Some new prints

I don’t do a lot of commissions or prints these days. It’s not because I don’t like doing them. It’s more about the fact that I like making comics much more. So that’s where my main focus goes.

That said, I still like to play with other people’s toys from time to time, and creating a few new prints when convention season rolls around, is a great excuse to do so.

First up, Doctor Jones (and friends). Pencils and inks by me, colors, as usual, by Jason Millet.

color image, Indiana Jones and friends
Ink drawing, Indiana Jones and friends

Next up, is a piece focussed on Stephen Sommers’ two Mummy movies. Again, drawn by me with colors by Jason. Working on this, I got a great idea on how to do it as a comic. I know that Skybound Entertainment has the Universal license…I wonder if they’re be interested in doing something with these fun characters?

Anyway, here’s the art:

Color image, the cast of 1999's The Mummy.
Ink drawing, the cast of 1999's The Mummy

Catching up on Patreon Commissions, part 1

When I launched my Patreon, I included support levels for original art commissions. Commissions give me the chance to shake the rust off and work traditionally from time to time (I’ve been mostly digital since 2013).

I revamped my Patreon in November 2023, removing all of the original art levels of support. It’s not that I don’t like drawing commissions—I do! But I like making comics more than I like doing commissions. And with time limited, I’m focusing on more comics—specifically, more Athena Voltaire comics. I’m currently serializing Athena Voltaire and the Devil’s Sea over there, with updates every Tuesday. Check it out.

In the meantime, here’s a look at some of the commissions I’ve been doing. Digital pencils in Clip Studio Paint, 6×9 ink on Bristol board.

Indiana Jones. 6×9 ink on Bristol board.
Timelapse video of me inking Doctor Jones.
Jonny Quest. Digital pencils. 6×9 ink on Bristol board.
Timelapse video of me inking Jonny Quest.
The Eighth Doctor (from Doctor Who). Digital pencils. 6×9 ink on Bristol board.
Columbo. Digital pencils. 6×9 ink on Bristol board.

Owning Your Influences

Fighting the playlist mentality

A few weeks ago, I wrote an essay titled Proudly Autodidactic. I pretty much wrote it so I could write this one. I felt that I needed to explain where I was coming from before diving into this topic, which has been on my mind for a while.

This may be your perception of me by the time we get to the end of this essay.

In fairness, this may have an Old Man Yells at Cloud vibe to it for some of you. I hope not, but the risk is there.

So anyway, topic has been on my mind for a while, blah, blah, blah…

For the last four years, I’ve had the pleasure of teaching young artists in my capacity as a professor at Illinois State University’s Creative Technologies program. Because emulation has been a big part of my own artistic growth, I lean heavily into it in my classes, too. Of course, this is nothing new. Salvador Dalí, Pablo Picasso, Marc Chagall, Edgar Degas, and countless others learned the fundamentals of their craft by taking apart the work of the geniuses who came before them in order to understand how the work, well…works.

Artwork by the ever-amazing Steve Rude. I first encountered his sketchbooks in the 80s and have avidly consumed them when he releases a new one. Watching his process is an insight into how his work has developed and grown over the years.

For me, it was learning about Steve Rude’s process, and how he studiously copied work into his sketchbook. Anything that impressed him as an artist, he wanted to figure out what made it tick. This kind of copying, of course, is different than what we all did as kids, where the objective was just to reproduce what we saw. The idea behind master studies is to understand what we see, and to apply that understanding to our own work.

The classes I teach are 75-minutes, not the longer 2-hour 50-minute studio sessions. With that in mind, and the other stuff we have to cover over the course of a 15-week semester, it’s not realistic to devote the necessary time to master studies. But we do talk about examining work that inspires us and reverse-engineering it in our own work through emulation.

Last spring, I noticed a phenomenon I’d never experienced in all my years of talking with artists. I sat with a student who showed me a jpg of work they admired, and I asked them about the artist. They didn’t know the artist’s name. The most information they had was that the artist was “someone I follow on Instagram. Let me see if I can find them.”

A quick search of the term “comic art” yields thousands of pieces of art. How can an artist keep track of it? Even when you’re following artists you like, the churn can be intimidating—and that’s not even considering the algorithmically-suggested crap that pollutes even the most fastidiously-curated timeline.

