There’s a new comic book publisher in town and its name is Sparkle Comics. Although new, it has already published three comic books as of this writing. One is titled “Shocking Macabre Theater,” one is “Wolf Hunter” and the other is “Adventure Man.” All three showcase some remarkable local talent, but I’m going to concentrate on the last title by mentioning it was crafted by the gifted coterie of Messrs. Matt Brassfield, Wheeler Hall, Jeremy Hoyt and Jason Young. There was somebody else, too, but his name eludes me at the moment. Now, if you don’t reside in the Dayton area you’re no doubt pining, “Oh! I would love to purchase and forever savor these and future titles, but I live too far away. Whatever shall I do?” Mourn no more. You can now purchase copies online! To order their fine products, just go to www.sparklecomics.com and click on “shop.” You’ll be glad you did.
Posts Tagged ‘Jeff Potter’
It was seven years ago this month that a nefarious criminal mastermind, whose name, if any dare speak it aloud at all, is whispered in hushed and terrified tones as if one were speaking it in a library, unveiled a website he christened “Ok, PANIC!” Its purpose, as he himself confessed, was to “showcase the talents of his favorite artists in an online collaboration.” Oddly, this modern-day Moriarty, whom I shall call Wheeler Hall for the sake of convenience, invited me to be one of the contributors. One of his conditions was that each artist had to have his own website, a thing I had never considered and had no idea how to even create. Thus, in a remarkable display of generosity and forbearance, Mr. Hall created a site for me, the very site you are looking at now! And for the last seven years everything on this site has been his doing. All I do is send him a drawing with some more-or-less relevant accompanying text. Wheeler does all the rest. He’s quite a guy, despite his repeated attempts to enslave all of London. I would send Wheeler an inked sketch for PANIC! and the majority of the time he would color it electronically. My first submission was in pencil, however. After all these years I still recall Wheeler saying he tried coloring it but, because it was shaded in pencil, the results did not meet his standards. So now, a little belatedly and as a thank-you to Wheeler for these past seven years, I redrew the image in ink, aging the characters seven years naturally, for Mr. Hall to perform his magic. I trust you will enjoy the colorful result.
Mr. Potter aka Sherlock Bones
EDITOR’S NOTE: Hi. This is Mr. Hall. And while Mr. Potter’s words are very kind and I appreciate them very much, he is the true genius. I am a mere dilettante (as you will see from feeble colors on this piece) who he allows to color some of his art. Ok, Panic was a blast, and I’m so glad that I could be a small part of it.
Mr. Hall aka Moriarty
The following is part of a poem by Abraham Lincoln. I feel it’s slightly analogous to what I was trying to say in this painting, even though the painting, by comparison, is but a shabby and decrepit simulacrum. His meditation may not express quite the degree of optimism I tried to hint at in this image, yet I still feel both works share some little things in common; albeit his words are far, far more powerful than my chaotic daubs. And now, Mr. Lincoln, sir, the floor is all yours.
My childhood’s home I see again,
And sadden with the view;
And still, as memory crowds my brain,
There’s pleasure in it too.
O Memory! thou midway world
‘Twixt earth and paradise,
Where things decayed and loved ones lost
In dreamy shadows rise,
And, freed from all that’s earthly, vile,
Seem hallowed, pure and bright,
Like scenes in some enchanted isle
All bathed in liquid light.
As dusky mountains please the eye
When twilight chases day;
As bugle-tones that, passing by,
In distance die away;
As, leaving some grand waterfall,
We, lingering, list its roar –
So memory will hallow all
We’ve known but know no more.
Near twenty years have passed away
Since here I bid farewell
To woods and fields, and scenes of play,
And playmates loved so well.
Where many were, but few remain
Of old familiar things,
But seeing them to mind again
The lost and absent brings.
The friends I left that parting day,
How changed, as time has sped!
Young childhood grown, strong manhood gray;
And half of all are dead.
I hear the loved survivors tell
How nought from death could save,
Till every sound appears a knell
And every spot a grave.
I range the fields with pensive tread,
And pace the hollow rooms,
And feel (companion of the dead)
I’m living in the tombs.
