I’m coming off of the end of a 5-day weekend I made for myself. I don’t know how much I got done – some comic inking, eBaying, cleaning. The struggle of the hyperproductive is that there is never enough done and there’s always a nagging sense of disappointment in yourself for not conquering the universe every day.

I’ve thrown away much, much old, bad art. I spent a lot of high school drawing disproportionate fairies and delicately penciled surrealist scenes that were weirdly violent and sexual (which I didn’t recognize until looking at them now). A period of poorly emulating Dave McKean without understanding that there are certain fundamental skills that you need to develop before you can draw mock-carelessly and have it look worthwhile. High school photography with feathers and broken wine glasses. All of these things, each one, despite being unpresentable if anyone is to take me seriously, was vital in its own way. Each thing was a step towards a greater whole, a record of a fleeting idea that was essential to the next idea, and the next, until it became something nice and moved that much closer to what it had to be.

I was pretty messed up in my grade school years, anyhow. All of this bad art is thrown in a huge garbage bag now, in the empty room where I’ve sat on the floor until 3 AM remembering and not remembering what these things were, and who I was, and what they slowly became. I know that it’s a little bit sinful to just throw out art, but it’s becoming increasingly clear that we make our own forevers. I can’t carry old ideas, pounds of old papers around with me wherever I end up. Thousands and thousands of little ideas were just spread around me on the floor and I was at the epicenter and it reminded me that I’m here for a quiet reason.

When I was in high school, I had dreams of illustrating Alice in Wonderland. I don’t know precisely what I was thinking, but I produced a whole mess of sloppy pages that are frankly embarrassing, but I remember being proud of them at the time. Isn’t this always the way. While I maintain that I’d like to illustrated anything by Lewis Carroll someday, this was not the way to go about doing it. I was still heavily under the influence of McKean and the evidence suggests that I intended to go back into these with digital manipulation (as evidenced by the ‘pool of tears’ image), though I probably realized the error of my ways.

Witness my cold humiliation, and a perfect example of what happens if you think you’re better than basic color theory.