This is an oil pastel rendition of an earlier digital picture that I did for my picture book and the upcoming Book Fair (keep your fingers crossed for me, people). I wrestle a bit with the traditional vs digital thing, especially since it's full of things that I imagine being horribly repetitive to draw, like snowflakes and raindrops and cherry blossoms. And while I think that the pictures are a little more interesting digitally, or executed better, the truth is the process in oil pastel is way, way more satisfying.

The Children’s Book Fair in Spain is drawing near, and so on the request of the agent I have been trying to ready my book dummy, reworking the sketches in pencil rather than in Illustrator. Its pretty intense work and every day part of me thinks “there’s no way I’m going to finish!”. I keep pushing ahead because it would be a terrible opportunity to pass up.

I’m doing a full day of drawing everyday, but yesterday I found that before I left my studio I had to take a half an hour to just draw for the sake of drawing. Every now and then I see some art done in a particular medium and style that I really like, and then it sort of gets stuck in my head so that I have to try it. It’s rarely ever successful, but it does get me to try new things (and some art supplies that I bought but barely used). Invariably it leads to something else that I’m kind of happy with. So in this way I suppose I’m making my own art school.

Because I’ve been watching a lot of Six Feet Under of late (my recent pick as Most Unbelievable Work of Art) I’ve been thinking about death a lot. I have to confess to being a bit of an unnecessary worrier - worrying about fires and earthquakes and other natural disasters, thoughts about my kids and whether or not I will be strong enough to save them in the event of said disaster, how it would even be like betraying my kids if I were to die. But lately what I’ve been thinking about is how it seems crazy that of all times in history I should be here now, and how music and art and technology and literature and the great human drama will continue on after me, and I won’t get to find out one single thing that happens. Its not feeling surprised that the world could continue on without me, its just like reading the most amazing book in the world but having to take it back to the library before you get to the end.

And it IS weird that I’m here now, and so are these people who have become my friends, and this band whose music I love - there are no sensations of ever having been alive or of having had a consciousness at any other point in history. What made me conscious here and now? Its really rather bizarre when you think about it, and probably kind of weighty for a weekend morning when all your kids want to do is be taken out for breakfast.

Blah blah blah

I’ve been dreaming lately of having a therapist, not because I don’t have enough people in my life to talk to, but because it seems that the only way someone should have to listen to all the minutiae of my life is by being paid for it. An hour a week where I can talk endlessly about myself. Now that we have all this health coverage I might look into it, but in the meantime I shall try and write a little more regularly, in spite of being torn about how much of it I should put online. Given that there is a link to here from my portfolio site, should I be discreet about what I write? Remove the link? Assume that potential employers would skip looking at it? Remind myself that I'm just one in a sea of a million blogs and therefore the amount of people actually reading this are very, very small?

Its a long way away from my handmade journals and fountain pen that I used to use, but journal keeping now is hampered by lack of time. I have a lot of thoughts about being a "grownup" or what I consider finally, my adult life. Mostly it has to do with concerns about being an adult. Or ways that I think I’ve changed now that I’m an adult. Or ways that I thought I would be but disappointingly am not since becoming an adult, all which weigh heavier on me than the crushes and career hopes of my 20s. Actually, I just realized that career hopes is still a big one, it just doesn’t involve being a musician anymore. I suppose some things really do remain the same, because now I’m entertaining career hopes as an illustrator, although I feel a little more powerless in how to go about making it happen.

The last two nights I’ve been lying in bed worrying about my “career” (as it seems to be my most occupying concern) - mostly that, after you have found the person you want to spend your life with, and you have two wonderful children (still young enough to need you and love you unconditionally), what else is there? Work. At least I think that’s all there is, so it has to be meaningful, and I have to want to do it, and feel good about doing it, which certainly rules out the web and graphic design I’ve been doing. But I’m starting to think maybe success is eluding me. Sure, there have been some successes - I’ve done two (1 1/4) picture books and I’ve just signed on with an agent. I really don’t want to look for a design job while I wait for the next illustration job (although responsibilities dicate that I should), so I suppose all my middle of the night crises can be pinpointed back to that. At least with music there were always gigs - with illustration I feel like there is an awful lot of waiting around - if only I had the cash to send out postcards every 2 months and buy up all the portfolio space online.

Carrot Garden

I'm trying to update my portfolio, and here's the first result. I'd have done more if I hadn't had such a terrible flu the last few days.