After 10 minutes of fruitless searching, scrolling through some of the 1,000+ artists they follow on Instagram, they shrugged and told me they couldn’t find the artist.

Seriously, it’s no exaggeration to say I was gobsmacked by this. There’s an artist who’s work you like enough to download one of their images and study, so as to incorporate some of that magic in your own work, but you don’t know their name? For someone like me—who has way too damn many art books as it is, and gets more and more every year, and jots down the name of every interesting artist they come across online or in conversation with other artists—this is unfathomable.

The convenience of a platform like Instagram, where artists’ work flashes across your timeline and the algorithm inserts new ones you may like (or artists and influencers who have paid to have their work inserted onto your timeline) is readily apparent. But the shift of young artists going from being active collectors of visual knowledge to passive consumers of a curated “playlist” is troubling to me.

I realize that just because it’s different from how I learned and assimilated influences, it’s not necessarily a bad thing. But after reading Rebecca Giblin and Cory Doctorow’s Chokepoint Capitalism, and seeing how much of our culture is dictated by a few massive tech companies, it gives me pause.

Similarly, I had a different student who told me how much they loved comics, and how much they wanted to make comics. When I asked them about their favorite comics, instead of hearing comic titles and creators, I got a list of characters. And movies. And TV shows.

They did have some familiarity with the characters as they appeared in comics. Not by actually reading comics, but by watching YouTube recaps of the comics.

There’s nothing wrong with these recap sites, but if you want to make comics—whether you’re a writer, penciller, inker, colorist, letterer, or editor—there’s not substitute for actually reading comics. And studying them. Lots of them. Over and over.

I can’t imagine an aspiring film director limiting themself to watching movie/recaps and then feeling that they can direct a film. Or a writer that only reads Wikipedia recaps of novels. Or a musician that picks up an instrument and avoids listening to complete songs.

In both of these instances, these students are ceding their creative autonomy to revenue-generating algorithms. And that’s not great for the creative process.

So if you’re a young creative who’s reading this, I apologize if my thinking comes off as antiquated to you. But please consider rejecting the playlist mentality and embrace your nature as an artistic hunter-gatherer, seeking out cool work that inspires you.

Proudly Autodidactic

For the longest time, I was self-conscious about being a self-taught artist. Now, after going back to school, and completing my undergrad and graduate degrees, I realize that my autodidacticism is what I’m most proud of.

Let me explain.

Vito Acconci, doing a different performance art piece, thankfully.

My first go-round with Higher Ed ended with an Associate’s Degree and a general distaste for contemporary gallery art. I vividly remember my 20th Century art history class, where the professor, Marlene, devoted half a class period to gushing about Vito Acconci, the 1970s performance artist who positioned himself under the gallery floor and masturbated into a microphone for eight hours a day. I didn’t get it. Still don’t. I realize this makes me an ignorant philistine to some fine art folks, and I’m okay with that.

I just wanted to learn how to draw and paint better, man. Still do.

Rosetti, Booth, and Elvgren.

At the same time, comic artists—through published interviews—were directing me to the artists I ended up studying. While I was in High School, Barry Windsor-Smith introduced me to Dante Gabriel Rosetti and the Pre-Raphaelites, Mike Kaluta opened me up to Art Deco, and Bernie Wrightson showed me Franklin Booth. During my community college days, while Marlene was fixating on Vito, George Perez shared Alphonse Mucha, Steve Rude trumpeted Andrew Loomis, Harry Anderson, and Haddon Sundblom, and Dave Stevens hipped me to the likes of George Petty and Gil Elvgren.

And the exploration of those artists revealed an even larger artistic lineage. Talking to artist friends, peers, and colleagues opened up even more new worlds, from JC Leyendecker to Joseph Clement Coll, from Robert Fawcett to Dean Cornwell, from Frank Schoonover to Robert Maguire, from Albert Dorne to James Montgomery Flagg. And on and on…Drew Struzan, Thomas Blackshear, Roy Krenkle, J. Allen St. John, NC Wyeth, Howard Pyle, James Bama, Tom Lovell, Robert McGinnis…and hundreds more.

Leyendecker, Cornwell, and Blackshear.

