Flex Mentallo

“When I was a child her sureness enraged me (regardless of the argument involved). It was a sureness that revealed - at least to my eyes - how, behind the bravado, she was vulnerable and hesitant, whereas I wanted her to be invincible. Consequently, I would contradict whatever it was she was being so certain about, in the hope we might discover something else, which we could question together with a shared confidence. Yet what happened, in fact, was that my counterattacks, made her more frail than she usually was, and the two of us would be drawn, helpless, into a malestrom of perdition and lamentation, silently crying out for an angel to come and save us. On no such occasion did an angel come.”

“All stories are about battles, of one kind or another, which end in victory and defeat. Everything moves toward the end, when the outcome will be known. Poems, regardless of any outcome, cross the battlefields, tending the wounded, listening to the wild monologues of the triumphant or the fearful. They bring a kind of peace. Not by anaesthesia or easy reassurance, but by the promise that what has been experienced cannot disappear as if it had never been. Yet the promise is not of a monument. (Who, still on a battlefield, wants monuments?) The promise is that language has acknowledged, has given shelter, to the experience which demanded, which cried out”

“When we suffer anguish we return to early childhood because that is the period in which we first learnt to suffer the experience of total loss. It was more than that. It was the period in which we suffered more total losses than in all the rest of our life put together.”

In terms of technical accomplishment, the above examples would be hard to equal, let alone surpass. By way of contrast, here are some of Balthus' illustrations for Wuthering Heights. Technically, they don’t compare to Frazetta et al. But they tap into the emotional substrata that make the novel so darkly compelling, and did more to fuel my fascination with pen and ink even than comic books I read as a child. And that's because they don’t just tell the story. They embody what is underneath. They resonate with our own abiding sense of humanity. And to help bring this out I have interspersed them with some words from the writer John Berger [which, to clarify, have nothing to do with Emily Brontë!]

I love comics obviously, or I wouldn’t even be here. Might not even have chosen to become an artist [however mediocre]. But comic illustration is a language that has evolved to tell a story. They are often done with great artistry and astonishing skill.

Sadly, I've never made it to the Prado. I'd especially like to see Velasquez Las Meninas. Which sets off an entirely different train of thought. Maybe I'll come back to it later. Edward Hopper has always been my favourite American painter and I guess I'll get to him as well. Regarding Photoshop - let me tie that into what I was saying about pen and ink [and what happens when you try to convert a black and white drawing into a full colour image in Photoshop.

Thanks Dan! Happy New Year to you and our fellows!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Francisco_Goya

However, the greatest artist ever to work in black and white [even more than Rembrandt], is Goya in his extraordinary series of etchings. He has been called the first truly modern artist, prefiguring expressionism and surrealism. His technique was masterful.What really counts here - what blows away any comparison with the worthy illustrators above, is the depth and weight of humanism embodied here. Goya's world is horrific and beautiful. Goya reflects upon the human condition and his eye is unflinching.

That being said, the artist who really excelled and came into his own in black and white was Reed Crandall, who arguably did his very best work on his illustrations for Burroughs Mars books http://www.erbzine.com/mag23/2302.html

Mark Schultz surpasses them all. His work in black and white is perhaps the most masterful http://theartofbarsoom.blogspot.co.uk/2011/01/mark-schultz.html

Working solely in black and white is an entirely different way of thinking about how to render light and dark, and the surface texture of forms. Buscema and Alcala proved to be a near perfect team

For me the acid test of a comic book artist is whether their work can stand the test of black and white. Without recourse to colour, does the artwork stand up. Infantino and Anderson pass the test fairly well.

Super Detective Library often had a sci-fi theme and were brilliantly illustrated http://ukcomics.wikia.com/wiki/Super_Detective_Library

And in particular there were the digest sized War Picture Library, Air Ace and Commando, written by men who had served in the war The interiors of these were in black and white. I became intrigued quite early by the way in which spot blacks were used to evoke mood, and strangely, colour. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/War_Picture_Library

There was Buffalo Bill by the great Denis McLoughlin http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Denis_McLoughlin

...and Eagle, with Dan Dare http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eagle_%28comic%29

As a child growing upin the north of England, British comics preceded DC and Marvel. There was Lion http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lion_%28comics%29

Interesting you should say that as pen and ink has always been one of my favourite mediums precisely because it is so rigorous. No mistakes allowed, but also, it demands discipline, especially when working from life. I did literally hundreds of pen and ink sketches in the village in 1985, but these are the only ones I happen to have scanned. This is Nirmal: ..and this is Meera Mukherjee, a great sculptress, doing her lost wax casting using traditional methods at Nirmal's house in the village: Indeed, the photoshop picture I posted earlier was originally a pen and ink drawing. Or more properly speaking, a collage composed of many sketches put together to create a sort of mosaic but which appears to be a single scene: Here is the final picture by way of comparison: So there is a process of world building that begins with small, sometimes very brief pen and ink sketches, which are then collaged into a more complex composition [which shows different times, events and spaces as if they are one]. Then I probably do a thousand versions before arriving at the "finished" picture. Except nothing is ever finished...I have perhaps several hundred "versions" of this picture. What I have found really interesting about working in photoshop is that once you get past the obvious [that is, how to make a picture that doesnt look like it is a photoshop artefact], so the pattern of thinking, the decisions made, guide one to use the various tools and filters in just the same way one would use brush and paint. More on that later perhaps!

