Letter

I don’t really know how it happened but for a month and a half this summer I spent hours a day binge-watching a soap opera parody from the 70s. I convinced myself this was a worthwhile way to spend my time by drawing freezeframes of the screen and taking notes. I hate the summers so staying in was a no-brainer but the choice of diversion is a little baffling, looking back on it.

I was convinced this weird pop culture artifact from the country’s bicentennial year could say something about its semiquincentennial but I’m not a big idea guy. My other dumb project of defacing presidents is maybe slightly smarter than this, but not by much.

In the end, the experience of consuming some two hundred twenty-three minute bites of audiovisual storytelling reconfirmed that I’d rather watch movies if I have to look at a screen. Two or three hours is about the best duration people have come up with for that medium. The serials are just full of fat and excess. Stuffing plot twists in to stagger to another commercial break. Maybe gorging this way will cure me of ‘shows’ for good. I hope so.

It feels like such a relief not to be watching it anymore. Almost makes me want to go out into the soupy oven outside.

One of the verbal images that hangs over Mary Hartman is that thing about the ‘waxy yellow buildup’ that may or may not remain on her kitchen linoleum floor after she’s mopped it with the product recommended on TV. Makes me wonder what we retain after blasting our retinae and braincells with all this entertainment/data. Making doodles off the screen is my half-assed way of mitigating the damage, I guess.

I really hope it wasn’t all for nothing but maybe I’m fooling myself.

I read William Gass’s “In the Heart of the Heart of the Country” into a microphone.

The other day Thomas Pynchon sent me a fan note. I forwarded it to a few people and got a range of reactions from congratulations to laughter.

I was moved not so much by the sin as by the shadow. Your illustrated edition of James Hogg’s Gothic masterpiece invites readers into a world of desolate moors, unblessed graves, and the chilling certainty of a man who believes his every sin is justified in service to God’s will. That willingness to let the land itself recoil from the sinner buried beyond the church’s grace, and to render that moral reckoning through ballpoint pen illustrations, is its quiet power.

Maybe my favorite part of the note are the helpful links to Pynchon’s Goodreads and Wikipedia pages. Thoughtful of him to make sure I know who he is.

I had gotten three or four very similarly-worded emails about my illustrated versions of James Hogg’s The Suicide’s Grave and Bruce Wagner’s The Marvel Universe. The message about the latter was addressed to Wagner, instantly giving it away, but all of them purported to be impressed with my work and wanted to work with me in some way.

Anyone who puts creative work out into the world is happy when someone responds. That happiness blinds us, at least temporarily, to bad actors and their scams. With the rise of advanced language models the toolbox of the old-fashioned grifter is expanded into an entire warehouse.

After the flattery wears away I always want to know how the scam works. A few months back I was contacted about converting my artwork into NFTs. Asking a crypto-savvy acquaintance, I learned that the entire bait-and-switch is in the conversion fee from cash into whatever make-believe currency they preferred.

What has Pynchon been recruited to get from me? I assume it’s some sort of fee for publicizing my work for a wider audience. The idea of the world’s most famous recluse writer becoming a flack might amuse the man. But I’d be very surprised if he has to stoop so low as to even use email.

A completely legit email arrived a few days after Tom’s informing me that a book review I wrote was removed because the lawyers of a dead publisher objected to my writing he died of an overdose. The fact the editor took it down without hesitation tells you the precarious position of journalistic expression these days.

Maybe I should leave the thoughts and opinions to the machines.

I wrote about a show of caricatures at the Driehaus.

It’s embarrassing to ask people to buy my work. I have no agent or other representative to do this so I have to do so myself. I hate it.

Somewhere years back I made some crucial mistake and didn’t cultivate the kind of connections that might have gained me intermediaries to do the dirty work. I know there are people that enjoy it. It involves creating a kind of mirage before the prospective buyer. To let them imagine how their lives or status will be enriched by the acquisition of whatever’s being shilled at the moment.

There was time when artists had a place in society. There were churches and palaces to decorate. Maybe this infrastructure still exists somewhere but I’ve rarely taken part. Maybe I’m the wrong kind of artist or didn’t fill out the paperwork correctly.

Don’t get me wrong, I want to sell my work. Every last piece. It’s just the process that’s the problem. Ideally, there’s a division of labor. There’s a guy who makes the thing and a different guy who markets it. It’s rare that the first guy wants to be the second guy. Yet that is what social media and the gig economy expects everyone to do. To be producer and product and salesman all in one. It’s a real freedom is slavery type setup. Perhaps there are people suited to the situation. I know I’m not.

Currently, there are two places away from my home where you can see a bunch my work: the bookstore and the spiritual center. But thanks to the wonders of cyberspace you don’t have to vacate the comfort of your couch to procure decorations that might fit the walls of your office or abode.

Additionally, there are dozens of items available via my store. Other work is scattered throughout the site. If there’s a type of picture you have in mind, maybe I can find one to suit your needs.

There must be some way to do this without resorting to irony and black humor but I haven’t found it. If you have ideas, please let know. In the meantime, if you can spare some funds for something I made, I’d be much obliged.

K took me wheat-pasting.