"There was a time when I would have strongly disapproved of doing any such thing. But now I do many things I disapprove of."
Saul Leiter, 2005
I started this web site as the result of a final project for my Electronic Publishing class, and it went online in mid-May of 2005. Similar to my first experiences with S.P.A.C.E., I really wasn't certain what to expect. I've had very little experience with online communities, bulletin boards, and blogs, and beyond visiting a few artist's web sites and Googling something every now and then, I was pretty much an offline person. I had no idea how many people would visit the site, who they might be, where they might come from, and how they would find me. I didn't really have any concrete goals or expectations for a web site either, I mostly wanted a place where I could put some of my drawings and photographs and comics so that if someone asked about it and I didn't have anything near by that I could actually show them, I could just tell them to check out my web site. Really, that was about all I wanted to do.
The actual experience has been quite different, and I've learned an awful lot from it. It's really strange, actually, how having a web site with my artwork on it has granted me this kind of instant credibility. I'm the exact same person I was one year ago, yet now when I email an artist asking to purchase their art prints or comics or zines I usually get a much more thorough response that generally includes something like "I looked around your site a little bit and really dig your drawings. Could I pick up a few of your comics?" The entire dialog is markedly different in tone as well, like somehow I am now more serious about art, more skilled, and more experienced than I was before I had the web site. It's been a profoundly unusual experience for me. I'm still coming to terms with it.
What's been most amazing is the way in which this web site at first completely muddied my artistic goals, and then helped focus them. I still ran into a lot of people online who really badly wanted to label me and stick me in with some art group or something. I know the intentions were always good, but it really depressed me a lot. I'd get asked what anthologies I had been published in, or if I had exhibited at this gallery or that one, or if I knew someone, or if I was doing t-shirts with a particular designer, or if I had my work on any one of a million other art sites. The answers were always "no" or "none." In spite of having a site of my own, I still work alone. I still don't show my work in public. I still don't go out of my way to publicize what I'm doing. And I don't want to be part of this group or that group or whatever group if it means I have to adopt their style or their aesthetic or something like that. I think that's what always got under my skin when people would tell me my stuff reminded them of stuff they'd seen in Kramer's Ergot or from Fort Thunder. I would want to say to them "But I'm NOT in that anthology or part of that crew, can't you just take a look at this for what it is?"
And while I was getting all this super-friendly treatment from other artists and printmakers and cartoonists, I was also getting some of the most negative criticism I've ever received in my entire life. Some of it was helpful, like Dan Zettwoch's very honest e-mail about my 3 issues of "Spudd 64." Some of it made me laugh simply because I knew that the reviewer was into comics that were very different from what I was doing, and there was no malice or judgment implied. Some of it, like the comments from Steven Grant, were just plain insulting. But all of it was such a higher level of visibility that I really was stunned into immobility for a few weeks. I went from being completely invisible to being far more visible than I ever thought possible for someone like me, and even then I was a pretty miniscule fish in an enormous pond.
Making comics is a funny thing. I like what I've done. I'm proud of a lot of it. I want to keep doing it, although the reasons are now a little different than they were before. But I am tired of "comics" or "comix" or whatever you want to call it. I am tired of the way people act on message boards and the way anyone with a PC feels the need to review anything and everything they can especially when the reviews amount to nothing more thought out than the ejaculation of a personal opinion without any critical evaluation behind it. I am tired of the way so many cartoonists and artists and printmakers seem to band together in little groups or clubs or get behind names and sort of run with concept of being the hip new thing until something else comes along and bumps them out of the spotlight (complete with the necessary war of words that inevitably occurs on the Comics Journal message board or any one of a dozen others). I am tired of Fort Thunder and Dearraindrop and Kramer's Ergot and Fantagraphics and Marvel and DC and the way almost everyone that's lately come to the craft aesthetic seems to do nothing but draw deer and bunnies and I am tired of feeling like I have to take what I want to do and find a way to squeeze it into one of these boxes. I guess it's all a negative reaction to some of the reviews I've gotten, but the negative reaction isn't to the reviewers or their negative thoughts about my work. The negative reaction is to my own feelings about what's happened, about me actually thinking maybe I should do something in a comic differently so that Dan or Steven likes it a little more, or thinking I should keep making a certain kind of drawing because people seem to like the way they look, or worrying that if I start doing something new in a comic or a drawing that Stephanie or Kyle or Johnny or Angela K. or Brad will stop coming to my web site because they don't like the new stuff.
It's been a long long road from that first drawing of aliens and monsters that hung on my refrigerator back in Amherst. I've done so much. I've got loads of regrets and a world of amazing memories. It's really been heaven and hell. Thank God for Rudy. Without her friendship, love, support, and belief, I can assure you (as hopelessly maudlin and melodramatic as this is) I would truly not even be here now. She's helped me through illnesses, both physical and mental, and never once even wavered in her belief that I could do amazing things.
I've been here, online, for a little under 6 months and I finally feel comfortable. I want to make art, and I want to draw, and I want to make books and CDs and things, and I really do want to be able to share it all with friends and strangers too. But most importantly, I know that I need to follow my own roads and go where I want to go artistically. I guess I can't really put it any more plainly than that. Some of you have intentionally or unintentionally pressured me to draw or write or make art in a certain way. Some of you have pushed me toward a certain kind of online persona or identity. But most importantly, even more of you have simply checked in every day, read the news, peaked around in the art or photo sections, sent me an email or two, and simply shared a little bit of my world the same way you've shared some of your own in your correspondence. And that's what I really want. I could care less if I got an exclusive contract with Marvel Comics or a show at the Whitney Museum or a story published in Kramer's Ergot 6 that Sammy Harkham creamed his pants over. It wouldn't matter if I wasn't completely happy with what I had done. So I hope that those of you who know me, or even just know me through this site and what you've seen on here, will continue checking in and looking at what I'm doing. And if you really don't like it, its okay if you tell me. I really am interested in what people think of what I'm doing, only now it's a lot easier to engage with that without feeling like I'm slowly losing a part of my mind.
Lately I've been really dissatisfied with comics, and with a lot of art. The dominance of marketing trends, of cliques and gangs, of little movements and code words, the cult of personality that surrounds so many comic writers and artists whether they are independents or working for a big publisher, and that grating endlessly incestuous self-referencing pop culture mindset has really soured things for me. For the first time in my life, I've really begun to look very hard at some fine art, and it has been an energizing experience. Artists like Terry Winters, Cy Twombly, Matthew Ritchie, Kiki Smith, Inka Essenhigh, Raymond Pettibon, Brice Marden, and Nancy Spero. But for the first time, I am actually learning from this art instead of just being influenced by it. I am looking forward to new drawings, new photographs, and new books. And I am learning how to think of this web site as my own, a space for me where I can do and say what I want and not worry so much about whether or not people will like it. I do hope that any of you reading this will continue to come to the site, but if you do not than that is okay too. I haven't even heard from a few of you in many many weeks, and I am already suspecting that our paths have diverged. It does make me a little sad, but I hope all is well for you nonetheless.
Tomorrow begins the eleventh month. Eleven is my favorite number. Even luckier than 64.
Matt K.
Thankfully, this whole story has a happier ending. You'll get it in "Part Seven."
After re-reading much of what I wrote, I realize that it almost appears as if everything had happened in these neatly compartmentalized chapters, where one part of the story ended and another began in a tidy fashion. Our memories are never accurate, and we often recall things in relation to other things, ignoring or overlooking certain details, telescoping or reducing time, and distorting the picture with our own emotions. My life hasn't come at me in parts the way I've told this story. Things overlapped and bled into one another an awful lot. Many experiences affected other experiences. The whole thing was not nearly this meticulous, but no one's story is. In reading this narrative you've gotten as clear and understandable a narrative as I am willing and able to give. And if you want to know more, you'll just have to hope to meet me some day.
Now, the penultimate chapter.
I had actually been drawing intermittently even while I was photographing so heavily. The time I spent drawing was rarely planned, never consistent, and more a diversion than anything else. Also, other than some initial stabs at doing comics work, I had really only completed two drawings between 2000 and 2004, so my efforts had diminished considerably by the time I decided to burn everything I had done photographically and simply stop existing. But something about what I had experienced while drawing stayed with me.
The first real drawing I had done since I was a young child was called "Metatron."
It was only even possible because I had recently discovered the art of Adolf Wolfli and the concept of outsider art, and to someone like me who wanted so badly to be able to give life to my own visions but was lacking in any kind of artistic training or practice whatsoever, the concept of self-taught art was absolutely mesmerizing. I began "Metatron" one spring day while I was home, ill, from work at Barnes & Noble. I actually had mononucleosis, of all things, and I genuinely felt absolutely exhausted and drained. Every step was a labor, and I barely had the energy to move. We were living at the Enclave at the time, and for some reason Rudy had temporarily borrowed a card table for our bedroom. I really can't remember what it was for. Anyway, I had some bristol board and a lot of colored pencils that had been laying around for a long time, so I crawled out of bed, opened the window, turned on the television, and sat in the folding chair at the card table. The bed was about 8 inches behind me and the television was about 8 feet in front of me, and I didn't move anything but my hands for the rest of the day. I was in sort of a haze of illness and weakness, so I simply let my mind wander and my hand go where it wanted. I didn't use any rulers or any kind of assistance other than the steadiness of my own hand. Rudy was at work the entire day.
