SwanShadow Thinks Out Loud

“Hi, Michael. This is Scott Rosema.”

I’ve taken a few surprising phone calls in my lifetime — some wonderful (“We want you to come play Jeopardy!“), others horrific (“Your wife has cancer… again”). One of the more pleasant telephonic surprises began with the two brief sentences in the preceding paragraph.

The artwork you’re viewing, although officially designated as Common Elements #2, was in fact the first piece I commissioned (in December 2004) with Common Elements specifically in mind, and is the first to reflect the theme in its now-well-established form. (I know, I know — Iron Man and Iron Fist make for a transparently obvious pairing. I got better, okay?) By the time this work arrived in my hands in April 2005, I had commissioned and received a handful of other Common Elements pieces, so I sometimes forget that this one’s conception preceded all of the others.

But I don’t forget that phone call.

For the benefit of those unfamiliar with the mechanics, commissions fall into two general categories: direct and brokered. The majority of my commissions over the years have been arranged with the artist one-on-one via email. Many others, however, have been worked out through an artist’s broker, representative, or agent. At the time I commissioned today’s spotlighted piece, Scott Rosema‘s commissions were managed by another Scott — last name Kress — whose business is called Catskill Comics. (I have both commissioned and purchased art on numerous occasions through Catskill, and recommend Scott Kress’s services without reservation.) As is typical of a brokered commission, I had no direct communication with the artist during the process. I sent the payment and specifications to Mr. Kress, who forwarded them to Mr. Rosema. After the art was completed, Mr. Rosema mailed the piece to Mr. Kress, who in turn sent it to me. (I wouldn’t usually say “Mr.,” but it sounds less lame than “Scott R.” and “Scott K.”)

I’d had the art in hand for a few days when the phone rang.

“Hi, Michael. This is Scott Rosema.”

This being very early in my commissioning career, my immediate thought was that something had gone wrong. Had Scott not received the correct payment? Did he think he’d made an error in the drawing? Had he or Scott Kress accidentally stuck someone else’s commission in the package along with mine, and I’d failed to notice?

None of these fears proved valid.

The truth was that Scott simply wanted to know whether I was happy with the work he’d done. He had enjoyed the project, and wanted to be sure that I was equally pleased.

I was stunned. To me, comic artists still seemed a bit like unapproachable demigods, from whose gifted imaginations and dexterous fingers sprang the legends that fueled the fantasies of my youth. Only a few months previously, I wouldn’t have imagined that one of these lofty superbeings would even deign to draw something just for me, as opposed to the pages of comic books that were read and loved by millions of fans.

And now, a member of the Pantheon had dialed up my home number — not to rage and threaten, but to seek my approval.

It was almost too much.

I felt a bit like Ralphie on Santa’s lap in A Christmas Story. I knew that there were such things as words, and I was certain that I knew some — I was even reasonably confident that I had spoken some at one time or another — but getting my brain to unleash them and push them outward through my lips and tongue seemed an impossible task. I probably sounded to the man on the other end of the telephone line like a blithering moron as I fumbled to express my appreciation. I might as well have been trying to shout “AARON BURR!” with a mouthful of peanut butter and a dearth of milk.

Somehow, with the air as thick as molasses in my larynx, I managed to communicate to Scott that I was indeed quite thrilled with his drawing — not to mention his call.

In the years since, I’ve come to know a number of comic artists — and artist’s representatives — rather well. Several have even become friendly acquaintances and semi-regular correspondents. I’ve gained comfort in knowing that even the most talented of artists are just folks, who like to be appreciated for their abilities, and for themselves.

But I’ll never forget the first artist who picked up the phone to make that lesson personal.

And that’s your Comic Art Friday.

Back in the early weeks of 2005, I was still just beginning to get my head around the notion that actual comic book artists — people whose work I’d seen and admired on the four-color printed page — would draw pictures just for me, if I offered them money. My first visit to a comics convention boggled my mind with a fresh new dimension: comic book artists would sometimes draw pictures just for me, while I watched.