Those disparate voices inform how I look at art. I’m not unique in this, but that particular blend is distinct from the oeuvres covered in the standard art history classes. Those same classes beat the same drum, too, that narrative art dominated visual arts for centuries, but the Impressionists and Post-impressionists—and everyone who came after—found that approach boring and abandoned narrative art in the pursuit of pure form and the pursuit of “art for art’s sake.” The implication being that narrative art somehow disappeared.

Which it didn’t.

There’s a wonderful anecdote from Leonard Starr, which goes like this:
The artist Andy Warhol explained to Albert Dorne, “Art must transcend mere drawing.”  “Pardon me, Andy,” Dorne interrupted, “but there’s nothing all that fucking mere about drawing.”

Warhol, Dorne.

There’s nothing wrong with wanting to incorporate messaging and subtext into the work. But there’s such a focus on it in art schools, that young artists dive into the messaging before they’re even able to draw very well. That’s a shame, because badly-drawn work turns me off before I have the chance to contemplate the meaning behind your work.

So thank you to all the great artists and illustrators who came before, lighting the path and educating me. And thanks to my friends, colleagues, peers, and mentors—illustrators, cartoonists, and fine artists—who have shared their passion and enthusiasm, broadening my artistic worldview along the way. However slow my growth has been, I’m in your debt and continue to move forward, proudly autodidactic.

And thanks to Marlene, who made “fine art” so unpalatable to me that I was forced to seek education on my own. Without you, I’d have probably pursued a path I didn’t have the chops to pursue and would have given up in frustration.

Ideas are Worthless

Okay, maybe not worthless, but I got your attention, didn’t I?

At best, an idea is a sketch. But realistically, it’s more like a doodle. And unless you’re Pablo Picasso, no one’s lining up for your doodles.

An idea doesn’t have plot, or characters, or conflict, or resolution. It’s a high concept, or a vague idea for a character, or a title. As good a concept, character idea, or title that you have, it’s not worth reading.

Yet.

I’m getting ahead of myself. Why is it worthless? Because everyone has ideas. I know, because at every convention I attend, I meet someone who’s convinced that they will revolutionize fiction, or comics, or film/television with their brilliant idea. The mechanic who fixes your car has ideas. So does the cashier at the grocery story. Or the person sitting next to you in class. Or the guy that cut you off in traffic. Everybody.

Everybody has ideas.

I know plenty of comic creators who see similar ideas in movies, tv, or other comics and immediately shout that they’ve been ripped off. They may have been—I can’t speak for every instance—but it’s more likely that someone else on this planet filled with millions of people thought of something similar. It happens. A lot.

The reality is that ideas are plentiful.

Here’s an idea: Young person is gifted with tremendous power/abilities and is burdened with the responsibilities that go along with it.

Am I talking about Harry Potter? Or Frodo? Or Percy Jackson? Or Buffy the Vampire Slayer? Or Luke Skywalker? Or Spider-Man? And, if it’s Spider-Man, are we talking about Peter Parker or Miles Morales?

Or a baby is sent away from certain death and grows up to inspire those around him. Is it Superman? Or Moses?

People don’t fall in love with concepts. They make connections with characters. They try to anticipate what’s next on the journey. They celebrate when there’s a satisfying resolution.

An idea doesn’t become a beloved story without these things.

Let’s say you have a man who’s a monster hunter. Now what? Why does he hunt monsters? Does he do it solo? Is there a larger organization that he works with/for? Are they trustworthy? Are the monsters unintelligent? If not, are they organized, part of a cabal? Does your monster hunter have loved ones? How do they feel about him hunting monsters?

Or maybe you have a woman who’s an assassin? Why does she do what she does? Is she part of an organization or freelance? Whether she’s part of a larger organization or an independent operator, does she have a moral code about her targets? Or is she broken and it’s all just a job—if she’s broken, did the job do it to her, or did she seek out the job because of that?

And on and on. It’s this stuff that makes your characters and their world come to life.

And brilliant character designs, too. Comics are a visual medium, after all.

How does your character dress? Is your monster hunter armed to the teeth or do they have a go-to weapon? Is your assassin nondescript or flamboyant? The visual choices your characters make are further demonstrations of who the character is. And those designs, and the designs of their associates and the world around them, are what make your ideas breathe.

And that’s not even considering how shape language defines a character’s personality, visually. Or what their silhouette tells the reader, or their body language, or various costuming details.

All of these elements combine to refine and expand an idea into something worth reading, watching, or playing.

Until then, your idea is worthless.

Prints at Comic Conventions

Lots of creators sell prints at conventions. They’re an economical side hustle for creators who make comics, and they’re an end unto itself for exhibitors who specialize in selling prints exclusively.

Print Walls

If you’ve been to a comic convention, you’ve seen them: the massive walls of prints towering over other creators’ displays.

I know a lot of creators who hate these behemoths. I’m largely indifferent to them, unless they’re blocking the view of the table of their neighbor. For the most part, I view these booths the same way I do T-shirt booths at shows—as souvenir stands.

These artists’ prominence corresponds with the influx of people casually attending comic conventions. Casual attendees were introduced to the term “comic con” through shows like the Big Bang Theory, with its constant references to Comic-Con (specifically, San Diego Comic-Con). At this point, the designation has become a blanket term for comic conventions big-and-small across the country.

“Oh, you went to Comic-Con in San Diego? That’s so cool! I went to Comic-Con in Springfield!” Disproportionately different scale and event, but the enthusiasm is neat.

As a result, these folks attend a con, enjoy the experience, and want a souvenir. Prints and T-shirts are a great way to commemorate their visit.

There’s nothing wrong with inviting casual fans into our awesome medium. And there’s nothing wrong with giving them something to remember the experience.

Dipping a Toe in the Water

For the most part, I haven’t really done prints in the past. I’ve done small runs on lightweight cardstock of commissions I’d drawn, but never made a concerted effort to actually produce real prints. This year, I did four prints for San Diego Comic-Con.

The prints sold well. The most interesting distinction was that people who bought the prints weren’t interested in my comics or original art and the people who bought my comics and/or original art weren’t interested in the prints.

Souvenirs.

However, there was one special interaction that I had and it only happened because I made these prints. One print, specifically.

On the first day of the convention, a young Spider-Gwen cosplayer stopped by my table. They said they wanted to thank me for including the trans flag in the background of the Spider-Gwen print. They choked up as they explained that the scene in Across the Spider-Verse where Gwen reveals her identity to her father—color coded in the colors of the trans flag—resonated because it reflected how they felt when they came out to their father as gender fluid.

I responded by telling them that I’m a parent to a trans child and that the scene in the movie hit me, too. Of course, as I was saying this, I started choking up.

The next day, “Gwen” brought their dad by to introduce us.

Thanks, “Gwen,” for what is easily one of my best convention experiences ever.

(I know their actual first name and have a pic of “Gwen” holding up their print, but didn’t ask permission to share it in this context, so we’ll just go with “Gwen.”)

Representation

In my Character Design class, we start by dissecting what makes good designs, and we also have an exercise where the students redesign characters. As a part of this, we discuss fan art. In their excellent essay, Fanart Activism: Fan Participation as a Tool for Representation and Diversity Awareness, Tereza Walsbergerová states that “due to [fan art’s] visual character it has much bigger potential of becoming a special kind of sociopolitical activist tool by raising awareness about representation and diversity amongst fans of all ages from all over the world.”

Walsbergerová continues, “Depicting characters as female in male-dominated genres may certainly feel empowering to not only female fans of the show, but to anyone who does not necessarily identify as a straight male.”

My experience with “Gwen” and the connection we shared added an additional texture to my perception of prints at conventions.

Indie Band or Cover Band?

After the response I got from my four prints, I can certainly see the appeal of making prints exclusively. As an indie comic creator telling my own stories with my own characters, conventions can be a slog at times.

At a con, indie creators tell their elevator pitch over and over, frequently meeting with indifference. There’s a certain appeal to the electricity generated when someone recognizes a character they love and enthusiastically comes to the table, cash in hand—which happens regularly with fan art prints of popular characters.

The best comparison I can come up with is the difference between performing in a bar as an indie band—playing your own material—and being in a cover band that specializes in top hits or classic rock.

The indie band works hard to win the crowd over on every song, and the hardcore fans are there for them and them alone.

The cover band benefits from well-executed performances of established, beloved material, and forges a connection with their audience over this common ground.

Both contribute to their respective biospheres, providing a different kind of experience. I think it’s the same with prints at comic conventions.

But the print towers shouldn’t be in artist alley. Put ’em next to the T-shirt vendors and we’re good. 😉

Publishing: Crowdfunding or Comic Shops?