I kept the project from her and drew for 3 days straight while she worked, and in the end I had produced "Metatron." I was as giddy as that little kid from elementary school, and this time I knew the drawing wouldn't be thrown away. I showed Rudy when she came home and she seemed to genuinely appreciate, and more importantly, "get" what I had done.
I didn't draw consistently, and was still heavily involved in the nightmare of photography, but the drawings were there. Kind of like seeds or bulbs waiting in the earth. Waiting for the right combination of events to sprout.
I had gotten to know my good friend Johnny Ampersand through my job at Barnes & Noble (one of the few truly wonderful things to come out of that job) and he rekindled my interest in comics. I discovered that he adored Jack Kirby as much as I did, and this love of all things fantastic pushed those seeds a little bit closer to sprouting. Together, we started a comic strip that we attached to all the employee's paychecks at the bookstore. It was a delightful little piece of anti-corporate invective called "Don't Quit Yer Day Job" and we even collected them into 2 magazine-sized comic books. I still have a few sitting around, although a lot of the humor might not make any sense to someone who didn't work at the bookstore with us.
So these three things were going on at once...photography was ruining my life, I was drawing strange colored pencil pictures of space giants and mechanical angels when I was sick or simply had a lot of time to goof off, and Johnny and I were digging more deeply into our own personal love of comics and what we could to create comics of our own. It's funny actually to look back at this and realize that so much of the happiness I was experiencing was because I had never allowed myself to even consider making comics of my own when I was younger. There is truly very little like that feeling you get when you xerox, staple, and fold your very first comic book and realize that you made it.
Some may find this hard to read, but I never took it very seriously, which is precisely why drawing and comics became so much fun and, later, became a way out of my self-imposed stasis and exile. Comics and drawing, as Angela K. pointed out to me, became a kind of therapy for me in 2003 and 2004. They were a way for me to put the guilt and the depression somewhere else so I could heal and get strong enough to deal with them.
After I burned everything, and realized I just didn't have the drive or the desire to continue pouring 30-50 hours into my colored pencil drawings (yes, that is really how long each one takes) I slowly began to work harder and harder and comics. For those who haven't guessed or figured this out, "Spudd 64" is actually very autobiographical. This is particularly amusing to me because Whitey over at OpticalSloth mentions, in his review of issue #3, that it was a particularly fun comic for him because it was NOT autobio. Mostly, I'm just glad he enjoyed it. And unless you know me very very well, it would be very hard to find the strands of autobiography in the comic. I think that Rudy is really the only person to even come close, but that is understandable since she is my best and truest friend and knows me better than anyone.
In early 2003, in response to a good-natured challenge from my friend Johnny, I decided to take some of the previous comic work I had done and turn it into my own book. I had been given the nickname "Spud" when I was very young, although it did not survive into my teen years, and for personal reasons 64 had been a lucky number of mine. It shouldn't be too hard to figure out why. So I took some of what I had liked about comics, added another "D" to Spud, and started my own story. Even after suffering through a kidney stone (my second one!) in March of 2003, I was still able to finish the 31 page first issue of "Spudd 64" and debut it at Columbus' own S.P.A.C.E., or Small Press and Alternative Comics Expo.
I was terribly nervous and incredibly unsure what to expect. I had only been to S.P.A.C.E. as a spectator one time, the year before, and I had no idea how things would go. Also, I had never shown anyone my drawings before, and this was the first time I had ever worked on a comic all on my own. Even the strips that Johnny and I had done at Barnes & Noble were created for a very intimate audience of co-workers we knew quite well. In fact, many of them had input into the stories and characters as well, so the whole thing became this kind of massive collaboration. but "Spudd 64" was all my own. There was no name on it other than Matt Kish, and I was definitely quaking in my boots when it came time to set up our little exhibitor table and sell it to total strangers. Thank God Johnny and his wife Alice shared a table with us. He seemed a whole lot more self-possessed and had been doing his own comics for so long that he brought an authority and a gravitas to the whole affair. I don't even think I would have remembered to bring a cash box or change!
One of the worst things happened that year at S.P.A.C.E. My comic did very well. I sold out, and nearly everyone had positive things to say when they bought it. In retrospect, this is illusory since I never received an e-mail from anyone who bought it even though my e-mail address was in the book. Now, before you think I am being an idiot for feeling that the success was a negative, hear me out. The first issue of "Spudd 64" was deeply flawed. The pacing was kind of poor, it is not difficult to tell that the first 11 pages were an introduction that had been done months before and then tacked onto the finished issue, the art can be uneven, and I still shudder to read some of my writing. Yes, there were many many good things about the issue as well, and even now there are things I am very proud of and look back on fondly. The problem is that I got almost no honest, constructive feedback from anyone who read it. To this day, I am not certain if my friends were just too polite to tell me what didn't work or if I am simply being too hard on myself, but the whole experience sort of blinded me to making a better issue #2.
Since I had given up on photography and burned everything and had more or less stopped drawing anything else, comics became my main focus in terms of visual expression and art for the next 2 years. Sadly, many of the bad habits I had developed in my early years came back to haunt me. I still did not practice drawing enough, I still did not keep a sketchbook, I still procrastinated, and as a result of this, I would sometimes go months without drawing anything, let alone a comic. Because of that, it took me an entire year to finish "Spudd 64" issue #2, and because I had not been practicing, that issue carried many of the same flaws that issue #1 did, other than a truly fantastic back-up story written by my friend Aaron Martin Fitzwater.
Nonetheless, issue #2 was a near sell-out at the 2004 S.P.A.C.E. and the 3rd printing of issue #1 sold out completely yet again. People were coming back to the book who had missed out on "Spudd 64" in 2003, and they actually remembered me. Rather than give me a big head, it was profoundly unsettling. On one hand, I was very happy that I had something to share with people, and that I was able to bring them some happiness and give them something new and interesting to read and look at. But I wasn't happy when people started in with the labels. Suddenly, everything that was negative about comics and fandom and pop culture started to creep in where I least expected it. People would compare my work to other comics thinking it was a compliment. People would ask what kind of comics I read and what artists I liked and then never let me like anything else. People would tell me that my work reminded them of some other artist or book or anthology or even group of cartoonists and then think they had me pegged. At first I was absolutely thrilled when people told me my stuff reminded them of Fort Thunder or Dearraindrop or Kramer's Ergot because at the time those were all artists I absolutely idolized. But it so quickly became a strait-jacket.
Still, it wasn't too bad at first since I only went to S.P.A.C.E. once a year, and other than that and a handful of reviews, I was able to work on my comics and my drawings in peace and solitude. And then, I made this web site. And everything exploded again.
Matt K.
"There was a man named David Lang, the paperhanger said. Up in Gallatin, back in the late 1800s. He was crossing a barn lot in full view of his wife and two children and he just vanished. Went into thin air. There was a judge in a wagon turning into the yard and he saw it too. It was just like he took a step in this world and his foot came down in another one. He was never seen again."
Matt K.
I was still taking and printing photographs--and ONLY taking and printing photographs, not drawing at all--when Jennifer and I moved to Columbus in late 1996. Cracks were forming, and although it would take years for the whole thing to finally fall apart, the end was visible if one knew where to look.
The stresses of a new town, a failing marriage, an unused college degree, and a means of expression that was increasingly cannibalistic and self-destructive continued a slow steady erosion of my sense of self and worth. My energy was low, my drive was disappearing, and I stopped caring. Strangely, this helped. Where I had once turned the camera on masked and anguished figures in murky black rooms, I began turning it on houses, streetlights, fog, cars, clouds, winter trees, streaks of light, and snow. Almost imperceptibly, my efforts at photography stopped being a reflection of my obsessiveness at looking inward, and evolved into a new way of looking outward. I suppose I could spend a great deal of time thinking on this, analyzing it, and writing page after page of text, but I have no desire to do that here. It is too private and too long ago, and I am content to accept these things as part of me and part of my past and move on from them.
What matters is that everything about my photography had changed. Most importantly, it had evolved. I had spent so much time, so much energy, so much misery wrestling with my camera, fighting in the darkroom, trying to force my visions onto film and paper. Now I was simply letting the camera open up, roam a bit, run through the world around me. Anything mundane or vernacular that crossed my path became a tiny piece of the greater photographic whole. I developed and printed roll after roll of images of blurry suburban houses at dusk, foggy Midwestern landscapes that were almost inevitably out of focus and randomly composed, and after a time, simply strips of negatives fogged with light and blurred with streaks.
