What Might Have Been: Mikaeus, the Lunarch

While I will get into the newest work from the last set of the Innistrad block of Magic over the next few days, I wanted to go back and touch on the first piece I did for the block, Mikaeus, the Lunarch, about which I wrote extensively here.

In preparation for the upcoming Spectrum Live show in Kansas City (which takes place at the end of next week), I was going through a stack of old sketches when I stumbled upon this:

©Wizards of the Coast

This is the original sketch for Mikaeus, though at the time I believe he was called something else. It's a sketch that I completely forgot about and it's an interesting nugget of Magic history. Well, at least I think it is. Anyway, this is my first go at interpreting the description as seen below:

ART DESCRIPTION:
Color: White Legendary creature
Location: Inside a cathedral
Action: Show a handsome priest in his 50s. This is Geldus, the Lunarch, the highest-ranking person in the church—the Avacynian Church’s equivalent of the pope. He’s standing on a raised platform in front of dozens of silver candles—the only light in the cathedral. He’s speaking to his off-camera congregation and gesturing dramatically. The light of the silver candles casts the shadow of the holy symbol on the wall behind him.
Focus: The Lunarch
Mood: The embodiment of holy power.
Notes: This should seem like an important character, not just a creature. Give him distinction and personality in a way of your choosing.

To me, the key phrase there was that last one. Distinction and personality. I thought about it a while, and my first instinct was to make him a fire and brimstone kind of guy. I thought he should be a charismatic leader, rather than one of pomp and circumstance. I tried to infuse the scene with motion and drama and present him in a way where you could almost hear his words echoing off the cathedral walls around you. I went through a lot of thumbnails while exploring a solution, and I landed on this one.

Uncharacteristically, I was pretty confident about this image. I knew there might be issues with the costuming. Perhaps I didn't make it elaborate enough and would need to push it further. I thought there might be problems with the face. Perhaps I'd need to handsome him up some more. I thought, however, that at the very least I'd nailed the personality.

What's more was that this image was an attempt to push my work beyond my normal instincts. Left to my own devices I'd have solved this image in a very iconic, but potentially drab way. But I was looking to get a bit further away from that. I wanted drama where there typically isn't any. I wanted action where I would usually reject it. This was a piece I was excited about.

Judging from the finished piece, it's almost pointless to say that this sketch was struck down.  My vision of the Lunarch, my interpretation of what he was about, was rejected. It turns out that what they wanted was the very thing I was trying to avoid: a more ceremonial, stoic approach. What resulted from their notes and my subsequent rehashes was more the vision of the folks behind the scenes than it was my own.

But believe it or not, that's okay. Yeah, it stank on a personal fulfillment level, but as an illustrator I had to remind myself that I was dealing with but one piece among hundreds. The art director? He had a whole lot more to deal with. He was busy building an entire world with hundreds of pieces, wrangling eighty or so illustrators, pawing through virtual stacks of sketches and checking them for quality control and tonal harmony. (Not to mention taking the time to translate the various notes from the fine folks in Research and Development into artist speak along the way). He had a better idea of where and how the Lunarch fit in with the grand scheme, and while he likely knew that I would have knocked my version of the Lunarch out of the park, it was clear to him that it would not have synced as well with what the set actually needed.

There is a level of trust that needs to be extended when working with art directors. There's an old adage that if you provide multiple sketches, invariably they'll pick the one you like least. As irritating as that can sometimes be, the reason for this is not necessarily because the art director has no taste or is out to get you — let's face it, if they were out to get you they would not have hired you in the first place. Rather, their choices are often due to the fact that they've got a lot more of the puzzle sitting in front of them than you do. It's not the whim of an all-powerful art director at play. It's the conjunction of the various needs of all the various departments that deal with the images in some way (be they marketing, research and development, etc).

Illustration is a collaborative process. Sometimes your ideas win out, sometimes you've got to go with the ideas of someone else. It's a partnership of give and take, of push and pull. While that can be a real drag at times, personally it's just motivation to work harder to get my ideas pushed through more often.

