As usual there are things to love and to hate about my artwork on this page. To love: high contrast black-and-white zombies that look extra creepy and yet vague enough to pass as human to the passing glance. As a bonus drawing vast, black shapes is so relaxing. You just color in the black and your mind uncoils, releasing tension. Seriously, who doesn't love coloring in shapes? I could color in black objects while watching "Hawaii 5-0" or trashy shockumentaries on "Investigation Discovery" all day. It's an incredibly enjoyable hobby.
To accept: the backgrounds are okay. The shadows face the right way from the fire. There is a pleasing plethora of dangerously-tangled phone lines that are the usual bane of metropolitan areas in developing countries.
To hate: Saladin's right upper-arm in the second panel. As you can plainly see, there is an odd blue stain on Saladin's arm that goes directly against the color scheme of the entire picture. Arg!
In other news I've submitted a few essays to the "Lives" column in the "New York Times" magazine. Most of those essays are blog entries I've already posted here a few years earlier. One essay, however, is something I've never written up before though I've drawn it in the form of a comic. Still, I'll post it here just to have a back-up copy stored in the cloud.
Unfortunately, I addressed the old man as "chi," not "ta" during my outburst. After only a second, the old man closed the outhouse door again.... and locked it from the outside.
He did this quietly so it was only after I had pulled up my trousers that I realized I was trapped. "Hey! Hey! HEY!" I yelled, pounding on the door. The entire wooden structure, so fragile when featured in a UNICEF brochure yet so strong when you are actually trapped inside, swayed as I rattled the door. "Hey! Get me out of here! Get me out! Anybody there? The door's locked! Get me out of here!"
I was only there for about five minutes before the old man's grandson heard the ruckus and let me out. I thanked him several times before beating a hasty retreat back to my yurt. Since then, I have never forgotten the difference between informal and formal pronouns in any language."