The photographer Diane Arbus mentioned that her teacher Lisette Model made it clear to her that "the more specific you are, the more general it will be." I don't know. I'm nowhere near Diane Arbus or Lisette Model, not at all. To me, both then and now, I found a new freedom and a new generality in these increasing abstractions. By consciously avoiding the urge to force my own visions on the camera, I found an entirely new and far more universal visual vocabulary in abstractions. By consciously developing film wrongly, by printing photographs without using the timer or the right kinds of chemicals, by welcoming the incorrect, the random, and the mistaken, I was finally able to gain perspective on my previous and woefully selfish aesthetic and see that I was communicating with no one but myself. It was a closed system, and a frightening one as well.
I began mounting my photographs differently as well, collaging them together, cutting them jaggedly, tearing the paper, mounting them in rows or columns or sequences, adding handwritten notes and codes, layering tape and spray paint and ink and dye...I felt like I was tearing the past into pieces and recontextualizing it in light of a different self-awareness.
This was also the first time I had ever heard ambient music. I spent hours in the darkroom one evening printing the same images, rows of blurry houses on a streetlamp-lit Cleveland street, listening to Brian Eno's "Ambient 1 : Music for Airports." I think I entered a kind of trance, really, but the entire experience really exploded my aesthetic. I realize that this all sounds perilously close to some kind of tripped out adolescent drug trip, but it shifted a number of concepts for me in a very syncretic way. What excited me most about that evening and the new images I was crafting was that I finally felt I was growing as an artist, making conscious choices about what to explore and how to express this, and not simply reacting to other influences or following appetites.
Sadly, that exploration was stillborn. My first marriage ended, and although the dissolution was far more bearable than many divorces, it was still a humbling and saddening experience for both of us. I moved again, fell more deeply into an ultimately soul-crushing retail job, and slipped even further into selfishness and self-obsession. I returned wholeheartedly to the kind of image-making I had previously been engaged in and repeated the same exercises, the same mistakes, and the same damage. This willful self-destruction provided a panacea because it provided a kind of stability in a life that was falling apart at the seams. It took until 2003, but selfishness finally caught up with me and I was faced with choosing between making the same kind of art or letting the whole thing go, terrifying as that was, for the slimmest chance at a better future.
One night, I burned everything. I had 10 thick journals packed cover to cover with photographs, sketches, writings, lists, collages...my entire life for the previous 7 years. I burned them. I had binders full of carefully organized photographic negatives in different formats, all of them meticulously labeled and dated. I burned them. And I had stacks and stacks of photographic images, many of them carefully mounted on board, some of the professionally framed, some of them stored in simple shoeboxes. I burned them. I had sold a very few photographs to friends, and I probably would have burned those as well if I had been able to lay my hands to them. Fortunately, even as I see these today hanging on the walls of other people's houses or apartments, I feel no regret. They are some of the most beautiful images I had created, and they are from a better time in my photographic journey, so in many ways I am grateful they survived and thankful to these friends for becoming, in a way, caretakers of my art. But beyond those 4 or 5 images, every shred of everything I had done photographically since 1996 was destroyed. I made the choice.
And then I retreated. Too frightened to move forward or backward, I simply sat very still. I was defeated, resigned, and empty. It was very early in 2003, and I did nothing for months.
Matt K.
During the spring of 1994, I was preparing for graduation from Bowling Green State University, thinking about marriage to Jennifer, and purchasing my very own photographic enlarger and darkroom set-up. These were heady times. I had experimented enough with black and white 35mm photography to feel as if I had some talent at it, and I was ready to make a financial and personal commitment to bettering my craft. I had been playing around with my 35mm camera for about 2 years prior to this, but I always had to take my film to the Hills department store in Bowling Green for processing. Since it was black and white film, it took 4-6 days to get the prints in, rather than the 24 hour turnaround for color film. Additionally, the prints were always the standard 4 inch by 6 inch glossy, and I had no control over the developing or printing. Endlessly frustrating.
Photography had become so compelling for me because it allowed me to circumvent my weaknesses as an artist, my lack of skill at drawing and composition, and my frightful laziness with maintaining any kind of sketch book or practice. The camera was a new tool, a new medium, and a new way of seeing. It offered me new realities as well. I was quite taken with it, and soon the personal commitment to bettering my craft became a rather unhealthy fixation on one medium.
Much of what unfolded over the next nine years was horrible and horrifying. Only Rudy and I know the full truth of it, and I've shared pieces of the tale with only one close and trusted friend. It is something that is better left private. In the end, the images I created with my camera and in my darkroom became steadily more monstrous and grotesque, and they had a similar effect on me. As time war on, the partnership between my camera and I became a sort of war, and everyone around me suffered some sort of collateral damage. One marriage ended. Friends were lost. My entire life changed, and then changed again. Once a tool, my camera became a weapon for me to attack the commonly accepted nonfiction of the photographic image. Claustrophobia and monomania crept in, and it took losing nearly everything for me to see I had to choose a different path, regardless of what that would cost me artistically.
Matt K.
"The whales are written over with scars; their backs are mottled with pocks and craters and plates of barnacles. Joseph presses his palm to the side of one and the skin around the scar trembles beneath his touch. Another whale slaps its flukes against the beach and emits clicks that seem to originate from the center of it. Its brown bloodshot eye rolls forward, then back.
For Joseph it is as if some portal from his nightmares has opened and the horrors crouched there, breathing at the door, have come galloping through. On the half-mile trail back to Ocean Meadows, he falters in his step and has to kneel, his body quaking, the ragged clouds coursing overhead. Tears pour from his eyes. His flight has been futile; everything remains unburied, floating just at the surface, a breeze away from being dredged back up. And why? Save yourself, the neighbors had told him. Save yourself. Joseph wonders if he is beyond saving, if the only kind of man who can be saved is the man who never needed saving in the first place.
He lies in the trail until it is dark. Pain rolls behind his forehead. He watches the stars blazing in their lightless tracts, their twisting and writhing, their relentless burning, and wonders what the woman meant, what he should be learning from this."
from the short story "The Caretaker" by Anthony Doerr
At some point, I began reading comic books in earnest. They were always there, floating around in the background of my life, along with the rubber dinosaurs and Micronauts, plastic robots and Legos, but they didn't have the same kind of significance to me as a child that they did to others whom I would meet later.
On some dull trip to our local Drug Mart, I was forced to lurk in the children's section-an aisle grossly overstuffed with plastic models, coloring books, and two bulging and slightly rusted racks of the old "Hey Kids! Comics!" type while my parents hunted for aspirin and trash bags. It must have been quite some time since I had read a comic book because my 13-year-old eye was immediately drawn to the rack. And there it was. "Uncanny X-Men" issue #156. A big beautiful cover complete with a luridly green alien hulk towering over a crew of blaster-wielding space pirates and spandex-clad superheroic mutants. It was like a siren call. I dug in my pockets, past the gummi worms and candy wrappers, and came up with enough change to pay the sixty-cent cover price. Then it was all mine.
There must have been some kind of heavy synchronicity that day, because it was almost certainly the perfect comic for me to look at. It had horrifying aliens. It had a courageous band of interstellar freedom fighters. It had colossal spaceships. It had unspeakably bizarre robots. It had beautiful women. It had thrills, spills, and chills. There was mystery. There was adventure. There was action. And most importantly, there was page after page after page of bright, beautiful, garish art. It was, quite literally, a feast for the mind and the eyes. That comic single-handedly re-ignited my interest in comic books, and started me down the road to reading, and ultimately making my own, comics.
None of which should be too surprising. Considering that the average comic had 22 pages of story and art, and each page consisted of 6 to 9 panels, some quick figuring would indicate that for a little over sixty cents, I could buy 120 to 180 pictures. Just what my ever voracious eye and adolescent attention span craved.
I later understood that reading comics was the absolute best way to satisfy my almost constant craving for new art, new images, and new ways of seeing things. Comics gave my eye a rigorous workout. I read more and more and more and soon learned to easily distinguish between the clean lines and square jaws of Jim Starlin or the scratchy ornamentalism of Walt Simonson or the pastel elegance of P. Craig Russell. I was so in awe of these artists that I was content to sit at their feet and wonder at the images and stories, and never once even came close to considering pursuing some kind of career in comics. It was like I somehow knew that the rarified air of that comics monarchy was well beyond anything I could ever hope to achieve. Even though the art of comics was my main, and in some ways my only, source of visual inspiration, my own drawing was influenced by it in much subtler ways. I've read so many accounts of artists who say that they got their start by either tracing the comics that they loved as a child or by drawing Batman and Spider-Man with their siblings, and that was never the case with me. I kept on drawing single images of monsters, aliens, robots and spaceships and even though there was a heavy comics-related aesthetic developing, at no point did I ever become interested in telling stories with these pictures or trying to imitate the stylings of the comic artists I adored. It's almost as if comic books got me excited about drawing, and that was all. When I drew, I drew what I wanted to draw and that rarely had anything to do with what comic books I was reading. I don't think I've ever drawn a superhero in my entire life, even now.
The style of comic book art so dominated my visual aesthetic that I grew up almost completely unaware of what I suppose is best termed fine art. My parents had taken me to the Oberlin Art Museum, but at the time I simply considered the whole affair monumentally dull. Who wanted to look at a bunch of old oil paintings of PEOPLE? Why did they paint so many bowls of fruit and hunting scenes? What was with all those dancers and ballerinas anyways? The only images that held my eye were the vanitas with their skulls and candles and some of the more fantastic angels, most of whom seemed to be involved in some sort of annunciation or other act of amazing and terrifying helpless mortals.
Additionally, since I am such a Methuselah, I grew up in an era free of videogames, computers, the internet, and VCRs. Rather than suffering a relentless and daily barrage of images from cable television, web pages, billboards, advertising, and the now omnipresent t-shirt-as-graphic-design-statement, I was mercifully free to make some choices about what I wanted to look at. If I wanted to look at art, if I wanted to see something cool, I had three choices. Draw it myself. Buy a comic book from Drug Mart. Or go to the tiny public library and hope for the best. And that was generally my order of preference as well. If I didn't want to any of those things I could actually play in the woods, ride my bicycle around, or got to the Hastee Tastee ice cream stand.
Comics came and went and came and went all through junior high school, high school, and even the first year or two of college. Like most inquisitive readers, my tastes expanded quickly and once I had tested the boundaries of superhero comics and found them woefully restrictive, I struck out into the unexplored territory of independent comics, black and white comics, the heady science fiction and lurid fantasy of "Heavy Metal" and "Epic Illustrated," and later, sort of coming full circle, some of the fringe mainstream titles like Sam Kieth's "The Maxx" and the early days of Mike Mignola's "Hellboy," before it became a bloated media property. Of course, all of this involved a nearly 45 minute drive from my hometown to a comic shop on the west side of Cleveland, but these pilgrimages became easier as I got older and earned a drivers license, and soon I began making fairly regular trips with my fellow comic readers Ricky, Carl, and occasionally even Mike L.
Soon after leaving home for several years at Bowling Green State University, my interest in comics began to wane. Several of my friends had taken a basic black and white photography course and the results fascinated me. I had spent years and years admiring art, being passionate about art, but not engaging in the process of art. The result was that the few drawing skills I had developed as a 12 year old had almost completely atrophied, and I found myself so deeply frustrated with my inability to control a pencil or an ink pen and have it make the marks I wanted it to make that a sort of inner civil war developed. In the end, I paid a terrible price for this.
Matt K.
"The Sound Gun has four settings. The first one is Make Scared. Make Scared makes a big loud noise that makes people scared. It is louder and scarier than the noise a bomb makes as it explodes, because the people we're fighting have not been scared by that sound for three wars. The sound that Make Scared makes is like a herd of elk tumbling into a cauldron of hot, resonant dung or, at night, the frail puff of air conjured up by a dying child. Make Scared worked for a while, but then the enemy started putting soaked wheat pods in their ears, so we had to move on to Hurt."
from the short story "The Sound Gun" by Matthew Derby
As a youth, my summers were spent camping. First in something called a PortaCabin, which was kind of like an aluminum matchbox that unfolded just large for a family of five to really get on one another's nerves, and later in a more traditional trailer. Pin Oak Lake Park, here in good old Ohio, was our most common destination. I was 12 years old. I made lots of new friends, had my very first kiss, developed a pathetically saccharine crush on a 16 year old named Kim Walters who was far more tolerant of my attention and tiny jealousies than she needed to be. Good times.
Visitors came and went often, some in trailers and tents, some gone before nightfall. When a cousin or a schoolmate swing into my orbit, we inevitably drew.
My cousin Jason S. was one such visitor, and on a night full of crickets and lightning bugs, he created the second greatest drawing I have ever seen in my entire life. Hideously asymmetrical, it showed a massive crescent moon shaped head flashing a murderous grin, crowned with eyestalks, and nesting on a bed of tentacled legs and feelers.
At first it was just completely wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. Monsters had to look like...well, monsters. Where was the long neck? The scales? The horns? The two wings? The big sharp teeth? Soon, though, the majesty of that horrifically grinning, gargantuan-headed, delightfully deformed freak sucked all the air out of my protests and shattered all of the still-cooling aesthetics that my young mind had developed. In my mind, the walls had all fallen flat and I had seen vistas I never dreamed possible.
That was 24 years ago, but I am still trying to knock down every wall I come across to see what's on the other side.
Matt K.
A piece of rough manila paper and a battered box of stubby, greasy colored pencils. I paused, considered, abandoned any planning, and leaped. First, a planet. A gracefully crooked curve cresting up from the bottom of the page, blissfully unaware of the gathering onslaught. Next, the horde. Monsters of every size and stripe. Stalked eyes. Robotic arms. Wings. Scales. Jeweled antlers. Prehensile noses. Armed with every ray-gun, blaster, laser beam, and sinister looking device dripping wires and sprouting tubes, bulbs, and valves that my young and fevered brain could think of. Crashing in inexorable waves on the helpless planet below.
It was a masterpiece. My magnum opus. And I was only 5! What a genius I was! What an artiste! I ran home from school at the end of the day and generously shared it with my mother. Compliments followed, and this little icon was proudly fastened to our refrigerator with magnets. I was a god.
And then, it was gone.
I found it after a frantic search, slightly crumpled, badly torn, and unpleasantly stained, in the kitchen garbage can. She meant no harm at all. She truly didn't. In my memories, it hung on the refrigerator for only a few glorious shining hours until it was vandalized and sacrificed, but now I am quite certain it was probably on that refrigerator for days or even weeks. Even then, though, I had no resentment. I wasn't angry. I was just hurt and confused.
I felt like I had been scooped hollow and sewn shut again. Didn't she understand? I would never be able to draw that picture again! It was lost! Gone forever! Even if I looked at the old, stained, torn one, I would never again recapture what I had drawn. It was now dead.
And so, for 31 years, I have been trying to draw that same picture.
Matt K.
Just a quick one today to wish my father a very happy birthday. I can't remember if he is 57 or 58, or maybe even a little older, but nonetheless he is still going strong. Happy birthday Pops! Be good and do something fun today!
Matt K.
I'm not certain yet exactly how I want to proceed with my promised autobiography (of sorts). Questions abound. What to include? What might best be left private? Ultimately, I hope that the whole thing will shed some light on what I'm trying to explore, at least on a personal level, with art and photography. And hopefully the whole thing won't come across as some hopelessly self-involved piece of navel-gazing, but some may see it that way.
So until I decide exactly how I want to do that, I'm just going to be a dope and post a bunch of digital pictures of my friends. After all, I visit my own web site too. It's nice to see my friends.
Here's Stang (or Jeff Stang or even Jeffrey Stang if you like), Sean McKeever, and my brilliant and lovely spouse and partner Rudy on a couch at my first and only (so far) art show. It was a truly odd experience. I meant the art show, not the tension and horror Rudy experienced being seated between these two knucklenecks...
Here's a picture of my good friend Aaron M. Fitzwater that I took at S.P.A.C.E. in Columbus last April. Actually, I took about 30 pictures just like this while Aaron was talking to me, and I don't think he noticed for a long time. He doesn't seem to like having his picture taken for some reason. I don't know why.
This here gentleman is the one and only Fred D., an extraordinary painter and truly awesome human being. Fred, his partner Caroline, Rudy, and me all walked to the Dorothy Lane market on a warm night this past September and bought alcohol, cookies, and little bottles of bitters. The bitters was supposed to help digestion and make us feel bright and alert. Instead it tasted like rubbing alcohol, pine needles, and benzene. Nonetheless we were so excited about drinking it that we didn't even wait to get back to their apartment...we drank it right there on the street. This is Fred getting ready to take the plunge...
And here is Caroline who, since she did not partake of the bitters, seemed to find the whole affair richly amusing.
Rudy abhors me taking a million pictures of her WHILE she is talking. So I feel compelled to do it all the time. Her face is so malleable, intriguing and versatile! See? Just take a look below...
And just to close things out in the right way, this is a photo that Rudy took (from the back seat) while me and my boy Stang (sometimes known as Jeff Stang, but in some parts of the country known as Jeffrey Stang) driving around somewhere. I can't remember where we were going exactly but I am sure he was probably ridiculing me, and questioning my masculinity, because of the purple "Hello Kitty" hearts hanging from the rear view mirror. I think they are adorable.
I might add some more today, but if not I won't be back until Sunday morning. Got a busy busy day tomorrow.
Matt K.
More later today, but I wanted to let you all know that there has been a big update to the giveaways section. I took out the prints that have been given new homes, and added quite a few new gig posters, promo prints, and art prints. Head on over and take a look, and let me know if there is anything there that suits yer fancy.
Matt K.
Damn, my time seems to disappear faster than my money. So I missed yesterday's promised updates, and today's will be abbreviated. Maybe tomorrow? Thursday at the latest.