So all that being said, do I dislike the final Lunarch piece? Is there part of me that hates the piece for not being solely my vision of the man? No. I'm pretty happy with it, in fact. I tried to address my concerns with the piece along the way, and managed to bring enough of my own choices into the mix to be satisfied. It ended up being a pretty decent piece, spawned this comic as well as some fun discussions about candle safety, and it looks pretty good on a wall. Also, like many pieces, it looks even better framed.

Still, when I unearthed the sketch this past weekend, there was a part of my brain that began to wonder what might have been. With this piece, considering its timing with the move to Massachusetts, and the chaos that move produced, it's just as likely to have been a flop and one I actually do hate for very legitimate reasons.

Information, Advice and Old Man Pants

Back in my day, we didn't have no internet. And by my day we're talking mid to late nineties. You'd be correct to point out that that statement is an outright lie as the world wide web was certainly a thing back then, but I'll counter with the fact that it just wasn't the same. In the years of my schooling, and for many subsequent, you could feel yourself aging as images downloaded a pixel at a time and appeared magically from left to right, top to bottom. If there was video content to speak of, it was certainly not the kind of thing that mere mortals could view with their substandard connections, and primeval, hamster-driven machines. There was email, of course, and there were chat rooms and webpages, but what hadn't really happened yet was the explosion of content out there for artists and art enthusiasts alike. There were no blogs, no demo videos, no podcasts or streaming content, and there certainly weren't extensive message board threads about the type of paint someone used, what Daarken's digital brush settings are, or how I don't know anything about the anatomy of creatures that don't actually exist.

What did we have to work with? Why, let me put on my old man pants and tell you!

While all those things listed above were certainly to come, my search for information about how other artists did things was limited to books (many of which were long out of print and thus difficult and expensive to find), obscure films that you were lucky to stumble upon a thrice budded VHS cassette of, and actually cold calling people and asking them directly. There was occasionally a lecture or live demonstration here or there, but there just wasn't the wealth of information so readily available like there is today.

At this point I pull up my old man pants and point at you meaningfully (even though it isn't polite) as I say that I hope you all appreciate the opportunities this goldmine presents. I'm happy to be living among you, late to the party in some ways, early in others, enjoying the sheer wealth of information about many of my heroes and how they won so many of their canvas duels.

But there's one thing that has begun to nag at me. The information didn't come alone. No. Uninvited, it brought along its idiot cousin as a plus one. That idiot cousin is free advice.

Now, I'm willing to take much of the information out there at face value — after all, why would someone lie to you about using a number two round dipped in a mixture of Cadmium Red Light and Yellow Ochre?Seriously. What's in it for JoJo down at the shopping mall to lie about using an airbrush to make all those t-shirts he sells? I just don't see the angle. But all those opinions out there? All that free advice? Excuse me while I get my bucket of salt, some waders, and a shovel.

Without further ado, here's some advice about that advice.

Do Some Research

I know this may seem obvious, but it's kind of important to know a little about who the advice is coming from. Figure out whether they're worth your time, what their motives are, and whether there's actually some aspect of their work that's applicable to you. For example, were I looking for oil painting tips I'd be unlikely to go to someone who works digitally. This isn't a prejudice against digital work, mind you, as I'd be just as unlikely to consult a water colorist. And if it's a bigger issue of artistic fundamentals you're looking to solve (like composition, drawing problems, or visual communication issues), it helps to turn to someone whose sensibilities and qualities have something in common with your own — which is not to say that you should only be looking to people who do work that looks exactly like yours. Indeed, the illustrators I turn to have work that looks nothing like mine, but there are underlying threads that keep our work in the same ballpark. Similar approaches to solving problems, similar interest in story telling, etc. That synchronicity automatically makes any opinions they share more effective, as I understand better where they're coming from.