I came across this while dusting and straightening some mummified corpses in the attic. It’s a very, very old piece, done when I apparently had a lot more nervous energy than I do now. I think it was my first serious attempt at a pen and ink work and was done, as I recall, with technical pens. It’s not good but I was outrageously proud of it way back when and, truth be told, I like it even now, if only for sentimental reasons. Besides bringing back memories of a misspent youth, there’s just something about it, I’m not sure what, that I find charming.
This was done eight years ago. I assume I made most of the colors drab and sunken hoping that the contrast would make the white feather and yellow flower stand out. There’s precious little, hardly a single brushstroke, that I wouldn’t radically change if I were to paint this image now. Still, despite the somberness of the colors and the figure’s expression, it was obviously done just for the fun of it. Since I hadn’t looked or even thought about this piece in almost a decade, I can look at it now without any prejudice or vanity. Thus, I can, with cool disinterest, state that the piece is certainly no masterpiece, but it does succeed, in some measure, in being a “just fun to look at” exercise, which is what it was obviously supposed to be. Despite its flaws, I like it.
They walked together silently in the apple orchard that cool June night. It was a good season for the fireflies and the two wanderers were delighted at the wild profusion of scintillating, hovering living lights. As always, the beetles slowly converged in a space between the wanderers and the tops of the trees, aligning themselves and synchronizing their signals. In a few minutes their bioluminescent glow formed into a lambent quote, different from the ones on previous nights. Their lights spelled out “Thou shalt say a thousand things, and saying them a thousand times over, thou shalt still have said nothing.”
“Hawthorne?” asked the boy.
“Who else?” smiled the father. “That’s a pretty fine quote, don’t you think?”
“Well, for fireflies,” the boy grudgingly conceded. “They flash their lights to find a mate, don’t they?”
“So I’ve heard. I’ve also heard tell that they use their lights to attract prey.”
“Mates and prey: aren’t they one and the same? And the poor beetles go through all this trouble merely to die shortly afterward.”
“It’s their nature; but how beautiful they are while they’re here, despite the reason. To them it is a grim struggle for temporary survival or procreation, but to us their lights are things of intangible beauty. Things are always beautiful when you look at them from the outside, when you’re not the one involved.” The father smiled and studied his son from the corner of his eye. “And surely even you must agree that it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have lost at all.”
“So you say,” the boy muttered. “Yet so many others, they tell me love is like death and that death is nothing… but I don’t know what that means.”
“That’s all right,” the father said, putting his arm over his son’s shoulder and watching the fireflies leisurely disperse, “they don’t know what it means either.”
And father and son walked away into the darkening night.
One inspiration for this piece was my thinking about Botticelli and a
couple of other Renaissance artists whose styles were strongly
hard-edged and linear. No matter the subject, their style suffuses every
work with a certain pale and quiet sadness that is easily felt but
difficult to describe, like that universal yet unsharable sadness which
is part and parcel of every life. There is no sfumato in the artists’
works to mellow or hide that sensation, nothing to compromise or lessen
its harsh representations. This sketch is merely my response to that
certain melancholy inherent in every linear work. The creature inhabits
a harsh, brittle realm of unyielding and emphatic demarcations that
allow no thing to really touch another, a world of sharp outlines, sharp
and stinging like nettles and barbs, a world of boundaries that cannot
be crossed. Yet the creature itself is also harsh, untouchable and
armored in its own severe outline. It belongs in its world. It’s a
little bowed and battered by its environs, but it is not broken. It
perseveres and is not overwhelmed. To me, that is part of Botticelli’s
genius. There is an ambient sadness in his work reflected even in his
smiling or dancing figures. Yet they survive in the sadness and somehow,
magically, impart a graceful undefinable happiness, even joy, to the
entire piece. And that is part of what makes Botticelli’s works beautiful.
First, a little tribute to Gene Lehman, without whom Mystic Dreaming could never have been what it now is:
A great friend,
A great, great lifesaver,
A great, great, great artist,
And a great many more things.
The wondrous event poetry lovers the world over have been eagerly awaiting has finally arrived. Sarah Potter’s second collection of original poetry is now available! It’s titled Mystic Dreaming and you can find more information about on it at the following link: