I love many pictures that have a raw, unfinished look, pictures where accident plays an important role, or pictures where simplicity and economy leave more room for the concept.

Nevertheless, there's an undeniable attraction to pictures where an artist has the skill to be fearless.  Artists who can can confidently rotate angles or force perspective to overcome the constraints of tiny spaces, artists who can manage large amounts of information in a picture without overcrowding it --such artists don't need to keep their imaginations on a short leash.

James Williamson constructed the above illustration like a master carpenter.  To convey newlyweds separated by a domineering mother-in-law, he cleverly staged a three tiered opera: 

The sobbing, ambivalent bride sequestered by her mother (and visually, by her illustrator)

All shapes and colors lead to the dominant mother in law, who bifurcates the couple and the picture.  Her hand gesture and open mouth are framed in stark relief for emphasis.

The diminished figure of the husband at the bottom of the totem pole by the ironic "welcome" mat

Williamson uses the architecture of the house as architecture for his drawing.  It simultaneously gives him an abstract design and makes a complex drawing intelligible.  The viewer could easily become confused by a less skillful artist, but we read this in exactly the sequence Williamson intended.

One current artist who seems free to go wherever the job and his imagination take him is the always entertaining Denis Zilber. You never get the feeling Zilber has to hold back because he doesn't know how to draw.

 Zilber bends perspective and anatomy to simultaneously show us the expression on the face of this lecherous old goat, his pot belly, and the object of his attention.  Quite a tour de force.

Here Zilber makes shadows do his bidding, superimposed on extreme (but convincing) angle shots and foreshortening.

Plenty of artists do overhead shots, but how many do them in the rain?

An image I've shown before, but one which helps to make this point.

There's no guarantee that skills will result in a great picture; it does no good to draw what you imagine if you lack imagination.  But I am constantly reminded by work such as Williamson's or Zilber's that it sure helps to start from a position of strength,

CARTER GOODRICH

Last week I wrote that animated films are  corporate artwork, polished and refined by so many committees that it is often difficult to find the fingerprints of any individual artist in the end product.

But sometimes an individual artist's voice is so powerful that it survives the corporate de-flavorizing machine.  We can still see the impact of Eyvind Earle's contribution to the film Sleeping Beauty or Mary Blair's contribution to films such as Make Mine Music and Alice in Wonderland-- films that ended up far better off because of distinctive individual voices.

One of the very few artists working in the field today with that kind of visual strength is the brilliant Carter Goodrich.

When I began clipping his work from magazines, I didn't know his name but his distinctive style was easy to recognize.  

A common scene presented in an innovative way 

This marvelous bear foretells characters in the film, Brave

I later learned Goodrich's name from his New Yorker covers which strike me as smart, beautiful and true:

His children's books are also beautifully illustrated:

The scary bed: spend some time with this wonderful image.

 Goodrich has worked on a number of important animated films such as Finding Nemo, Despicable Me, and Ratatouille.  Most recently, he did character design on  Brave from Pixar.

Dozens of talented artists made important contributions to Brave, and I don't mean to underestimate the value of their work.  But for me the flavor of Goodrich's talent is unmistakeable, and the film is better off for it

New digital media delivered through corporate distribution chains have homogenized and sanitized many of the traditional roles of the individual artist.

However, even in corporate art some elements of personal taste remain indigestible and undilutable.  Those elements often account for the very best of the art form.

TEAM ARTWORK

Comic artist Will Elder described how he and Harvey Kurtzman made art on an assembly line:

We had to bring in guys to help make [Little Annie Fanny]. We rented a suite at the Algonquin Hotel in New York, turned on every light in the suite, and with the assistance of Frank Frazetta, Jack Davis, Al Jaffee, Russ heath and Arnold Roth, we were able to make our deadlines. It was a great time, ordering eggs benedict, orange juice and plenty of coffee.

Will Elder,  Jack Davis and Frank Frazetta combined

We set up an assembly line type of arrangement : some of the guys were doing backgrounds, some were doing other details.  We were following Harvey's layouts.  After one artist was done with his part of the work, he'd pass it on to the next guy who would fill in the next step of the story.  It would eventually get back to Harvey, who was such a perfectionist that he often had changes to the work.  He would mark the work with his changes and send it back to the assembly line unbeknownst to the artists who thought they were done with that panel.  Suddenly I heard Jaffee say, "Hey, this is the third time I did this panel."  To which Harvey replied, "Do it again!"  We laughed a lot, but we worked very hard.  

Judge and police on the left by Elder, police on the right by Davis, Annie by Frazetta

When you examine the originals, you see how these artists blended their distinctive styles to create seamless images.   Like solo performers singing together in harmony, each understood what the job required and worked toward a common goal.

We like to think of picture-making as a highly personal expression of taste, uncompromised by groups and committees.

But a surprising percentage of art is collaborative: 19th century illustrators teamed with talented wood engravers who redrew each picture and carved it into a wooden block so it could be printed. The drawings of comic artists are often inked by other artists.  Digital illustrators such as the prominent Mirko Ilic create images by preparing rough conceptual sketches which helpers then use to construct computer images.