Don't Settle

While potentially overwhelming, the untold quantity of advice mines also give you the luxury of choice. As you sift through your options, it's important to remember not to settle for advice given by artists who are at your level or only marginally better than you. Sure, you might like that one piece that JoJo down at the mall did, but like an art director once told me, "everyone has one good piece in them." So what's the rest of JoJo's work look like? Why not look to someone who has a whole portfolio of good pieces? Pieces that you think are beyond what you could ever hope to achieve. And while we're at it, how about someone with a whole portfolio of good pieces and a decent amount of experience and has made a career of it? The point is, don't skimp. You don't have to. Sure it can be intimidating to contact someone you don't know, and sometimes it takes a while for these total strangers to get back to you, but it's better to wait for advice from a professional who knows what they're talking about than it is to get your instant two cents from JoJo.

More = Better

So you've ignored me and insist on going to JoJo for all his artistic ravings — I understand, he has a wise face. That's one opinion and one opinion is good. You know what's better? Two opinions. Or even three! Hearing more than one thought can help patterns emerge and can also help solutions become clearer. Plus, not everyone is going to pick up on the same things, and you might end up with multiple issues to address. While this seems like a headache, it can also help your work improve multiple times over, and in a far more compressed period of time.

Look, it's never a bad idea to get opinions from multiple sources. You can't determine the direction of a line from a single point, so it always helps to find another point...of view. See what I did there? (I hate myself for writing that). But seriously, it's a lot harder to get to the truth of things from one person's opinion, and gathering insight from more than one source is going to give you a lot more options, and may even counter-intuitively help you hone in on the best answer for you.

Have the Salt Ready

There are a lot of folks out there spouting off on their blogs like it's the gospel as told by the illustration god, Illustrut, himself. They shout with their conviction and dazzle with neat pictures and large, bold typography. Heck, JoJo is sporting a whole cart that's got a big sign on top of it. Clearly these kind of things and the fact that they've been paid to illustrate at some point make all those guys experts and they obviously know more than you. Right?

Ahem.

Perhaps not. The most important thing to remember about advice is that it's just an opinion. Sure, it might be based on facts and experiences, and sure they might be working illustrators, but such things do not turn their wisdom into a law chiseled in stone by Hammurabi*, himself. Advice can apply to you and your work, and it can also be pretty far off base, so it's vital to learn to take in what applies and ignore the rest. Part of making art is having intentions and making real choices. You know what you're trying to do better than the person giving you advice, so be sure that adhering to some of that advice doesn't betray those intentions and choices in some way.

Which brings me to my final point. While I've dispatched some advice as well as a fair amount of information about my work and process on this blog of mine, everything I've passed along has been based on my own experience. What knowledge I've provided is what worked for me, nothing more. I've also tried to include what hasn't worked whenever pertinent. Much of the advice I've given is pretty general. Indeed if you go from blog to blog looking for the secrets of life and illustration you'll note that the advice often is. There are themes of hard work and perseverance woven throughout, and many universal truths are present that you just can't get around. But remember, it's the internet, and the internet is still the Wild West. Any idiot can express their opinion half-intelligently and sound like they know what they're talking about — which includes me, by the way.  

Still, I'm a big proponent of getting help on the fundamentals and then figuring the nuances out for yourself. The building blocks of what we do, while largely comprised of repetition, are often molded by other hands. A slight nudge here, a slap on the wrist there, not to mention the meticulous study and outright thievery of the work of our heroes. The big ticket items are what I go seeking information about and look to others for advice to improve. But deciding what brush to use or what colors to mix? That's all trial and error. Sure I've taken advice on that stuff, but it was me driving the bus and deciding which passengers to let on. I'm just as likely to drive right by. Remember that it's the oddities of process, the quirks, the mistakes and hiccups along the way that make our artistic endeavors our own.

So go out there and seek that advice whenever you need it, but arm yourself with a shovel of your own, and don't forget to leave some time to actually paint along the way.


*  Survey of Art History 101 for the win!

