Ace Storyboards -on Demand
Marvel; Malibu; DC Comics; Wildstorm; Image; Eclipse; First;IDW Publishing; Epix; Valiant;Verotik; Egmont
I’ve been drawing since I was about 2 years old. My Mother, a prolific writer, kept a small stack of paper and a ballpoint pen where she sat at the kitchen table, I was perched near her in my high chair. From this unmovable station I watched her write. And for all the world had no clue what she was doing, except to see her leave endless markings on endless sheets of yellow writing paper.
A small stick-like object in her hand would move across the empty paper and leave marks in its wake.
I was, for lack of a better word, enamored with it. The strange little stick that left behind such lovely and magical lines.
One day, she left me to answer a phone or perhaps pour a fresh cup of coffee. In that moment the object of my singular focus was at last in hand. I remember it being just an ordinary thing, a hard clear stick filled with a solitary vein of pure darkness. I thought of how she held it..and holding the table's edge with my other hand leaned into it...to see what I could do.
The stick, clenched tightly in my small clumsy hand moved across the clean shiny surface effortlessly.
It danced across the naked steel top bakers table (that I sit at still to this day /across from her memory when having my meals.) leaving shapes and threads that came alive and were somehow connected to an unnamed and spirited source I could barely imagine.
I'm not so sure to this day if I pushed it or if it pulled me.
Lines became shapes and those became things.
I was mesmerized.
Mom returned, took back the tool and gave a motherly chastisement about drawing on the table.
I just stared, lost in the things that were created in the wake of its use. She cleaned the table with a wet cloth and returned to her work.
A short while later, the opportunity returned, and I reached far and hard to get that stick again. This time the uncertainty turned to familiarity and more lines became more things. The table before me became a riot of life, and I was gifted with that hard little stick, to open the door for them.
She returned again, the chastisement, the wet cloth, the clean table..
But this time she put paper in front of me, and she gave me my own stick. Her voice was a far away sound, warning to stop messing the table and use the paper instead..
The little hand clenched the stick, and reaching out, placed the oily point down, and then moved it ever so slowly..
From that moment to now, that’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.
I have been drawing and telling stories for over half a century.
I have drawn for Newspapers/Magazines/comic books/advertising/commercials/animation and film.
Every job has been unique and every job has been that self same driven turn of the doorknob. Life unleashed.
I’ve been told I can’t draw, and I’m not very good from teachers/professionals and fans.
Oddly, I don’t fully disagree with them. But it never bothered me. It was never about being the best artist for me, or making the most money. It’s always been about bringing that line to life.
Perhaps I’ve just been lucky, people have paid me to share that and it’s what I’ve always wanted to do.
I’ve drawn for so many clients on so many jobs in so many styles that I’ve lost track.
But that’s never been my goal to tally up things.
It's like asking me how many breaths have I taken in this life...or how many lines have I drawn..
The true answer is just one.