I’ve been thinking a lot about the Direct Market, crowdfunding, and publisher relations. I’ve had books solicited in the front of the Diamond catalog and in the back. I’ve had relationships with publishers where everyone I signed on to work with was edged out of the company.

I haven’t landed many work-for-hire gigs, and the ones I’ve gotten have been under bad circumstances (my dad having a stroke and dying during my first gig for a publisher, low rates, or an editor on his first book and a 4-week deadline).

But I’ve built a loyal audience for my niche and have been lucky/fortunate/blessed to see that support demonstrated in my crowdfunded books.

No comics publisher that set out to be an IP farm has ever succeeded.

I’m talking about the publishers that only publish creator-owned/shared ownership books, control the ancillary rights, and pump out new series after new series, growing exponentially.

I’m not talking about the publishers that carefully curate a limited line of books, and I’m not talking about companies that boast a diverse line of licensed and creator-owned books, statues, toys, art books, lunchboxes, etc, like Dark Horse, IDW, and Boom Studios.

The IP farm publishers fall into 2 categories:

1) Those backed by outside funding. These companies are created with the specific intention to launch film and television projects. Their books read like proof-of-concept for screenplays.

With the outside funding, these publishers can offer page rates on creator-owned and shared-participation books. Instead of a back-end deal for no guaranteed money, creators can be paid for their work as they do it.

Publishers in this category have a few staff members/executives who will end up attached to every project that’s greenlit. These are the Chief Executive Officers, Chief Creative Officers, etc. They’ll get a producing credit (and fee) before the creators of the books do.

They get investors who see those big MCU dollars and convince them to fund an IP farm. Maybe one or two books get optioned, but that’s as far as it goes. Eventually, they run out of investor funding and the company folds, or declares Chapter 11 until new investors are found. When this happens, the creators are usually the ones on the hook with unpaid invoices, or the rights to their IPs are tied up with the company’s bankruptcy, or both.

2) Publishers that pay creators on back-end, but control the publishing and media rights for the books.

Their appeal is that of “legitimacy.” Comic fans and creators have been trained to believe that only books distributed to comic shops (usually thru Diamond) are professional. Every month, you see celebratory social media posts like, “Woohoo! I’m in Previews this month!” from creators all over the world.

That promise of validation allows IP farm publishers to take advantage of creators with predatory contracts that don’t really get them anything. These contracts give the publisher a stake in the ancillary rights, and, frequently, control over those rights, too.

Sometimes, the publisher works with an agent to shop the IP. Other times, they have in in-house person. This allows the publisher to keep the agency percentage.

These publishers, without page rates to pay, gobble up properties almost indiscriminately, like Gollum coveting the Precious, and frequently end up with books in competition with themselves. Kid mystery books? Sure, let’s publish three! Girl-with-jetpack books? Two is even better than one!

Not only does this cannibalize the audience—pitting the publisher’s books in direct competition with one another—it dilutes the appeal of the book, by making each one less unique. Readers get their fix after picking up 1, 2, or 3 different series and move on, dropping them all.

So why do these publishers do this?

Simple. The more books they have, the more opportunities to pitch. If they get that meeting, they come in with their war chest of dozens of titles. “Oh, you don’t like that one, how about this one?” on and on and on down the line.

To an IP farm publisher, quantity is the appeal. Instead of curating a line and creating a unique publishing voice, they take the shotgun approach, hoping that one of the many, many IPs they control will get traction. It doesn’t matter to the publisher which one hits; they get paid just the same.

Creators are interchangeable. The books and characters don’t matter as much as the potential revenue.

Series and creators aren’t cultivated or developed by these publishers. Instead, they’re seen as “content creators” generating fuel for the constant churn to chase potential media revenue. Comics are just a means to an end. “Content” is the currency that drives the machine.

What is a creator to do?

I’ve made more money in crowdfunding than I did in 15 years of working with Direct Market publishers. The problem is that fans, conventions, and other creators frequently see crowdfunding as less legitimate than working with even the smallest publisher.

In a successful crowdfunding campaign, the cost of printing books is covered. Once printed, every book sold at a con is pure profit, instead of buying a book for 50% of cover price from the publisher and paying for shipping—meaning you make about $5 on a book w/a $15 cover price.