More Advice

On the heals of Randy Gallegos' very nontraditional but all around awesome bit of advice over at ArtOrder, as well as my own, more traditional chunk of wisdom from last week, I bring you a few additional spoonfuls of what some might deem common sense.  Nevertheless, I'm here to offer these tasty morsels up for your consideration.  Why?  Because we've reached the time of year where art students far and wide start sweating their futures.  With the days of their doing projects within a structured environment coming to a close, many of them begin shooting off emails and making phone calls to folks like myself, hoping to get some insight, advice or a paid internship.  While I can't do the third, I just might be able to help with the other two.

Now, some or all of what I might share herein may be old hat to those of you perusing the letters which, when assembled, form words.  But my own observations of some of the folks entering the field each year have indicated that there are certainly those who might benefit from some of what I'm about to get into.  And so, without further interruption, I shall.

Learn To Talk About Your Work
Learning to draw and paint is fine and good, but in addition to developing such fine and admirable skills, you might want to take some time out to figure out how to discuss your work articulately.  And no, I'm not talking about learning to write well for your blog and such (though that's not a bad idea, either).  I'm talking about actual, spoken words — you know, with inflection and everything!  When I was in school, I was expected to actually talk about what it is I did and to eventually get to the point where I could describe my work, style, genre and subject matter in one, concise sentence.  Nowadays, I'm guessing you'd need to be able to do that in 140 characters.  Still, it's not a bad idea to be able to chat about your process, to be able to speak about your choices and to intelligently defend them.  While such a thing as vocalization may seem obsolete now that the internet is here, like it or not there are still art directors out there who might actually want to meet you in person at some point, and if at all possible, it'd be nice if they can actually have a conversation with you.  Trust me, they seem to like that kind of thing.

Learn Humility
While learning to talk about yourself and your work, remember to keep it simple and humble.  Don't be that guy who thinks he's the second coming of the illustration god, Illustrut (I made that up, like it?).  We all know him.  He's the guy who adds pretentiousness where none is needed, the guy who inflates the importance of his work and profession.  Most illustrators I know avoid that guy, and most illustrators are the opposite of that guy — they're humble and don't buy into their own hype.  Personally, I find it difficult to take myself too seriously.  I paint zombies and dragons and such.  I churn out the odd clunker now and then that is more than enough to damage what little self-esteem I actually have.  I have loved only a handful of my own pieces, and one day hope to love another handful.  While I'm not saying you should aspire to be some self-flagellating illustration martyr, I think it's worth remembering that when Illustrut returns to us, he will likely embody someone who isn't you.

Learn to Critique

Now, I'm sure that most of you reading this will roll their eyes over this one, but it's an essential skill.  Most schools out there expect you to participate in critiques of your fellow classmates' work.  But, if managed to got through school without acquiring this important skill, then I suggest you find a group of folks you can rely on and trust, and start doing it as soon as possible.  And I'm not suggesting this because I'm some twisted mashochist who wants to shower in the tears of those being critiqued.  Critiquing the work of others trains your eye, so that when you turn it toward your own work it is more effective.  And while you might be looking forward to the end of such public critiques come graduation, I sincerely hope you don't abandon the practice altogether.  Fourteen years after graduating from college, I still regularly show sketches and finished work to several guys who I know will cut right to the heart of any visible weakness in a piece.  Work I've stared at to the point of bleariness can instantly be tidied with fresh eyes once I've lost all objectivity, and such an asset is invaluable.

Learn To Take a Critique

Think you only need to be able to give a good critique?  Think again.  If you can't take as good as you give, you have to figure out how to develop a thicker skin.  While it can be extremely difficult to have someone rip your favorite piece to shreds, you have to find a way to look at those comments objectively.  If you're getting defensive when on the receiving end of a critique, it just might be possible that in your heart of hearts you know there's some truth to what's being said to you.  I know that that is certainly the case whenever the urge to become defensive wells up within me during critique.  And, believe it or not, learning to take criticism helps make you better at giving it.  This, in turn, makes you better at receiving critiques, and so on.  Look, I know it's tough to have someone point out the flaws in a piece you've labored over and poured a bit of your soul into, but believe it or not, there's an excellent chance that whoever is trying to drive that stake through your heart is doing it to make you a tougher vampire.