John R. Neill Not sure this is Neill but appears to be in his style - wonderful anyway! http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_R._Neill

Advice from a Caterpillar The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence: at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice. Who are YOU? said the Caterpillar. This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, I--I hardly know, sir, just at present-- at least I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then. What do you mean by that? said the Caterpillar sternly. Explain yourself! I can't explain MYSELF, I'm afraid, sir said Alice, because I'm not myself, you see. I don't see, said the Caterpillar. I'm afraid I can't put it more clearly, Alice replied very politely, for I can't understand it myself to begin with; and being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing. It isn't, said the Caterpillar. Well, perhaps you haven't found it so yet, said Alice; but when you have to turn into a chrysalis--you will some day, you know--and then after that into a butterfly, I should think you'll feel it a little queer, won't you? Not a bit, said the Caterpillar. Well, perhaps your feelings may be different, said Alice; all I know is, it would feel very queer to ME. You! said the Caterpillar contemptuously. Who are YOU? Which brought them back again to the beginning of the conversation. Alice felt a little irritated at the Caterpillar's making such VERY short remarks, and she drew herself up and said, very gravely, I think, you ought to tell me who YOU are, first. Why? said the Caterpillar. Here was another puzzling question; and as Alice could not think of any good reason, and as the Caterpillar seemed to be in a VERY unpleasant state of mind, she turned away. Come back! the Caterpillar called after her. I've something important to say! This sounded promising, certainly: Alice turned and came back again. Keep your temper, said the Caterpillar. Is that all? said Alice, swallowing down her anger as well as she could. No, said the Caterpillar. Alice thought she might as well wait, as she had nothing else to do, and perhaps after all it might tell her something worth hearing. For some minutes it puffed away without speaking, but at last it unfolded its arms, took the hookah out of its mouth again, and said, So you think you're changed, do you? I'm afraid I am, sir, said Alice; I can't remember things as I used--and I don't keep the same size for ten minutes together! Can't remember WHAT things? said the Caterpillar. Well, I've tried to say "HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE," but it all came different! Alice replied in a very melancholy voice. Repeat, "YOU ARE OLD, FATHER WILLIAM," said the Caterpillar. Alice folded her hands, and began:-- You are old, Father William, the young man said, And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head-- Do you think, at your age, it is right? In my youth, Father William replied to his son, I feared it might injure the brain; But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again. You are old, said the youth, as I mentioned before, And have grown most uncommonly fat; Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door-- Pray, what is the reason of that? In my youth, said the sage, as he shook his grey locks, I kept all my limbs very supple By the use of this ointment--one shilling the box-- Allow me to sell you a couple? You are old, said the youth, and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak-- Pray how did you manage to do it? In my youth, said his father, I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life. You are old, said the youth, one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose-- What made you so awfully clever? I have answered three questions, and that is enough, Said his father; don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs! That is not said right, said the Caterpillar. Not QUITE right, I'm afraid, said Alice, timidly; some of the words have got altered. It is wrong from beginning to end, said the Caterpillar decidedly, and there was silence for some minutes. The Caterpillar was the first to speak. What size do you want to be? it asked. Oh, I'm not particular as to size, Alice hastily replied; only one doesn't like changing so often, you know. I DON'T know, said the Caterpillar. Alice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in her life before, and she felt that she was losing her temper. Are you content now? said the Caterpillar. Well, I should like to be a LITTLE larger, sir, if you wouldn't mind, said Alice: three inches is such a wretched height to be. It is a very good height indeed! said the Caterpillar angrily, rearing itself upright as it spoke (it was exactly three inches high). But I'm not used to it! pleaded poor Alice in a piteous tone. And she thought of herself, I wish the creatures wouldn't be so easily offended! You'll get used to it in time, said the Caterpillar; and it put the hookah into its mouth and began smoking again. This time Alice waited patiently until it chose to speak again. In a minute or two the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth and yawned once or twice, and shook itself. Then it got down off the mushroom, and crawled away in the grass, merely remarking as it went, One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter. One side of WHAT? The other side of WHAT? thought Alice to herself. Of the mushroom, said the Caterpillar, just as if she had asked it aloud; and in another moment it was out of sight.