This, however, simply could not wait any longer, and I have actually been excited about posting this! The long awaited first mix CD from the enigmatic stranger Inky Black is here. I've posted the cover and the track listing in the music section, but in terms of the overall art, packaging, and design...well, the bar has definitely been raised. I'm not even sure if I ever want to try to make another CD again after seeing this marvel. Built with book boards, jewel cases, glue, paint, thread, different kinds of paper, and stickers using a hacksaw(!), an exacto knife, a sewing kit, paint brushes, and pure genious, the case is a true wonder to behold. Here is the cover...
And here is the interior foldout. Notice the stitching at the top left for the CD booklet and tracklisting, and the CD at the right with the stickers and the beautiful gold paint. Yes, gold paint. On a CD. Paint.
And finally here is the interior minus the CD (I so love it when there is a surprise under the CD) and with the booklet opened so you can see the additional art and the beautifully handwritten track list on vellum. The sort of grayish space in the upper right corner is just the top of my scanner but you probably figured that out.
Truly an amazing CD. And the crowning glory is that the music is as intriguing and well-chosen as the CD is beautiful. The bar has indeed been raised...I better start sharpening my knives and hacksaw.
A little more tomorrow, and a lot more by Thursday.
Matt K.
I corrected the numerous typos in the previous entry, and I remembered to upload the images for the hip-hop flyers from Bradley Watson, so you can finally check them out. Tomorrow morning, I will have a big update to the giveaways section, more hip-hop flyers, part one of a multi-part autobiography of sorts, and a long-awaited brand new mix CD from the mysterious Inky Black. The CD art is so amazing I am reluctant to put it up since I'm afraid no one will ever want to make me a mix CD again after seeing it, but it simply has to be shared.
Matt K.
First, there have been a few changes to the links which lie to the left of the news text. I took the link to my very own LiveJournal down simply because I never post to that blog any more. Since I have my own web site here there is really no need for me to keep up on LiveJournal, and most of what I would put there has already been posted here. The only differences are that LiveJournal gives users the option of restricting threads to "friends only" and allows readers to leave comments. I have no illusions about the privacy or the security of the internet, so I really can't imagine posting something I would feel the need to restrict access to. In most ways I am a pretty open book, and I also think carefully about what I post on this site, so that level of security is unnecessary to me. And while comments on LiveJournal are nice, I get pretty regular e-mails from a lot of you who read this page and look at my site anyway. The absence of a comment field actually makes the correspondence between us better because you realize that your words will remain private, therefore you are all generally a little more open then you might be if you knew dozens of others were reading your words. So that's that...no more LiveJournal for me.
However, some of my friends who do not have web sites of their own continue to maintain very interesting LiveJournal blogs, and I will keep those links up. I have also added three more links that I can't believe I somehow neglected to add the first time I rebuilt this page. The first is in the "friends" section and is a link to my friend Zack's homepage, appropriately entitled "World of Zack." Apparently there was a server crash some weeks ago and he lost all of his content, so there might not yet be anything back up on the site. I check in periodically but so far I still get an error message. When he finally does get around to putting the site back up, I'll let you all know, but I wanted to make sure I got the link installed. The next two links are just below, in the "friend's blogs" sections. First is a link to the LiveJournal blog for Johnny Ampersand. I was kicking myself when I realized I had forgotten to add this, and I hope that it didn't somehow come across to Johnny as if I was playing silly online friend games. Johnny is a gifted cartoonist and writer, and he does a lot with games and gaming too although that arena of his life is still utterly beyond me since I have no real experience with gaming. He is married to an intriguing woman named Alice who also happens to be a priest. Johnny writes about all kinds of interesting things, so check it out. And last, but certainly not least, is a link to my very own brother-in-law Arnell's LiveJournal. He posts under the name swissarmytrips, which I am told has something to do with drums and drumming. Given that he is a monstrously talented musician whose skill at the drumset is legendary, this doesn't surprise me. He is currently busting his ass to finish up his undergrad degree, so he doesn't post too often (funny how school does that to you) but his blog is a great way to keep up on what he's been doing, what videogames he's been playing, and lots of other interesting stuff in the world of anime, bemani, music, technology and as of today, bone-crushing violence.
My friend Bradley (see his incredible musical efforts in the Genius of Bradley page of the music section of this site) has been emailing me scans of these absolutely phenomenal old hip-hop flyers, and I feel compelled to share them because they are so fascinating. They also serve as amazing snapshots of the early days of hip-hop culture and show some legendary names from way back and even now. Here are five of them...
Check out that incredible drawing of the champ, Muhammad Ali. Perfectly awesome.
"A Midtown Superduper Baad Talent Show & Disco and Birthday Celebration Boogie for Gail and Karen!" With Grandmaster Caz, Busy Bee, and so many more.
A Kool Herc Production. And an M.C. Tryout. Kool Herc!
My favorite one of this group. And all I can say is just look at that lineup. Seriously, LOOK at that lineup! And all for a $4.00 cover charge.
Everything about those images is incredible. I even dig the tape marks, the tears, and the stains. These are the true slabs of culture, not some overpriced full color 32 page floppy in spite of what Mr. Ellis might want to claim.
I'll have more later tonight, and tomorrow morning too.
Matt K.
Man, everybody...and I mean everybody...really seemed to dislike the suite of drawings I did for the most recent Panel anthology, "Myth." One reviewer called them "visual poetry" and "amateurish," and good old Steven Grant of Comic Book Resources (WARNING! Annoying popups will accompany your clicking that link!) had the following to say about yours truly...
Matt Kish's "Six Archons" - a collection of not particularly well done drawings - didn't do much for me.
Isn't that fantastic? "Not particularly well done drawings." You can read the whole review here; just scroll down to where it says "Panel" in bold. It's a really short review though.
At first it bothered me a little even though I know it shouldn't have, but I kept reading with grim fascination and discovered that in that very same column he wrote-
China's most recent contribution to culture, bird flu, is suddenly everywhere in the news
I guess he's trying to be funny or something but in the end it just comes across as offensive and slightly problematic. I know that mentioning it in this context seems like kind of a cheap potshot at Grant, but honestly the remark about China upset me more than his opinion of my art. Anyway, the negative reviews for my work roll on, and I'll keep you posted as to any more that come to my attention.
This week has flown by in an absolute blur, and I am way behind in my e-mails and updates. I had a very involved paper to complete for one of my classes as well as a presentation for another, and Rudy started her commute to Dayton so I've been getting up very early with her to see her off and then feeling kind of scrambled and frazzled the rest of the morning until I go to class or work. It's been kind of a twilight time and I am feeling a bit haggard. I won't really get to rest much until Sunday though, so I am doing everything in bits and pieces and hoping it all fits.
I made 2 new mix CDs and posted them in the music section. They are mostly ambient with some electronic music and prog rock mixed in. I made them with a few friends in mind who will be getting their copies soon, but if you're not on the list and would like one just email and let me know. I'd be glad to get one to you.
Oh, before I forget. Me and Rudy went to see a free showing of the movie "Domino" last night with Sean and Jeff Stang, who is pictured below.
The movie was pretty awful although we kind of expected it to be. Mostly I wanted to make sure I mentioned that we went with Stang. Jeff Stang. Or Jeffrey Stang if you prefer. Oh, and thanks for going Fitzwater. Yeah, I know Stang gave you a free pass. Punk. You'll never work at the Ogre now!
I'll have more tomorrow and Sunday. I gotta go catch up on some e-mails and do more homework.
Matt K.
I read this piece yesterday afternoon on the unofficial Brian Eno web site EnoWeb. Eno does not and will not maintain any sort of official presence on the internet, so EnoWeb functions as a sort of de facto "official" site with the tacit blessing of Brian and Opal. Eno had the following to say about listening to the feedback and opinion of those who buy his music or visit his installations as well as the legendary "your old work was better" issue...
You must wonder why this is. I think the reason I feel uncomfortable about such a thing is that it becomes a sort of weight on my shoulders. I start to feel an obligation to live up to something, instead of just following my nose wherever it wants to go at the moment. Of course, success has many nice payoffs, but one of the disadvantages is that you start to be made to feel responsible for other people's feelings: what I'm always hearing are variations of "why don't you do more records like - (insert any album title) " or "why don't you do more work with - (insert any artist's name)?". I don't know why, these questions are un answerable, why is it so bloody important to you, leave me alone....these are a few of my responses. But the most important reason is "If I'd followed your advice in the first place I'd never have got anywhere".
I'm afraid to say that admirers can be a tremendous force for conservatism, for consolidation. Of course it's really wonderful to be acclaimed for things you've done - in fact it's the only serious reward, because it makes you think "It worked! I'm not isolated!" or something like that, and it makes you feel gratefully connected to your own culture. But on the other hand, there's a tremendously strong pressure to repeat yourself, to do more of that thing we all liked so much. I can't do that - I don't have the enthusiasm to push through projects that seem familiar to me ( - this isn't so much a question of artistic nobility or high ideals: I just get too bloody bored), but at the same time I do feel guilt for 'deserting my audience' by not doing the things they apparently wanted. I'd rather not feel this guilt, actually, so I avoid finding out about situations that could cause it.