Learn When Not to Self-Promote
There are some excellent resources out there on self-promotion.  I'm not going to link any, because I fail at research, but I know they're out there because people have told me about them, and I believe everything everyone tells me.  What I'm getting at is that it's a deeper topic than this post can accommodate and I think it's sometimes more valuable to touch on what not to do.  The gist is, there's a time and a place for everything.  Learn when to self-promote, and when to just plant the seed of self-promotion — the I'll-catch-up-with-you-tomorrow-and-we-can-talk-about-it, kind of thing.  This is a tough tightrope to walk, and it's something I think you have to learn through experience, but my rule of thumb is that if it feels natural to the occasion to whip out my portfolio or start handing out my business cards, then fine.  If it's going to result in any kind of awkwardness, I'll try and find a way to plant a seed.  If that still feels awkward, I leave it for another day and carry on.  There are definitely those who feel that's too passive and that you should be a touch pushier, but it's just not in me.  Figuring out what feels comfortable to you can take a while, but it's a necessary thing.  Just remember that there are times when you need to skip the used car salesman routine, and if you're asking yourself whether or not this is one of those times, it probably is.

Learn To Be Careful Of What You Shoot At

There's a lot of art out there I don't like.  There are some of my fellow artists who annoy me to no end, and I likely do the same to them.  And I've worked under some nightmare scenarios with companies I'd never work with again.  Despite all this, I try not to talk much about any of them.  At least not publicly.  Sure, I believe everyone is entitled to their opinion and are free to express it, but I try and avoid yammering on about many of my professional opinions when out amongst my peers, and especially on the internet.  Why?  Well, just as you can be fired from a job for writing the wrong thing on Facebook, you can lose a client doing the same.  As far as I'm concerned, the internet is akin to a soapbox and megaphone, only your voice carries much further online.  It's best to assume that anything said about anyone will eventually get back to them.  So, I avoid saying anything I wouldn't otherwise say publicly to a person's face.  Sure I might gripe and commiserate behind the scenes with a few people I hold as confidants (an important thing to have), but like it or not ripping another artist or their work, or complaining publicly about a client can come back to haunt you.  You never know who their friends are and how vengeful they can be.  This business is hard enough, try not to make it harder.

Learn To Feed Your Head
While I can't say this is a common thing, I can't exactly say it's uncommon, either.  I've heard tell tale of artists cloistering themselves in order to keep influences away.  They want to keep their work pure.  While I understand the mentality, I also think it's pretty flawed.  Becoming a hermit limits you to what's in your own head.  But if you take as much in as possible, you have a whole world to explore and more fodder than you could ever consume in a lifetime.  I suggest taking it all in.  Roll everything around in your mind a while, try each thing on and see what fits.  It is all going to be churned through that lovely, unique brain of yours, so you'll always be present in what comes out.  Your brain will filter every tidbit you cram in there, your hand will drive every stroke.  And weaving all those disparate, corrupting influences together will be your own sensibilities, your own will.  Feed your head, feed your heart.  It's what the beast needs to grow, and if the beast doesn't get what it needs it will whither and die.

That's it!  I swear.  If you managed to get through all that, color me impressed.  And while this advice is free (except for all the time you've spent reading that you'll never get back), it may not necessarily be any good.  Which is what I'll be talking about next time.

The Lack of a Silver Bullet

A little while back, I got an email that contained the following:

I am curious as to how all of you artists are so insanely fantastic with drawing, sketching, painting, etc.  Although I love art a lot, my art (if anyone would ever call it such), is amateur at best. I was hoping to request one tip if any at all from someone that seems like a profession artist.

This is a question I have been asked many, many times, and when faced with this question without a portfolio of work to examine for a more specific critique, I typically answer with a fairly stock reply.  But I think it's a pretty good one, so I'm going to share my response.  Here goes:

I wish I could tell you that there's a magic bullet.  I wish there was a simple thing you could adjust that would take your work from being okay, to professional quality.  I really wish I could tell you that it's easy.  But it's not.

The quality reached by the many artists who work on Magic: The Gathering tends to come from a combination of two sources: innate talent and hard work.

Innate talent is something no one has any control over.  I knew guys in college who could draw me under the table without making any real effort to do so.  There was something in their brains that clicked naturally, and it was pretty clear that my brain just wasn't wired that way.  I knew I had some raw skills, but not to the level of some of these other folks.  To this day I know a lot of folks who are far better than I am at drawing, painting, what have you.  Some of my betters haven't even picked up a pencil or brush in years but when they do they create things that would give one the impression that they've been at it the whole time.  It's frustrating and awe-inspiring, but the disparity of natural talent from one person to another is something you have to accept.  The sooner you do so, the quicker you can concentrate on the second source, which happens to be the only one you actually have control over: the amount of work you put in.

The old adage that it takes 10,000 hours of doing something to become truly proficient at it is pretty daunting.  While I can't say that it's a universal rule, I think it was true for me.  I had to spend a lot of time doing bad work in order to get to the point where I was doing good work.  I must confess, however, that even after doing this full-time and professionally for eleven years, I'm still putting out the occasional clunker.  Still, I do make a living painting, and I got to where I am by putting in the hours.  Hours doing what?  Everything I could.  I drew during every moment I could spare.  I drew when I sat on the subway, or waited for the bus.  I drew when I watched t.v.  I drew when I hung out with friends.  I went to life drawing to draw the model, but I also drew my fellow train passengers.  I drew the trees outside my window, the washing machine at the laundromat, and even freeze frames from my favorite movies.  On top of this, I spent a lot of time putting my ideas down.  Problems to solve visually, and various ways to address those problems.  Designs for cool machines, weird armor ideas, random mythological critters.  Whenever possible, I put those ideas to use in fully fleshed-out paintings.  Many of my earlier efforts no longer exist as I've destroyed most, but the fact that I painted those paintings at all made a huge difference.

Hard work is truly what defines many professional artists out there.  I have known some who I once thought should consider hanging their brushes up and finding another way to make a living — people who I thought were lost causes and too old to be as bad as they were.  But they kept at it, put in some really hard work and have gone on to do really great things.  Regardless of how much talent they were born with, it's the man hours that made the difference.

The fact is that their success in art came down to staying hungry.  Hungry for better quality, better ideas, better work.  It's all about dedication to a trade, and the willingness to follow through.  Getting into the art field is knowing that you're in it for the long haul.  It's not a job.  It's not even a career.  To those who've been in it all their lives, it's who they are.  It's not a four years of school and you're done kind of scenario.  It's a lifetime of learning and work in order to continue to get better.

Now, I'm totally aware of how this kind of advice sounds.  To some it's inspiring.  To others it's heartbreaking.  To most, it results in a mixed bag.  If it gives you pause, it should.  It's not an easy road, and it sometimes involves quite a bit of sacrifice.  There are days where the decision to get into art feels like a huge mistake, but then you realize that you cannot even conceive of doing anything other than struggling with that piece that has frustrated you to the point of tears and taken you to the verge of quitting.  The hard, chunky bits that grate on you are a dream compared to the office cubicle that might otherwise await you.  If you're one of the ones who can't see yourself living any other life, then you'll find it in yourself to do the hard work.  Mediocre talent can be overcome.  Success can be achieved.  You just have to be willing to break your back a little.

One last bit of advice: while you toil away, remember to be kind to yourself — but not too kind.  Beating yourself up won't make you better.  Conversely, constantly patting yourself on the back and being amazed by your own success won't either.

Steve Vs. Pests

Amy and I moved into the house in January.  Judging from the range of noises in the walls, it became obvious early on that we had a mouse problem.  So I began to take care of it to the best of my ability.  I caught a few, likely poisoned some others, but found that the scritching and scratching heard nightly didn't seem to change much.  Because of this, my landlord hired an exterminator.