I suppose it’s not entirely accurate to say that WonderCon 2005 was my initial foray into the con scene. During my high school days in the 1970s, I was active in Star Trek fandom — shocking, I know, but yes, I was a hardcore Trekkie — and attended several Trek conventions here in the Bay Area. (I should tell some of those stories sometime.) I also went to at least one comics-focused con a few years after that, but memory blurs the details. It might have been one of the early iterations of WonderCon, when the event was still being held in Oakland.

WC ’05, however, holds the distinction of being my first con as a comic art collector. More specifically, it yielded the first artwork I ever commissioned in person: this gracefully brush-inked sketch of Vixen, by the comic artist known as Buzz.

Thinking about it now, I don’t remember precisely why I chose Vixen –noteworthy as DC Comics’ first African American superheroine — as the character whose likeness I wanted to commission on this particular occasion. I think I had read somewhere that one might be more likely to get a drawing from an artist at a con if one asked for something out of the ordinary. I figured that Vixen, while not a completely obscure character, probably spawned fewer requests than, say, Wonder Woman. Plus, she looked cool.

I chose Buzz to draw her because… well… he was the first artist whose table I approached where there wasn’t a line ahead of me.

A serendipitous choice, in the end, because Buzz created a striking image. He also didn’t seem to mind my periodic hovering over his shoulder as the piece took shape over several hours. The process fascinated me. I’ve seen painters doing their thing — I couldn’t tell you how many episodes of Bob Ross’s PBS series I’ve watched — and I’ve observed artists sketching in pencil and charcoal, but I had never really watched anyone work with ink before. Even though I’d been looking at comics for decades by this time, I’d never given much thought to the idea that inking might be done with a brush. The word ink always suggested a pen to me, so I’d supposed that comics were inked with something along the line of a fountain pen. (Which I now understand is often the case. Some inkers prefer pen, others brush, and many use both, depending on the demands of the work at hand.)

Buzz’s finished Vixen image evolved from his second stab at the drawing. He spent quite a bit of time puzzling out exactly how he wanted to compose the shot — given the nature of the character, he wanted a look that read both beautiful and feral. He’d actually begun sketching out a pose before he decided to start over from scratch. Rather than erasing his initial rough, Buzz flipped the board over and resumed drawing on the opposite side. Which means, of course, that his first attempt remained intact on the reverse.

Buzz didn’t ask me (at least, I don’t recall that he did), but I would have been perfectly pleased had he continued down his original path. Then again, I’m easy to please when it comes to the art I commission. As an artist myself — albeit in the very different milieus of writing and acting — I understand the compulsion to get the work right, according to one’s inner muse. When I write, for example, I hyper-edit. Unlike many writers, who will blow through a quick first draft just to get the ideas on the page (or screen), I dither over every sentence before I move on to the next. The fact that I’m a painfully slow typist* facilitates this; I have a fair amount of time to look at my words. The end result is that, although it takes me longer than most to get to the end of my first draft, it’s usually close to final product. I’ll do a sanity read-through to clean up typos and to fact-check, but I rarely need an extensive rewrite.

My intensively analytical creative approach is, on the other hand, sometimes crippling to me as an actor. But that’s a whole other post.

Buzz’s real name, in case you were curious, is Aldrin Aw. If you know your space exploration history, you’ll see where his nom de plume comes from.

And that’s your Comic Art Friday.

*Swan Factoid: I can’t touch-type. I’ve tried to learn, repeatedly — I took two typing classes in school, and I’ve tested several versions of typist-training software — but my brain and my hands just don’t work together that way. Although I know the QWERTY keyboard cold, I manipulate it mostly with my two index fingers, plus the middle finger of my left hand. My typing style has been described as “two crabs fighting.” It’s not terribly efficient or speedy, but it works.)

