Letter

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.

I saw a great play at Theatre Y in Lawndale. In it, a man wrestles with his family’s history during the Spanish Civil War and its aftermath. Like so much else these days it’s difficult not to relate it to the unraveling of this country right now. Art is often that way. Whatever it’s about, we make it about our own problems and times.

Ross McElwee came to the Music Box for a Q&A after a 40th anniversary screening of Sherman’s March. The last time I saw it was in the late 80s at the Coolidge. It’s a movie that starts out to trace General Sherman’s bloody path through the South to conclude the Civil War but ends up a messy dive into the filmmaker’s love and family life. Fewer casualties but still plenty of damage.

I watched a couple more of McElwee’s films at home ahead of seeing his new one later this week. What ties all his movies together is his neurotic, often funny narration. He’s this awkward looming man with the camera on his shoulder. Not fully participating in the events of his life in favor of capturing them on film, yet making it all about himself anyway. I know that move very well.

A lot of the stuff this week is about where memory and family meet. There’s a part of any art that’s happening in the moment but most of it, necessarily, is concerned with some version of personal or societal past.

Christopher Nolan’s remarkable new adaptation of Homer’s Odyssey is yet another example. Anyone who goes to see it and doesn’t receive the clear message to the powers that be isn’t paying attention.

I recorded the Sound and Fury book-release Saturday at Tangible. It was a small gathering but friends showed up and there was good conversation.

I contributed some art for a new press.

Go see Carla Simón’s new one, Romería, then her previous two if you haven’t seen those. More family/memory business.

Listen to Tether by Alden Hellmuth. A new favorite.

K talked about her book on Salt Lake Dirt.