The exterminator was a snide little fellow who cut me off every time I tried to talk, contradicted me at every turn, and was here for about twenty minutes, the first fifteen of which he spent criticizing me for how our furniture was laid out, with the remaining five spent haphazardly throwing poison blocks around the attic.  Both his attempts at insulting me and at exterminating pests failed.  The noises continued.

So I started to look around the house to see if I could find a point of entry and maybe at least cut down on any traffic in and out of the place.  Amy and I spent an afternoon filling holes as best we could in hopes that we might get some sleep.  That's when I noticed the holes in the ground along the fence.  Now, I'm not the kind of guy who can identify the species of animal just by looking at the hole they make.  All I knew is that they were big enough for me to put my entire hand inside, so it couldn't be mice or chipmunks.  I also noticed there was an awful lot of garbage in my backyard, and not my garbage, either.  Tin foil, peanut butter jars, pudding cups.  My neighbor, upon seeing me puzzling over this new detritus quietly came clean.  My neighborhood had a bit of a rat problem.

Now, I don't want you thinking that I'm living in some third world hovel.  I live amongst the bridge and tunnel crowd — the kind of people who could afford to live in Manhattan, but chose not to.  It's extremely suburban and to say that the yards around here are immaculate would be an understatement. 

If all that's the case, how the heck did rats make this area their home?  No one's certain.  What is certain is that there's been a lot of construction in the area.  Three houses within a two block radius have had overflowing dumpsters parked out front for months at a time as additions have been put on and remodeling has occurred.  The rats could have taken a free ride in one of the dumpsters and found themselves smack in the middle of our 'hood, or they could simply have been attracted by the lunch leftovers the construction workers have lackadaisically tossed into the dumpsters each day.  Whatever the cause, they're here.  Add a mild winter into the mix, and you've got yourself a problem.

As soon as I told my landlord about the rats, she called in a new exterminator who quickly went to work the very next day.  This new exterminator was a woman who took her time to listen to everything I had to say, was willing to get dirty, and had nothing to say about our decor.  Within seven days of her first visit, Amy and I were busing dead rats out of our backyard.  And over the next couple weeks, the rat holes became increasingly decrepit and are now clearly abandoned.  Progress has been made.  While our own property seems to be rat free, it's wise to remain vigilant as many other homes have been affected.  Each time the same thing happens.  So worried about the stigma of having rats, people end up keeping the problem from their neighbors until it's too late.  It's unfortunately already had a negative affect on some neighborly relations in the area, and could also lead to their return.

All the while, the noises continued in the walls at night in one form or another.  Over time, they've stopped in all but one location: a small section of the wall immediately behind the headboard of our bed.  Like clockwork, the rustling begins just as we are trying to fall asleep.  Unless, of course, it's warm out.  Should the temperature stay above forty degrees or so, it's largely silent throughout the place.  So it would seem that our mystery critter has been coming in and huddling next to the heating duct for warmth.  Mind you, the basement and attic have been inspected very thoroughly by myself and three different exterminator techs.  While we never found any sign of rats inside, there was once clear signs of mice, but no more.  The smell of uneaten peanut butter from all the various traps fills my attic, and still nothing.  No animals caught in months, and whenever it's cold outside the noise continues.

So, if it's not rats and it's not mice, then what's keeping us up at night?  The finger next pointed to squirrels.  I honestly didn't see how this could possibly be the case as squirrels supposedly do a lot of damage and leave behind very pungent odors, and we have neither of these and no hole.  Like I said, I've spent a lot of time searching for entry points into the house, and I've never seen anything that pointed to squirrels.  Well, except that gaping hole the size of a fist in the side of the place that I completely missed after two months of looking.  It took five minutes of the animal control expert from the extermination company to see it, and I felt like a pretty big idiot.  Obviously he didn't want to close the hole up straight away, just in case something was inside at the time.  What he decided to do, instead was to stuff some steel wool in the hole and see what happens.  The steel wool plug is in there nice and loose, and he figured that if they were inside they'd push it out.  If outside, they'd push it in.  Point being, we'd see some evidence of the comings or goings, and after getting this new evidence, a one-way tunnel would be affixed to the house so they could get out, but not back in.  A week after this visit and the steel wool remains untouched.  The noise continues.