As noted in the first couple of Comic Art Friday posts for this year, my comic art collection has, over the years, become focused on commissioned pieces that fit into my signature themes. A quick glance at my gallery, however, makes clear that I own a boatload of art that isn’t either Common Elements or Bombshells!, or even personally commissioned by yours truly.

When I first started collecting, most of my acquisitions were existing pieces that I hunted up on eBay, or in the “For Sale” galleries on Comic Art Fans. While a fair portion of these random artworks featured characters in whom I had a particular interest — we’ll chat more about my character-specific galleries as the year progresses — many were simply images that I liked at the time, and could pick up for what seemed a reasonable price. Today, I look at some of these and ask myself, “What in the Marvel or DC Universes possessed you to buy THAT?” (Which prompts this Note to Self: We really need to thin the herd this year.) Others still hold elevated status in my collection.

One of my early purchases remains unique: It’s the only item in my entire arsenal that I did not commission, but that directly resulted in my commissioning something else.

Looking at it now, I remember my first glimpse of this depiction of Doctor Strange by the talented, charming, and all-around nice guy Geof Isherwood. I was never a huge fan of Doctor Strange’s solo adventures. I didn’t really gravitate toward the character until he became the linchpin in Marvel’s superteam, the Defenders. But at the time I saw this piece, I found myself immediately and intensely drawn to its mystery — who’s firing those energy bolts at the Sorcerer Supreme? That story, I felt, needed to be told.

So I bought the art from Geof, and asked him if he’d be willing to draw a companion piece that would represent the other half of this tableau. We decided that the unseen aggressor would be Wanda Maximoff, better known as the Scarlet Witch, one of my all-time favorite heroines. The result was the nifty picture you see below.

My intention at the time was to frame both drawings, and hang them on my office wall in such a way that the viewer could see the two images completing a single scene. Alas, the wall space I had to work with didn’t lend itself to such display. (Because of the perspective angles, the pieces don’t line up side by side. The Scarlet Witch has to be positioned slightly above and to the right of Doctor Strange, with roughly twelve to eighteen inches of diagonal air space between them.) That’s unfortunate, because Geof did an excellent job of designing the second image as a match for the first. I content myself with taking Doc and Wanda out of their portfolio every now and again, and laying them on the floor at the appropriate juxtaposition, just to remind myself of the intended effect.

The Scarlet Witch I commissioned from Geof Isherwood is unusual in my collection for a second reason. I don’t typically own more than one representation of a single character by the same artist. However, shortly after Geof completed this piece, he posted another Wanda drawing for sale, this time wearing her Gypsy-inspired costume designed by the great George Perez. I immediately fell in love with it. (I believe it’s the eyes.) Rationalizing the fact that even though this was yet another Isherwood Scarlet Witch, the outfit gave the second work an entirely different flavor, I purchased this one from Geof as well.

Geof’s second Wanda also holds a special distinction — it’s the only completed artwork I’ve ever asked its creator to alter ex post facto. (I have, on occasion, requested that an inker tweak something, but that’s another post.) In his original conception, Geof gave Wanda a preternaturally imposing bosom — think Power Girl or Red Monika from Battle Chasers, if you’re familiar with either — and designed her bustier to expose considerably more of said bosom’s surface area. In any other situation, I’d have declined — with heartfelt regret — to buy the piece, regardless of how compelling I found other aspects of it. (Again, the eyes.) In this instance, though, I figured I’d built sufficient goodwill with Geof — due to several mutually satisfactory transactions, including the one I’ve already described herein — that it couldn’t hurt to ask whether he’d be willing to entertain a minor alteration or two. The worst that could happen is that he’d say, “No way,” and sell the piece to another collector who’d be delighted with it as it was.

Luckily for me, Geof kindly took eraser and pencil — in that order — to the art, pseudosurgically shrinking Wanda’s frontal real estate from DDD to a more natural C, and adding a strategic dash of virtual fabric to the upper half of her costume. A win-win for all concerned.

