Time Bags II

Last night I thought I’d carry over the writing I began then to the writing I’d do today. I’ll spare you.

“Ah, shit, Martin. I just texted you,” Jesse said. He shook his head.

Martin stood up from a folding chair behind a glass display counter. The display edged the undecorated room in a horseshoe of paraphernalia: expensive cleaning kits near the register, Oklahoma’s biggest selection of rolling papers next, classic upright glassware—as they carefully described it—after that, then pipes, bowls, and finally hookahs back around to the right. Boxes of cheap lighters bridged each counter to counter seam every five feet. Jesse, the owner, joked that this frequency was in case a customer knew he needed a light but didn’t have the attention span to remember the fact all the way back to the register.

The only adornment hung to the right of the door where new patrons saw it for the first time as they left and regulars did too. Martin took the poster in trade for a simple upright his first week of work seven or so months ago. Six naked women facing away from the camera sitting poolside at a porn palace in the California hills. Pink Floyd album covers airbrushed on to their sinuous backs. Wish You Were Here with her red curls and hint of a chin was Martin’s favorite. Welcome to Time Bags II.

“What? Why?” Martin asked as he maneuvered his way around boxed stock on the floor behind the displays to his phone by the register. Martin unconsciously tightened the black watch cap on his skull. The navy blue jacket he wore like a coat rack lent him more substance than he truly possessed. Under that jacket a double layer of tee shirts kept him warm since Jesse wouldn’t let the heater go higher than 68 in the winter. Those worn shirts’ collars hung limply to reveal part of a message tattooed across Martin’s pale chest. Because the ink had faded and because the font had been Gothic everyone assumed it was a Bible verse. In fact, it read “Only the good die young,” and it was attributed to Shakespeare.

Martin flipped the phone open. “What the Hell, Jesse? I’m fired. What the fuck, man?”

383 words on day 628

An Alex Toth Magnet

>>On Thu, Dec 16, 2010 at 9:59 PM, Chris wrote:
>>You may have already seen this – seems like the kind of topic you
>>are interested in (comics that is, not the searing criticism).

>>http://www.lettersofnote.com/2010/12/fake.html

Chris,

I find it somewhat interesting that this isn’t the first time I’ve been asked my opinion on Alex Toth’s opinions:
http://www.douglasblaine.com/20060605/me-on-alex-toth-on-the-loss-of-innocence-in-comics/

Professional creative people rely on critical assessment from colleagues, mentors, and others with similar skill sets to keep them in check in some instances and to challenge them in others. The subjective practices of drawing and sculpting and storytelling and dancing all suffer from the Xerox effect–the copying of a copy, and without someone calling bullshit, without someone saying this iteration simply isn’t good enough, each new generation of artist gets by with less than the previous generation.

However, a faulty premise lingers in this common relationship between fellow artists. We assume that when a person is great at drawing or sculpting or storytelling or dancing that that person is also great at explaining how to do those things to others, but giving criticism is a learned skill as well. Some people critique well, others mirror what worked on them, and still others give bad direction. Without knowing anything at all about how Alex Toth was trained, I’d estimate he fits in the second group more than the other two. I think he had a mentor that sensed in Toth a tendency to respond positively to harsh criticism, and Toth probably excelled under such duress. I doubt he even gave much thought to how he’d help others. I’m sure this “great gives great” assumption forms the crux of the widespread interest in Toth’s critique of Steve Rude.

The cognitive dissonance attracts people to this car wreck. The crowd says to themselves, Toth was such an excellent artist and a legend that he must be correct, but holy hell he seems to have gone to the extreme.

The best evidence for Toth’s poor criticising skills is ironically his only real compliment in the diatribe. When he indicates that one of the panels is “…Okay—I guess—” my interpretation is that he feels compelled to have a response to every single thing Rude drew: each page, each panel, each character, each item, and each line. He’s compelled by his poor criticism skills to deliver a note about ever portion of the work. He’s lumped minor flaws in with major flaws. A better criticiser would have defined a threshold and only noted mistakes above (or below) that threshold. In my writing experience, highlighting positives along with negatives is considered good form.

There are stages to becoming great. I won’t outline them all, but this conversation between artists provides excellent examples of two of those stages. Steve Rude recognizes his internal appraisal of his work needs a bit of external guidance so he seeks that guidance from Alex Toth. Rude’s cool-headed reply indicates that he’s able to distinguish between true flaws and ranty ones. I’d say Rude’s at the uppermost level of that particular phase. Alex Toth resides further along the process. He’s great because he can effectively self-criticise. He can lazily draw a character and then recognize the need to fix it. Now doubt he doesn’t even get lines on the paper before he’s roughed out several panels in his mind first. Unlike Rude, Toth is at the lower end of his phase; Toth assumes what works for him works for all.

584 words on day 622

A Guileless Saviour

Yesterday I indicated I needed to have something of a planning session to bang out some plot for the Terminus storyline I’ve been hacking out from Ian’s paintings. Just now I’ve reread what I wrote initially when I introduced my original main character in The Maker’s Marcail.

That character differs from what I recall. I wrote her in first person. I wrote her older and less human than I remembered. I expected to find a young innocent a la Tritti.  Instead, I found a mysterious soul-binding alien in a human body—I guess. I like that, but I don’t remember it that way. She’s a guileless saviour.

How did she get to Terminus and what has she come to accomplish?

128 words on day 621