The problem is that people nearly always prefer what I was doing a few years earlier - this has always been true. The other problem is that so, often, do I! Discovering things is clumsy and sporadic, and the results don't at first compare well with the glossy and lauded works of the past. You have to keep reminding yourself that they went through that as well, otherwise they become frighteningly accomplished. That's another problem with being made to think about your own past - you forget its genesis and start to feel useless awe towards your earlier self. "How did I do it? Wherever did these ideas come from?" Now, the workaday everyday now, always looks relatively less glamorous than the rose-tinted then (except for those magic hours when your finger is right on the pulse, and those times only happen when you've abandoned the lifeline of your own history).
Absolutely fascinating. But please, for anyone who is looking at this, please do not read too much into this. I am not giving anyone the brushoff or getting up on some sort of high horse. I am endlessly thankful for each and every person who is willing to spend their own valuable personal time to visit my web site and take a look at some of my work, and I am even more grateful for those of you who have been willing to contact me and share your own thoughts, creativity, and ambitions. And for me to indulge in the idea that "Spudd 64," or Matt Kish for that matter, has "fans" or some kind of growing "audience" is unforgivably arrogant and quite preposterously hilarious and I just won't do it. It's simply that I've just thinking quite a bit lately about my own drawings from the late 1990s and early 2000s, my earlier comic work, and some of the feedback I've gotten from close friends and less familiar acquaintances, some of which does tend to fall into the "your old work was better" vein. I know this is an issue my good friend Johnny is familiar with as well, having mentioned it briefly in a livejournal exchange with our mutual pal Dale.
Yesterday after work at the lab I picked up the Holga photographs I took in New York City last July. About half of them turned out rather well while the other half were rather dull. I must have been advancing the film somewhat irregularly because many of the photographs are oddly cropped or have large black bars hovering over the image, all of which I like quite a bit. Look for them to be posted sometime this coming weekend, when I have the time to scan them, type up title cards, and finish the coding for those pages. I've still got a series of research article abstracts to complete for my "Research for Decision Making" class as well as a rather large database project and paper to wrap up for "Online Information Systems" this Wednesday. Busy busy busy.
Matt K.
I'll never get into the kind of opining and proselytizing that so many people on the internet feel compelled to do because that really sickens me. I did think that this was worth sharing, though. Rudy showed me this small piece written by Brita Barrett from the most recent issue, number 30, of the always interesting "Bitch" magazine. This article concerns one of my least favorite things in the world. I'm retyping the full piece verbatim so you can read everything Brita had to say.
Charity bracelets are ubiquitous these days, appearing everywhere from the wrists of athletes to the pages of gossip glossies. While the rubber trinkets have raised a substantial amount of money and awareness for causes like cancer, AIDS, and poverty, I'm concerned about other, less desirable effects of their trendiness.
The most popular of the petroleum-based bracelets is manufactured in Taiwan by Nike, a company notorious for their use of sweatshops. The bands also send subtle, potentially dangerous messages: that passive activism through consumption is sufficient, and that morality only counts when you can show it off.
This superficiality was articulated by a shopper I spotted eyeing the white "One" bracelets that go toward making poverty history. Her forearm already laddered with a rainbow of plastic causes, she inquired as to whether the bracelets were available in other colors. "White would match anything," she explained. "I don't have that color yet, but it will probably get dirty really easily."
One has to wonder if, when the popularity of bracelets like Lance Armstrong's Livestrong fades, the trend of charitable giving will also die hard.
--Brita Barrett
Yes, I realize it is not a perfect article, nor is it perfect thinking or even perfect journalism. But I truly do think that the concept that "passive activism through consumption is sufficient, and that morality only counts when you can show it off" is dangerous and sadly widespread.
Matt K.
Today was Rudy's graduation celebration lunch. The whole affair was quite amusing really, with a room full of Filipinos doing crazy karaoke songs all afternoon. It was nice to see so many of the family's friends come out and wish Rudy well, and especially nice that her Tito Cesar, Tita Larcy, and Grandmother could make the trip from Virginia to spend the weekend with us. Rudy's advisor and mentor Professor Subrahmanyam attended, as did Tiffany, the systems specialist and my boss. It was truly fun to be able to see them both and spend some non-grad school time with each of them, talking like regular people instead of always having to be aware of rank. Rudy seemed to have a great time, and did very nicely in terms of gifts as well. That is especially good because when we move into our new apartment on December 1st we will be in need of a bed, a couch, some kind of coffee table, and an extra bookshelf. And that is the very least of it. Again, though, we are very thankful we will have a roof over our heads, good jobs, and a safe place to sleep. I guess I didn't mention it, but we found out on Friday afternoon that we had been approved for a lease in the apartment we both really wanted. We were unsure if we would qualify because even though the credit and rental record are both solid, we will only be living on one income (Rudy's) for the next 6 or 7 months. The new place will be in Beavercreek, Ohio, which is a newer suburb slightly southeast of Dayton and about 60 minutes from our friends in Columbus. Like most newer suburbs, Beavercreek is a little too heavily stripmalled (or should that be "stripmauled?") and dotted with new chain restaurants, but the apartment we got is an upstairs unit, built only 6 years ago, and very very large. There is also a nice roomy kitchen with plenty of counter space (we can cook again!) and a huge closet. We're really happy and very thankful we landed the place.
That will be all for today. We are both a bit exhausted from the whole graduation shindig, and trying to let the last bits of that remodeling/event-planning stress evaporate. The best part is, we get to go through the whole thing again next May when I finish grad school and have a party for me. But next time invitations will go out to all my friends, so I expect Angela K and Jay, Aaron and Angela P, Sean, Stang, Gib & Cindy, Brian, Brett, Todd and Allison, Charley and Nicole, Mike, Dara, Tony, Andy, Tom and Elizabeth, Fred and Caroline, Craig and Dreama, Sean and Melanie, Zack, Steve, Johnny and Alice, Chrissy, Bradley and Kat, Bhagi, Deb, Tiffany, Dr. Morris, and what the hell, even Stephanie and Kevin, Kyle and Colt, and good old AZStar78 to come on over. I know maybe not everyone can make it, but you'll all get an invite and our doors will always be open. Maybe I can even get my mom and dad under one roof again. Hmmm, that would be a coup, wouldn't it?
Okay, I think I'm gonna take a little nap now.
Matt K.
Things were going along swimmingly yesterday. My midterm exams were finally done, and I think I did pretty well. Rudy and I ran a few errands down near campus. We had a very delicious lunch at a nearby Indian buffet. I dropped off the two rolls of Holga film I took when we were in New York this past July. I even got a swell new haircut. And then...
I got a damn speeding ticket! And it was one of those crummy roads behind a big department store where you always think the speed limit is 35 but it's really 25 so you get completely screwed by overzealous cops with a quota. So I got a speeding ticket for doing 39 in a 25, which means I have a mandatory court appearance next Thursday and an absolutely enormous fine. I haven't gotten a ticket or citation in years and years, and my jaw nearly dropped when I saw how high the fines had gotten. The most infuriating aspect of this is that the timing couldn't possibly be any worse. Money has always been tight for us while we were students, and even though Rudy is just days away from beginning her exciting new career at the university making the most money she's ever made in her life so far, her first paycheck will probably not arrive until late October. Anyway, it's completely my responsibility to pay for the speeding ticket since it's my fault and I wouldn't expect Rudy to have to chip in anyway, but what troubles me the most about it is that I will have less money to contribute to our moving expenses. There are application fees, a security deposit, a first month's rent, cost of renting a truck, utility set-ups, and finally furniture expenses. We've been living in one room for the last 2 years, so while we have some of the necessities we do not own a couch or a kitchen table or many of the other things that make an apartment more comfortable. Anyway, it has been depressing and frustrating, but as always I simply remind myself of all the comforts and luxuries that I do have and I feel a little sheepish for getting so worked up over it. It was just frustrating and poorly timed is all, and it made me not want to sit down and do some daily news update yesterday. I just needed to vent a little bit, but now that's done, so time to move on.
You know, having a web site is a really strange thing. I've always known that putting something on the internet is roughly equivalent to putting the same thing on a billboard next to the busiest highway in the world. It is a very public thing. Nonetheless, it is still somewhat surprising when a friend from the past finds me through a Google search and sends me an email. I suppose I realized it was going to happen, and it has never troubled me, but it is still a little strange to have this slightly-higher level of visibility than I am used to. All in all, it has been far more positive than negative since I have been able to make some brand new and incredibly wonderful friends like Stephanie, Kevin, Kyle Wallace and Colt Kegley, and AZStar78 and have also gotten involved in corresponding with some people who I had previously only admired from afar such as Meeloo Gfeller and Anna Hellsgard from BonGout and even Dan Zettwoch of the USS Catastrophe shop. It's also been a nice way to let some of my other, less internet-using and/or less vocal friends near and far know what I'm up to and what's been going on in my life.
It was because of this site, and an ensuing Google search, that one of my closest and best friends through high school and college, Charley D., was able to find me again after a long absence. Charley and I were very close growing up, and we spent many high school evenings talking about the meaning of life and progressive rock music. Those were heady times, and have a lot to do with who I turned out to be. University led us both in slightly different directions, down different career paths, and ultimately to different homes, and we drifted out of touch. That happens. It happens quite a bit, I think. And I have never been an easy person to get ahold of, pin down, or even locate at times. Solitude is better for me artistically, but it can also be frighteningly lonely. Charley, however, has and remains to be remarkably tenacious, persistent, forgiving, genuine, compassionate, and friendly, and even though I have had absolutely no contact with this former best friend for several years, he sent me a wonderful and completely unexpected email from out of the blue last week. It was a true pleasure to touch down with him again and see how things are going. He is now a father, has earned two masters degrees, and is purchasing a large new house deep in the country somewhere. It is strange how different our lives have become and how much common ground still remains, unchanged though the years have passed. There is a bit more permanence to the nature of our communications this time around, and provided I hold up my end of the bargain we should stay in touch this time.
After posting news of Charley a few days ago, I got an email from another good friend from my youth who, although I have been in contact with him about once a year at Columbus' own S.P.A.C.E. (Small Press and Alternative Comics Expo), I have not been able to correspond with in any kind of regular fashion. Mike L. is his name, and one of the things that drew us together when we met was a mutual love of comics. We both read things like "Dreadstar" and sometimes even "ROM" and every now and then we would make the long bicycle trip up to the Sparkle Market on Route 58 to buy copies of Marvel's EPIC magazine. One of the things that was always so wonderful about Mike is that even though he was several years older than me, he never treated me like a kid and we were always able to talk intelligently about comics with none of that "I know better than you" bullshit that so many people get tangled up in. So here's hoping Mike and I can stay in touch more regularly this time around as well.
Which brings me to the last person in this triumvirate of friends. Todd Michael B., who is also known as Toad or Todd Michael B. or sometimes even Muggsy Bogues depending on whether or not he was being paged by me on the Lorain Community Hospital P.A. system. Todd and I worked together for many many summers at that hospital, doing painting, maintenance, and groundskeeping. Our duties were pretty mind-numbing and quite pointless, but we kept coming back for more. I think the overall boredom we experienced while painting hallway after hallway at the Lakeland Institute contributed to us doing everything from getting haircuts on the job to sleeping in electrical closets to constructing and playing elaborate games of physical skill to compete in. Most of which took place on the roof of the hospital. Interestingly enough, I initially disliked Todd intensely. He was a rich prep kid with a doctor for a dad from an impossibly picture perfect home in a wealthy subdivisions. He was as different from me as is humanly possible. He was tall, I was short. He was well-off, we were strictly middle class. He was very athletically gifted, I wasn't even in shape. He liked an awful lot of R & B and pop music and I didn't listen to much of anything that had been recorded after 1979. I think I was probably even pretty mean to him at times, which I always regret. Anyway, somehow (and to be honest I couldn't even tell you how) we came to be incredibly close friends. Todd was pretty much the only reason I kept returning to that hospital job every summer, and we had a blast nearly all the time. There are so many memories I could write a book. Todd is also a father, married to a wonderful woman named Allison (and Todd, I deeply apologize if I misspelled her name...there are so many ways to spell Allison), a doctor of some kind (I believe the precise term is ophthalmologist but I am not certain...he does laser surgery on eyes though and even let me watch once), and oddly enough working in conjunction with the same hospital where we used to mow lawns. Todd has been in and out of my life a few times over the years, although again it is I who must accept accountability for the lapses since, as I mentioned, I can be very difficult to find or contact. However, Todd has never held this against me and always seemed genuinely interested in how I've been, what's been happening to me, and how happy I am. He's never been a dick or given me a hard time for not answering an email or a phone call. It constantly amazes me, this incredible level of class and patience and goodwill he is capable of. It is a bit intimidating at times, actually, but there is still hope that one day I can be that same kind of friend to Todd and Charley and Mike. I'll be posting more about them, and me, as time goes on.
Oh, and that All-American Kid comment from Wednesday? Well, when Todd was working with me and Keith K. at the hospital one...I think it was a night shift actually...we were talking about how we perceived each other. Both Keith and I told Todd he was like an All-American Kid since he was on the basketball team and well off and good looking and got grades and had a great family and all that. Todd said "What's wrong with that?" And I said "Well, nothing really, but I wouldn't want to be it." I'm never sure if that hurt his feelings or if he just thought I was being an idiot, but after a short time I began to see many many qualities in Todd that I really admired. Even though I'm still not sure if I would ever be comfortable being the All-American Kid, or I guess All-American Man now, I can't think of many examples better than Todd at how to be a friend, how to be a father, and how to be a true person.
I have to make a bit of a clarification regarding the recent package from Fragility Productions. He had mentioned to me that he was sending me a CD in exchange for the Yeah Yeah Yeahs print I was giving him, and that he would also be sending the piece he and his friend Colt Kegley were working on for the upcoming "Iron Galaxy Primer." I mistook one of the discs in the package for the DVD, when in reality Kyle was sending me a soundtrack for the story he and Colt did as well as a CD in exchange for the Yeah Yeah Yeahs print. Apologies to Kyle, but none of that will matter when you check this out...
That is the drawing Colt Kegley did for Kyle's story called "The Insurrection of Xephon" which will be a one-page text piece in the upcoming "Iron Galaxy Primer" anthology. Let me share with you how cool this is on so many levels. First of all, the art and the story are fantastic. It will definitely be an honor and a privilege to publish this. Second, seeing something that I...well, saying "created" always sounds kind of pomposu and self-centered...let me try it this way. Seeing characters and themes that I worked with in my own comic being used by other creators in completely fresh and original ways that I would never have even dreamed of is more rewarding than I could possibly convey in words. When I was in college, my friend Jon Stavole played for me a version of Bob Dylan's "A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall" performed by Bryan Ferry. That was the first time I ever heard a cover tune where the covering artist made no attempt to stay faithful to the original and really made the song their own. Kyle and Colt have really done that with their piece. It's not so much that they didn't stay faithful, although the universe of Spudd 64 is big and huge and roomy and I don't really know what being faithful would mean. It's that they took their own ideas and they really made the piece their own. Man, that was just incredible. I owe those two a huge thanks for sharing this with me, and for letting me include it in the anthology. It is coming together slowly but surely, and even though I may miss my original October publication date due to more intense schoolwork than I had anticipated and the move to Dayton, it will definitely see print by the end of the year. So, anyone out there reading this, if you have anything whatsoever you would like to include in the "Iron Galaxy Primer"...stories, comics, art, drawings, anything...send me an email and let me know your ideas. I want to do something similar to this, although less thematically tied to the universe of Spudd 64, next year for S.P.A.C.E. and for that I want to hand-sew the books as hardcovers with lots of color and silkscreened art, so this is a great way for me to get started figuring out how to approach that project and a great way for any of you to get involved. I can't promise fame or money since none of my comics have earned either, but I can promise fun and a sense of reward.
Oh, and Kyle's 2 new CDs have been posted over in the music section, so check 'em out.
This past Wednesday was a great, but financially backbreaking, day in the comics shop. Drawn & Quarterly finally released both The Push Man and Other Stories by Yoshihiro Tatsumi, translated by Adrian Tomine...
...and Pyongyang by Guy DeLisle...
...both of which look pretty intriguing. The Push Man and Other Stories is a fairly grimy and sordid little collection of brief stories of nameless individuals struggling with the brutal forces of societal expectations and deep-seated maladjustments in the Japan of the 1960's. It is pretty raw stuff, beautifully rendered but terrifying in its speed, rhythm, and conclusions. The translation by Adrian Tomine was done with the cooperation of Tatsumi, and I read somewhere that there are many more collections of Tatsumi's work to follow. Good news indeed. Hopefully Tomine can keep up with both the translation work and his "Optic Nerve" comics as well as the illustration gigs for magazines.
Pyongyang is an autobiographical account of French-Canadian journalist Guy DeLisle's experiences in North Korea. This book is a rather sweet and poignant account of the 2 months DeLisle spent in what our idiotic government has chosen to call part of an "axis of evil," and is written as perfectly as it is drawn. Both are highly recommended.
Fantagraphics also released their next Krazy Kat and Ignatz Mouse collection, entitled Krazy & Ignatz 1935-1936 : A Wild Warmth of Chromatic Gravy...
This is the first time George Herriman's color Sunday strips have been collected anywhere, and the results are almost heart-breakingly beautiful. Fantagraphics really pulled out all the stops with this one. If you're not an admirer of Krazy Kat, this won't convert you, but if you are then this is precisely what you've been waiting for. Also, on the Fantagraphics blog you can read some interesting information on the future publication schedule of Krazy Kat and look at some really cool before and after images showing the Sunday color art as it physically appears and how it looks in the color collection. Worth a look.
Finally, this monster hit the stores...