Which brings me around to a final point. Anyone who knows me knows that I’m no prude. I have no issue at all with art that depicts the nude or seminude human form. Indeed, I greatly admire the works of classical masters such as Titian, Botticelli, and Rubens, many of which are nudes. But I’ll confess that I’m not a fan of comic art that overexposes the heroes and heroines of my four-color youth. It’s not that I object to such works in and of themselves, or to either their creation or collection. It’s simply that I don’t want them in my gallery, for reasons that have little to do with aesthetics, or with any perceived moral stance.

My issue is a bit more personal, and visceral: I think of these characters as my friends.

I started reading comic books 45 years ago. Over the decades, I’ve spent countless hours immersed in the adventures of my favorite superheroes and superheroines. Even though I don’t take them more seriously than good sense warrants — and I certainly never forget that they are anything but figments of imaginations far more gifted and vivid than my own — I feel at some level personally invested in them.

That said, there are many aspects of the lives of my real-world friends that I am happy to leave untouched… no pun intended. I don’t particularly want to view, for example, the intimate details of my friends’ sexual exploits, any more than I’d care to share those details of my own life with even my closest confidants. Biological functions go on daily in my friends’ lives, to which I feel neither need nor desire to be a witness. And I don’t particularly want to see my friends naked — this despite the fact that I have, if I may be frank, quite a number of aesthetically pleasing friends of both genders, who probably look just fine attired in nothing but the equipment the good Lord gave them.

Not that I don’t want my friends to have happy and mutually fulfilling sexual relationships, or enjoy regular bowel functions, or look simply smashing in the altogether. I do. I just don’t need to examine the evidence.

And I feel pretty much the same about my imaginary friends, too.

It’s kind of like a joke often told by the legendary George Wallace (the standup comedian, not the late racist politician): “Someone said to me the other day, ‘It’s as cold as a well-digger’s butt out here.’ And I said, ‘I don’t want to know my well-digger that well.'”

See? I told you we were going to get way more self-revelatory around these parts in 2013.

And that’s your Comic Art Friday.

As noted last week, I’ve developed a new focus for Comic Art Friday in 2013 — revisiting (more or less chronologically) some of the milestone artworks in my galleries, and considering from a fresh perspective why these pieces helped elevate my collection to its present heights. Because I’ve written about most of these pieces (and the characters they portray) in detail over the years, I’m seizing this opportunity to reflect more on what each of these drawings says about me, not only as a collector and connoisseur of original comic art, but as a human being as well.

Today our spotlight falls onto this potent pinup by Darryl Banks, best known as the penciler of DC’s Green Lantern from 1994 through 2001. Featured here are the seminal pulp magazine hero Doc Savage — often cited as a precursor to Superman — and his cousin Patricia, who periodically accompanied Doc and his assistants on their adventures.

I commissioned this piece from Darryl sometime in the closing weeks of 2004 (I could look up the exact date, but then, you know, I’d have to look it up), and he drew it during the first few days of 2005. For all I know, it may have been the first commissioned artwork he created that year. I know for certain that it was the first Darryl ever drew for me, but it was far from the last. We’ve done a dozen more projects since this one, including three for my Common Elements theme and a set of four — featuring the key female characters from Will Eisner’s The Spirit — for my Bombshells! gallery. But I’ll always hold a special fondness for this one, the nexus at which my relationship with Mr. Banks began.

As noted above, most comics aficionados know Darryl from his long run on Green Lantern, during which he co-created Kyle Rayner (DC’s Green Lantern standard-bearer for most of the 1990s). I, on the other hand, remembered him as the artist who drew the 1991 Millennium Comics miniseries Doc Savage: The Monarch of Armageddon. That book still holds up as the most effective translation of the Man of Bronze to the comic book medium. (It’s astounding how many attempts at a Doc comic there have been — by both of the major publishers, and by several smaller concerns — and how horribly wrong almost all of them have gone. Case in point: DC’s recent First Wave line, which managed to mangle Doc and several other classic heroes all in one fell swoop.) When I heard that Darryl was taking on commissions, I couldn’t wait to have him draw Doc once again.

