When I was in High School a friend said that he had recently seen one of my drawings. “I recognized your style,” he told me. This caught me by surprise. I wasn’t aware I had a style so I asked him to describe it to me.
“Oh, you know,” he replied.
I told him I didn’t.
“It’s the way you draw things.”
I asked for an example.
“Like your clouds, it looks as if you could stand on them. Or the way you draw faces with the eyes slanted to one side, and hands that look like talons.” He continued on, but I’ve mercifully forgotten most of it. What he considered my “style” I considered a laundry list of my mistakes.
Webster defines style as a particular manner or technique by which something is done, created or performed. I always assumed style had to do with the choices you made, and at that point in my artistic development I wasn’t aware of having made any. I was trying to make figures look like they had anatomy, women look pretty and clouds look like, well — clouds.
After this conversation, I set out to develop a style. My objective was simple. I wanted my figures to look like a combination of Frank Frazetta and Neal Adams, but with the sense of mood and caricature Bernie Wrightson brought to his work. I wanted my line work to have the control of Charles Dana Gibson, but the freedom of expression of Heinrich Kley. That wasn’t too much to ask, was it?
Apparently so.
Nowadays I make more choices when I draw, but I have never conscientiously chosen a style for myself. If people can recognize my drawings I still believe it is because they have become familiar with my recurring mistakes.
(NOTE: if you think it’s impossible to ink with the control of Gibson and the spontaneity of Kley I encourage you to look at some of the pen and ink work done by James Montgomery Flagg.)
This one was taken (by Lynn) in our front courtyard; a part of our house featured briefly in Nocturnal Battle. It’s amazing how much wildlife (natural and supernatural) you can find just outside your door.
Having a cast on her arm didn’t stop Lynn from snapping this picture of a Cooper’s Hawk in our back yard. Call me weird (my mom always did) but I find it comforting to know there are birds of prey in the neighborhood.
(reposted from sevenextraordinarythings.com)
My wife fell, fractured her wrist and has had it in a cast for three weeks. I told Ziggy to take some time off from hunting the living dead to keep an eye on her.
One more week to go before the cast comes off and Lynn can resume her hobby of fighting crime on the weekends. But I’ve asked her to be more careful in the future when she’s leaping from building to building in pursuit of a suspect.
Like many artists of my generation I can divide my early development into two categories; before I saw my first Frank Frazetta painting, and after. I remember the day. I was crossing the floor of the Santa Barbara Public Library near a rack of paperback novels they recently made available for check out, when Frank’s “Death Dealer” stopped me in my tracks. I studied it in amazement. Then it occurred to me there might be other books with covers by the same artist. I searched quickly, fearful that someone else would find them before I did. My second discovery was “The Moon Maid”, which was not only a painting of a naked woman riding on the back of a centaur (more than I could’ve hoped for already) but the story was by Edgar Rice Burroughs (my favorite author, at the time).
I checked both books out, hurried home, took out pencil and paper, and began to copy them. From that moment on I knew I could not be satisfied until I taught myself to draw as well as Frazetta. He had set the bar. In my youthful optimism I sought to match him. Thirty years later I still haven’t succeeded in this ambition, and I doubt I ever will. But this much is certain; however well I can draw today I owe directly to Frazetta.
Frank Frazetta passed away on May 10, 2010. There will never be another like him.