Perhaps the largest, most ambitious "group effort" between artists these days is the animated film.  If you watch the (very long) credits after films such as Pixar's splendid new Brave, you'll see the names of hundred of artists roll by, each one making his or her contribution to a blended work of art.

Group art has the unfortunate effect of diluting individual artistic personalities. For example, animated films are  corporate artwork, polished and refined by so many hands that it is sometimes difficult to see the fingerprints of any individual artist in the end product.  Yet they are also epic achievements that could not be achieved by any individual artist.  In fact, most of the collaborations listed above were essential to achieve a particular result.

There is a separate pleasure from watching well teamed artists interacting.  One of my favorite parts of Martin Scorsese's concert film, The Last Waltz,  is watching the eyes and subtle exchanges between musicians at work.  When Eric Clapton is in the middle of a brisk guitar solo, his guitar strap unexpectedly breaks (at :47).  Clapton stops mid note to clutch at his guitar, but the audience doesn't notice because guitarist Robbie Robertson jumps in, improvising a riff without missing a beat.  He watches Clapton out of the corner of his eye and once the strap is fixed,  Robertson smoothly returns the lead.

A great example of the telepathy between working artists.

Whether in a suite at the Algonquin Hotel or on a concert stage in San Francisco, there is a special kind of pleasure from watching talented professionals combine their talents in harmony.

MAN AND MERMAID, 100 YEARS LATER

A century ago, Howard Pyle painted this classic image of man and mermaid locked in a passionate embrace:

Pyle's image is a metaphor for doomed lovers everywhere.  (As Joseph Stein put it, "A fish may love a bird but where would they build a home together?")

Today illustrators remain fascinated by the gap separating man from mermaid, but their perspectives look quite different.  Let's revisit Pyle's touching scene through the eyes of some of today's master illustrators:

John Cuneo offers this unsettling glimpse into the love life of a modern mermaid:

Sterling Hundley's mermaid has apparently decided not to let go of her man.  No more tearful good byes at the shore line: 

Jack Davis shows us what happens if you give a man too much time to think:

Carter Goodrich shows us a boy who has caught more than he bargained for:

French cartoonist Andre Francois imagines a cooperative effort to deal with the logistical problems:

William Steig helps us understand why a man might give up everything to flee to the mermaid's world:

Charles Rodrigues shows us the glum granddaughter of Pyle's mermaid:

What a difference a century makes (both in pictures and in relationships).  Many of today's illustrators employ a lighter medium to convey a darker message.

Pyle would have landed in jail for such irreverent and explicit content. Today's illustrators have a longer leash, but the good ones don't mistake the new candor for truth. These modern pictures work because-- like Pyle's original illustration-- they invoke some recognizable truth about human nature, a truth revealed by the gap between man and mermaid.

A WEEK OF GRUGER, day 6

To finish my (rather extended) week of Gruger, here is one more original with a slightly different approach.

In this ambitious composition of an ancient bacchanal, Gruger uses a thicker line for a bolder, more blocky effect:

Gruger put aside his sharpened pencils and sensitive line when he drew this arm.

Despite its flatter, simpler look, this approach required all of the subtlety, sophistication and knowledge of Gruger's drawings from the previous week.

A WEEK OF GRUGER, day 5

OK, so these posts spilled over into more than a week, but here are some more scans from original Gruger drawings that show his masterful draftsmanship.

Gruger uses foliage to add abstract design to his drawing. (from "He'll Come Home," Saturday Evening Post, March 1929)

Gruger spent 45 years working long hours, creating thousands of complex pictures using not much more than a pencil.  He found infinite variety in the marks of carbon on paper.

Saturday Evening Post, April 10, 1926

Gruger constructed face after face, employing a full variety of features.

Gruger was an original member of the "charcoal club" founded by John Sloan in 1893.  There, Gruger worked nightly alongside other young artists such as Robert Henri, William Glackens and Everett Shin in a vacant studio, exploring the glories of charcoal.

And in the right hands, charcoal is truly a glorious thing. 

A WEEK OF GRUGER, day 4

In 1928, Gruger was assigned by the Saturday Evening Post to illustrate a long and tedious detective story.  Rather than draw another dozen pictures of English gentlemen sitting around tables in a parlor, Gruger concoted a wraith-like apparition (not a character in the original story) to embody hidden mysteries. 

Personally, I think Gruger just felt like drawing a cool figure in flowing robes.  Look at how much fun he had with these  pictures:

Another illustration from the same story:

I don't have all of the originals from the story to scan (The two above came from our friends at Taraba Illustration Art ) but if you look at the following printed versions from the Post, you can get a sense for how Gruger drew each wraith distinctively, each with its separate dramatic flourish:

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These are not your run-of-the-mill Halloween ghosts.  Here you are seeing Gruger's vivid imagination in action.