You have to understand how important this was to me. Outside of comics, Doc Savage might be my favorite fictional character of all time. Throughout the 1970s, I devoured the Bantam Books paperback reprints of the original Doc novels, the moment each one was published. I practically memorized Philip Jose Farmer’s tongue-in-cheek “biography,” Doc Savage: His Apocalyptic Life, in which the author connects Doc to dozens of legendary characters as part of his Wold Newton chronology. (Capsule summary: Farmer posited that a meteorite strike near the English hamlet of Wold Newton altered the genetic structure of a handful of people who happened to be nearby. The descendants of these folks became, in Farmer’s alternate history, many of literature and popular culture’s seminal heroes, including Tarzan, Sherlock Holmes, and of course, Doc Savage.) To my mind, Darryl Banks (along with Mark Ellis, who wrote The Monarch of Armageddon) was one of the very few creators to see Doc the way I envisioned him through all 181 of the original pulp tales. To have a new Doc drawing from Darryl represented an incredible opportunity.

Doc Savage appealed to me, I think, because although he was an unparalleled physical specimen, his primary weapon was his powerhouse intellect. He surrounded himself with other brilliant minds as well — his assistants included the world’s greatest chemist, attorney, civil engineer, archaeologist, and electrical technologist. (Where Doc’s creator, writer Lester Dent, fell short was in giving Doc helpers whose talents were rarely of genuine benefit. Doc’s chemical expertise ran circles around “Monk” Mayfair’s, he knew more about archaeology than “Johnny” Littlejohn, and he possessed more inventive creativity than “Long Tom” Roberts. And when did a globetrotting superhero ever have need for a lawyer, or a guy who built bridges for a living?) Growing up as “the smart kid,” I loved a hero whose brainpower equaled or surpassed his brawn.

I also like a dash of nobility in my heroes, and Doc most certainly had that. By “nobility,” I don’t mean social status or an aristocratic background. I mean it in the sense of character. We’ve become accustomed in the modern era to heroes whose morals and ethics often barely distinguish them from the villains. Think of the post-Frank Miller Batman, and you’ll see what I mean. Don’t misunderstand — I want my heroes to have human flaws and foibles. The reason I favored Marvel over DC in my youth had much to do with the way Marvel’s heroes always had realistic problems, life challenges, and weaknesses, whereas DC’s Silver Age characters always seemed too good to be true. But I want even my imperfect heroes to be well-intentioned. Spider-Man made mistakes and poor decisions — sometimes horrifically poor ones (ask Uncle Ben) — but you never doubted that behind the mask, Peter Parker was a good guy trying to do the right thing.

Doc Savage had that noble character I admire, and would wish to emulate, in a hero. (As did many of my favorites, both in the comics — Wonder Woman, the Black Panther, the aforementioned Wall-Crawler — and in other media — Bruce Lee’s enigmatic protagonist in Enter the Dragon, to cite an example from a beloved film.) Witness Doc’s oft-repeated credo:

Let me strive every moment of my life to make myself better and better, to the best of my ability, that all may profit by it.
Let me think of the right and lend all my assistance to those who need it, with no regard for anything but justice.
Let me take what comes with a smile, without loss of courage.
Let me be considerate of my country, of my fellow citizens, and my associates in everything I say and do.
Let me do right to all, and wrong no man.

Wouldn’t it be a brighter world if we all tried to live by the Doc Savage code?

It always saddened me that Doc never got his just due in present-day pop culture. Most of the comics about him have been wretched, and don’t get me started about George Pal’s ludicrous 1975 film, Doc Savage: The Man of Bronze. But that Millennium miniseries pretty much nailed Doc. So, what a treat it was to get the artist who created the art for it draw Doc for me! (Later, I acquired from Darryl Banks about two-thirds of his original art pages from the first issue of The Monarch of Armageddon. A stunning double-page cityscape Darryl created for that issue adorns the entranceway of our house.)

Although I had only commissioned one other two-character piece at the time, I felt inspired to pair Doc with his indomitable cousin Pat. Even the most cursory review of my art collection reveals that many of my favorite heroes are, in fact, heroines, and Pat Savage could stand with the best of them. Although she appeared in fewer of her stalwart relative’s adventures than any of his male sidekicks, Pat always showed herself to be as smart and confident as (and often more mature than) any member of the “Famous Five.” Even when Dent and the other Doc Savage scribes fell into the trope of Pat as cliched damsel in distress — everybody in Doc’s inner circle got kidnapped a lot — they generally avoided making her seem foolish or weak in the process.

I very rarely offer specific direction to the artists I commission. In this instance, though, I remember asking Darryl to draw Pat without shoes. I had seen a then-recent example of Darryl’s commission work that depicted Wonder Woman barefoot, and I liked that concept for Pat here. Since James Bama, the artist who painted the iconic covers for Bantam’s reprint paperbacks, frequently portrayed Doc with his shirt hanging in tatters from his muscular torso, it made sense to me that if Pat were duking it out with some nefarious characters alongside Doc, she’d kick off her stiletto pumps to give herself better footing for the fight. (I’ve never understood why any heroine would wade into the fray teetering on high heels. Then again, it worked for Ginger Rogers… even backward.)

One of these days, someone will produce another worthwhile Doc Savage comic series, or better yet, a truly excellent Doc Savage film.  Until that day comes, I’ll keep admiring this fine drawing by Darryl Banks. And, like Doc, I’ll keep striving to make myself better and better, to do right to all, and harm no man. (Or woman. Or transgendered person. I’m an equal opportunity good guy.)

And that’s your Comic Art Friday.

Given that we all survived the Zombie Apocalypse — we did survive, didn’t we? — I’ve decided to do something a little different with our Comic Art Friday posts to begin this new year.

The arrival of 2013 brings me almost a decade into my comic art collecting phase. I acquired my first pieces in 2004 — amazing to consider, but there it is. Who knew then that nine years down the road, I’d have amassed a gallery containing… well… even I don’t know exactly how many drawings, to be honest, but somewhere upward of 400. (One of my self-assigned projects for this year is a thorough inventory.)

So, I thought this might be an opportune time to walk back through my collection and revisit some of the key artworks that have brought this behemoth to where we find it today. I don’t know yet all of the twists and turns this narrative may take, but I’m envisioning this as less of a “greatest hits” or “favorite pieces” retrospective (because, frankly, I do that at the end of every calendar year) than as a thoughtful reconsideration of milestones — items that helped direct and define my collecting path. These posts will focus less on the who, what, and where of each artwork (not that we won’t touch on the subject matter; we will, certainly), and more on the why — why I bought or commissioned this piece, and why it has specific meaning to me. That means that some of these posts will end up being not so much about what you see in the picture, than about the man behind the curtain. Or behind the collection, if you will.

I’ll try to keep the flow more or less chronological, but I’m not going to enslave myself wholly to dates. Mostly because on a given Friday, a certain piece from a general time period might plead with me more vigorously to write about it than does one that arrived somewhat earlier. But I will avoid making large leaps backward or forward. And, although I might on occasion choose to spotlight a piece that I purchased preexisting, I’ll concentrate on artworks I’ve actually commissioned, both because that’s the category that makes up the majority of my collection today, and because my commissions hold a unique resonance for me, as I had some part in their creation.

We’ll see where this journey takes us. I wouldn’t be surprised if we all learn some incredible things. (And yes, I know it’s the Incredible Hulk, not the Incredible Thing. Then again, Aunt Petunia’s favorite blue-eyed nephew is pretty incredible in his own right. But I digress.)

2013 should be an interesting year.

Let’s begin with the first comic artwork ever drawn specifically at my behest — this pinup of Booster Gold, penciled by his creator, Dan Jurgens, and later inked by veteran embellisher Joe Rubinstein.

Now, it’s important to note that this is not the first piece of art that I ever commissioned. That honor goes to the Black Panther drawing I ordered from Bob McLeod (co-creator of the New Mutants, and longtime Spider-Man and Superman artist) in early September 2004. However, between that date and late November of that year, when McLeod completed his masterpiece, I purchased a couple of sketches by Dan Jurgens via eBay from a comics dealer in Minnesota. As we were completing our transaction, the dealer mentioned that Jurgens might be stopping by an upcoming local comics convention. The dealer suggested to me that since I liked Jurgens’s work, he might be able to persuade the artist to draw a quick custom sketch for me, if I was interested. The dealer stressed that Jurgens wasn’t actually a guest at the convention, and therefore would not be drawing throughout the weekend for attending fans, but since he (the dealer) knew Jurgens personally, he felt confident that he could corral the artist into one sketch if the subject intrigued him.

For the first time in my nascent commissioning career, I actually had to think about the subject matter before I requested a commission. When I’d approached Bob McLeod, the choice of subject was settled in my mind before I even knew the artist who would draw it — I wanted a Black Panther piece, and I specifically sought out an artist who had worked on the character in one of his earliest incarnations. Plus, I was already a fan of McLeod’s work, and had fairly extensive knowledge of his background and clear expectations of what I wanted. With Jurgens, I hadn’t a clue. I liked the two sketches of his that I’d recently purchased (a Tomb Raider pinup and a fight scenario between Thor and the Hulk), but all I knew of his work beyond that was that (a) he was the creator of Booster Gold — significant mostly because Booster was the first major new character that DC Comics introduced after reshuffling its entire character universe in the 1985 miniseries Crisis on Infinite Earths; and (b) he was one of the key writers and artists who created the 1992 Death of Superman storyline.

“Booster Gold might be fun,” I thought.

Apparently, Jurgens thought so too. He related to the dealer that it had probably been a decade or more at that time since he had last drawn the character he had designed, and he got a special kick out of revisiting the roguish time traveler after so many years. As established as Booster had become, no one asked Dan Jurgens to draw him anymore. Jurgens appreciated, and was perhaps even a trifle touched, that someone remembered his connection to Booster’s origin.

I learned a lesson from that experience that I’ve never forgotten through hundreds of subsequent commissions: Artists are people, too. Drawing comic book characters may be their livelihood, but they also want to enjoy the work, and to feel appreciated for their talents. As a patron, I try to keep that in mind. I make it a point to commission artists to draw things I believe they’ll enjoy drawing, and to be flexible enough to switch subject matter if the artist seems unenthused. I don’t overdirect the project — in fact, I rarely make any suggestion about the content of a commission beyond assigning characters (and I often offer a choice between Option A and Option B), unless the artist insists on additional input. (Some do.) And I do my best to let the artist know that I’m grateful for the time and skill he or she invests in my project.

It’s not uncommon for artists to tell me, once a commission is completed, “I really enjoyed working on this.” Indeed, several artists who’ve drawn pieces for my Common Elements or Bombshells! themes have said that the assignment was the most fun they’ve had in a while. I don’t think that’s an accident. I hope that as a patron, I help foster that enjoyment by being easy to work with, and by choosing subject matter that suits the artist’s style, tastes, and interests.

To me, that’s the very definition of a win-win.

One last note about today’s featured artwork. This piece was selected for publication by Back Issue magazine; it appeared in the May 2007 issue (#22) as part of a retrospective about Booster Gold and his frequent cohort, the Blue Beetle.

And that, friend reader, is your Comic Art Friday.