...The Complete Calvin and Hobbes. Every single strip, including the color Sundays, presented in chronological order in three slipcased hardcovers. Over 1500 pages of comics for $150.00. Even at that kind of price, this was an amazingly well-crafted package. Beautifully designed, wonderfully bound, cunningly packaged, and excellently printed. Truly nice. The comic shop that I work at had ordered 8 copies but only received 2, so extra special thanks go out to Gib Bickel, Brian Stephens, and Jeff Stang for deciding to wait for the reorder so Rudy and I could pick up our copy. It is deeply appreciated, my friends.
Damn! That was a huge update!
Matt K.
From the Associated Press comes this news...
Actor Nipsey Russell Dies at 80
Mon Oct 3,11:29 PM ET
Nipsey Russell, who played the Tin Man alongside Diana Ross and Michael Jackson in "The Wiz" as part of a decades-long career in stage, television and film, has died. He was 80.
The actor, who had been suffering from cancer, died Sunday afternoon at Lenox Hill Hospital, said his longtime manager Joseph Rapp.
Born in Atlanta, Russell launched his television career as Officer Anderson in the 1961 television series "Car 54, Where are You?" He also appeared in the 1994 film version.
He became a fixture on popular television game and talk shows, where he was welcomed for his poetic delivery that earned him the moniker the "poet laureate of television." He also took his signature four-line poetry on the road for readings and performances.
Russell also appeared in the films "Nemo" in 1984, "Wildcats" in 1986 and "Posse" in 1993.
He settled in New York after graduating from the University of Cincinnati and serving as an Army captain in Europe during World War II, Rapp said.
Russell never married. "He always said, 'I have trouble living with myself, how could I live with anyone else,'" Rapp said. "But he was a wonderful guy, very quiet, never bragged."
I really liked Nipsey Russell a lot. He was hilarious, he was never afraid to laugh at himself, and most importantly he did a great deal to break down racial barriers in popular entertainment. And "The Wiz" is one of my favorite movies of all time, both for its fantastically strange songs and unexpectedly surreal imagery.
Also, there is currently a storyline going on in Marvel's "New Avengers" comic involving a mystery member of the Avengers, a ninja who wears a full mask and goes by the name of Ronin. There is a lot of guessing as to who this Ronin character really is, and a lot of people think he is either Matt Murdock or the Silver Samurai. However some top secret news from my friend Sean McKeever, who writes for Marvel, reveals who Ronin really is, which you can see from this leaked cover of "New Avengers" below...
Extra special thanks to Sean McKeever for the creation and use of that image, and many thanks to Nipsey for all the laughs. He will be dearly missed.
Matt K.
A longer update will follow, sometime tomorrow afternoon. I am still studying for my second mid-term exam which is tonight at 6 p.m., so I'll be busy most of today. Last night's exam went quite well, and I feel pretty confident that I did very well. Now I've just got to make sure I keep that trend going tonight. I'll catch up tomorrow, and I'll take care of unfinished business and other clarifications with Kyle Wallace and the mystery DVD, art from "The Insurrection of Xephon," the Mike Leuszler / Charley D. conundrum, and a shout-out to the All-American Kid Dr. Todd Michael B. who is also known as Toad.
Matt K.
Wow, it's been quite a while since I did an update. I suppose there is quite a bit of news to catch up on. Let's see...
The house we live in had become almost unlivable due to the poorly planned renovations and remodeling, but thankfully that all seems to be nearing a close. The walls have been painted, the new carpeting has been laid, and the cleaning up continues as I type this. We were offline for a day or so since we had to move the PC from one room to another, all of which added yet another hiccup to the daily maintenance of this humble web site. Only days remain until the arrival of many more family members and the celebration of Rudy's graduation so there is very little room left for error. Or "dicking around" as Rudy calls it.
School is proceeding inexorably for me, as unsteerable as a freight train. I have two midterms this week. The exam in "Research for Decision Making" is this Tuesday evening while the exam in "Online Information Systems" is Wednesday. I have quite a bit of studying to do although I feel optimistic about both exams and am fairly comfortable with my grasp of the basic concepts and theories of both classes. Nonetheless, it always helps if you send positive thoughts my way both evenings and wish me luck. The future of public librarianship in this country depends on it.
Rudy and I saw Wong Kar Wai's "2046" on Friday night with our friend Sean McKeever. I was quite exhausted from the week and from working that night, and I am certain that affected my initial viewing. The film is rather long and quite atmospheric, with some events unfolding with an almost glacial slowness. At first this was difficult to endure, and the first 30 minutes seemed almost meandering to me but I was slowly drawn in. After walking out of the theatre, I felt I had witnessed a flawed masterpiece. Elements of the film were magnificent and moved me deeply, while others seemed almost haphazardly edited and jumbled together. I saw this film knowing absolutely nothing about its history, the director, the plot, or even any of the participants beyond Ziyi Zhang and Christopher Doyle. I think that worked out well, actually, since I was quite literally a blank slate while the opening credits rolled. What has been so strange and unsettling for me about "2046" is that my appreciation for it has grown deeper and more emotional as time has passed. It is truly a film which has stayed with me, and I find myself thinking about certain moments or scenes without even realizing I am doing so. I'm thinking I should let some time pass and then see the film again if I am able, to re-examine my initial perceptions.
Last night, Rudy and I headed down to Columbus' own Gallery Hop, an idiotically pretentious event that takes place on the first Saturday evening of every month. All of the "galleries" (and using that terms is a kindness) in the Short North district of the city fling their doors open and beckon the unwashed masses within to "ooh" and "aah" over the magic that is the Columbus arts community. The Short North area is really quite a hilarious place. The area is trying so hard to remain relevant and artistic despite its own ferocious efforts toward gentrification and the self-abasing groveling for the money of Columbus' newly wealthy, all of whom crowd in from the suburbs eager to purchase a piece of artwork, hopefully from some recent art school graduate who can be tricked into parting with their art for far far less than it is worth simply because a professional thirty-something with a fat paycheck from Nationwide or Les Wexner's Limited Brands needs that one final piece to match their Arhaus sofa. Sorry, I know that all sounded extremely venomous and petty, but you really have to spend some time walking around the galleries, watching the crowds, and looking at what passes for art in this town and THEN go talk to someone with some genuine honesty, credibility, and artistic vision like my friend Margaret from the bookstore I used to work for and you will see things in much the same way.
Anyway, Rudy and I wandered down to the Short North because the Mahan Gallery was mounting an exhibition of prints and original art from Cleveland artist Derek Hess. Neither of us is very familiar with the Mahan, nor have we spent much
time at the Gallery Hop since the Blue Cube Gallery disappeared, so it's tough to say whether this Hess show is a sign of greater things to come or just a fluke by some gallery wanting to snatch a slice of that hipster cred by showing art that many in the 'burbs might consider a little too raw to hang above their sofas or plasma-screen televisions, but nonetheless it was nice to see Derek again and to check out some of his new material. His originals are much smaller than his prints, and he has an impressive mastery of pen, ink, and wash techniques. Artistically he seems to be progressing in a new and more brutal direction, and Rudy and I are not entirely certain yet what we think. Although, of course, we both realize that it is Derek's responsibility to follow his own visions and he shouldn't really give a fuck what we or anyone else thinks. And I don't think he does, so in the end it is all good for everyone.
My boy Charley D., a best friend through high school and much of college, reached out with an unexpected email late last week. It had been years since we communicated so it was fantastic to hear from him. Hopefully this time we won't lose touch.
AZStar78 will be hooking me up with some new prints from his "dead empty" series later this week, and that should be the perfect antidote to post-midterm exam stress and hatred. I'll post some images when they arrive. That guy has been almost crazily busy. He moved from New York to California, picked up what seemed like a dozen gigs doing t-shirt and clothing design, and still has time to draw, make prints, and keep up on his social life. I don't know how he does it.
Oh, yeah, I probably won't be posting much on LiveJournal any longer. Well, wait...I have to ask Stephanie a question and some advice on that, but mostly what I'm thinking is that since I have a web site of my own and this news section functions more and more like a blog with each entry, it's kind of redundant to post some of the same things over there. I guess I'm feeling a little embarrassed about posting there and here because I feel like maybe it's a little arrogant and self-important. Although I suppose I can lock entries over at LiveJournal which gives me a degree of privacy that I wouldn't have here on Spudd64.com, but honestly I am a pretty open book and don't much feel the need to lock things up as "private." Anyway, for the time being, I'll be doing just about all of my posting here on Spudd64.com and not on LiveJournal, so stay tuned chums!
That's all for today. I got an amazing package in the mail a few days ago from Kyle Wallace and Colt Kegley of Fragility Productions. I've opened it but when I saw that it was a new CD mix, a short homemade DVD(!), and the pages for their story "The Insurrection of Xephon" that will be included in the upcoming "Iron Galaxy Primer," I wanted to make sure that I dug into it all when I wasn't completely preoccupied by school and remodeling. Rudy and I have to make the first of many trips to Dayton tomorrow so we can peek at some apartments and she can drop off her employment contract at the University library, so I will definitely be spending a great deal of time with that stuff and post lots of info and images on it tomorrow.
Until then...
Matt K.