As of right now, no one is sure what's in the wall.  My landlord is game for opening the wall up as a last resort, and I feel like we're getting to that point.  In the meantime, one other action has been taken.  When we moved in, three pine trees lived in front of the house.  Each was taller than the house itself, which is two stories, and one was situated a mere eighteen inches from the facade.  My landlord felt the critters what live in our wall might be climbing those trees to get to the second floor, where the noise is located.  And obviously she was also worried about the house's foundation and such.  Two days ago the trees were cut down.  While our tree free front yard resulted in more light in the studio, thus far it hasn't affected the noise.

Between earplugs and sheer exhaustion, I've learned to sleep through the racket.  Our cupboards remain pest free, the living space continues un-invaded, the attic and basement still show no sign of visitors.  At this point I'm willing to call it a draw.  Since the trees were felled, I have not seen a squirrel anywhere on our property.  I periodically see a chipmunk or two (their burrows are on the opposite side of the property from those of the rats), an occasional rabbit or two stops by in the evening, and all kinds of birds frolic in what trees remain.  Those at least have left me alone.

Except, of course, for the chickadee that I saw fly out of a hole just above one of my studio windows yesterday.

Sigh.

Valentine Evolution Gif

Fellow artist, friend and all around awesome guy, Ben Thompson (not to be confused with the author of the same name), saved me the horror of having to conjure anything too deep to say today (and saved you from having to read it) by being generous enough to generate an animated gif of Valentine.  Unsolicited, Ben sent along the fruit of his efforts via electronic mail just moments after I'd first mentioned the idea, yesterday. Were I a wealthy man, I'd provide Ben with some recompense for his efforts.  A small yacht, perhaps.  As I am not a wealthy man, I can only give him my profuse thanks and offer to buy him a drink the next time we meet, which I'm hoping isn't too far down the road.

Anyway, without further ado, here's the gif:

So, there you go.  Thanks again, Ben!

Valentine Final

Here's the final image.  It took a while to dry, almost a full day to scan, retouch, and color correct, and at the moment seems like it took forever to complete.  But, it's done, and I'm well into the next couple jobs I have due.  This painting will be one of several pieces making their debut at Spectrum Live in May, and will hopefully help fill the walls nicely.  Hopefully.

So, as usual it's oil on paper on hardboard.  It measures 16" x 20" and palette-wise is one of the lighter pieces I've worked on in quite some time.  Can't exactly say that about its tone, though.

What would be cool is if I went back and created an animated gif of the painting coming together.  Yeah — all twelve steps in one image.  That would be sweet.  But right now that's just not going to happen.  I've got too much on my plate.  Instead, you'll just have to flip through the dozen previous posts really quickly and pretend.  Sorry.

You know, not having this piece to talk about will be a bit of a letdown now.  I'm going to have to dig a bit deeper than I've had to the last couple weeks to provide content.  Hopefully whatever ends up filling the void will be worthwhile content, but who's to say?

Anyway, I should get back to work.  I've still got 9 out of 11 pieces to go, all due at the end of the month, and as much as I'd like them to, they won't finish themselves... which is why I need a helper monkey.  Unfortunately, said monkey would probably just throw stuff around and make a mess.  I doubt a whole lot would actually get done as the monkey would obviously be hurling things about while I chased after it, cleaning up as I went.  No painting or drawing getting done there.  So I guess a helper monkey is a bad idea.  At the very least, it's certain that I'd have virtually no time to babble on like this.  I mean, even if it worked out just think how long it would take to train the monkey.  I'm sure it would come partially trained, but I'd have to teach it the nuances of how I work, and such.  Even were the monkey a patient one, I'm sure I'd stretch that patience to its very limits (as I often due with humans) and I'm pretty sure that that would still end with me wiping the walls and scrubbing the carpet.  So yeah.  I need to just accept the helper monkey thing as being ill advised and move forward with getting the work done, myself.

Right.  On with it then.