The problem is what to do with all those books. Just selling at shows won’t move the entire inventory. That print run of 500, 1000, or more takes up a lot of space. And a few successful campaigns can necessitate renting storage space to house it all.

The obvious answer is to distribute through Diamond, Lunar, etc.

The problem is that you’re a comic creator. You got into this to create comics. Sure, crowdfunding generates some money, but it’s a ton of work on top of creating  comics—the reason you’re here in the first place. To add the tasks and responsibilities of being a publisher to your already busy schedule of creating and crowdfunding would mean that you’d end up doing a lot less creating. A lot.

I’ve thought before about how the ideal solution would be for a bunch of like-minded self-publishers/comics-crowdfunders to band together and function as a publisher. Everyone does their own thing, gets their books printed on their own, and solicits as a group.

Realistically, though, that’s a tax and accounting nightmare. And it’s completely unrealistic in terms of division of labor. Who is the point person for distributors? Does one person handle Diamond and another does Lunar? What if one person is late on fulfillment?

Not a realistic solution. It just wouldn’t work.

I’ve wondered if there’s a publisher out there would would be willing to take on books that have been crowdfunded and printed, functioning, essentially, as a distributor to Diamond and Lunar. It’s a turn-key operation for them. No risk in terms of print cost.

For the creator, the print run is paid for, and it makes use of additional stock beyond what can be sold at shows. That’s worth splitting revenue from the Direct Market and sparing the creator a ton of hassle.

For instance, look at my book The Catch. It’s printed on 80 lb paper with a 12 pt cover, both heavier stock than used by most small publishers. It’s designed like that because I wanted to make a beautiful book. The print run is also already paid for.

Take a small publisher who has a small line of books. Another book gives them another solicitation in the Direct Market catalogs without the risk of generating more printing bills (because it’s already printed). It gives them more catalog visibility, again, without risk.

What about the publisher’s brand? If you’re self-publishing, the publisher you’re partnering with doesn’t have their logo on the book.

Again, using The Catch as an example, there’s any empty space on the back cover where a sticker with the publishing partner’s logo could go.

Sure, it’s not a perfect idea. There are a couple of potential pitfalls:

1) The publishing partner wouldn’t get any of the media rights. Because of the potential value of these, this is a sticky subject, even though, as demonstrated above, IP farms don’t work.

2) Launching a new series in the direct market works best with serialization first, as it allows the publisher and creator to promote each issue before the collected edition comes out. That continued promotion, and seeing issues on the stands, creates increased visibility.

Releasing a trade without 4–6 months of individual solicitations, tweets, instagram posts, newsletter mentions, etc is risky. Instead of promoting the book every time a new issue solicits and again when that issue is released, promotion is limited to one solicit and one release. 

But does that really matter? The collected edition’s print costs are paid for, and each copy sold is already at a profit. It’s an instantly evergreen book that a publisher now has in its library, and can be resolicited a couple of times during the year. And subsequent volumes can drive the sales of the first volume (again, “evergreen”).

I dunno. It makes sense to me.

Full disclosure: I’ve jumped into bad publishing deals more than once and that informs my stance. Maybe I’ve just made bad choices or had bad luck, though.

Inktober/Drawtober original art for sale!

I did a batch of drawings for the ol’ October daily drawing challenge his year. You can see them on the Inktober page of this site, or just follow this link.

And they’re for sale for $50 each, so email SteveBryantArt@gmail.com to get yours. $10 Priority Mail shipping ($10 if you buy one or if you buy a bunch). International shipping? Email me for a quote.

Here’s an overview with which ones have been claimed. I’ll update these as pieces sell.

We’re only at home when we’re on the wing (San Diego Comic-Con edition)

As I write this, my books have been shipped to a friend in San Diego, all of my display gear has been pulled from storage and checked, display shelves for books have been painted, and new price signs are printed and mounted. I’m giddy and anxious with the realization that I’ll be tabling at a comic convention for the first time in 28 months.

It’s not lost on me just how much I’ve missed this experience. Reuniting with friends and collaborators from everywhere on the planet, meeting folks I’ve known online in-person, and sharing my work with new fans, readers and friends…I’ve missed this.I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous about tabling at a very large show, just as another variant or two have reared their ugly heads. But the con has a number of health and safety precautions in place and I’m vaccinated, boosted, and got my second booster a couple of weeks back.

New Location

Instead of my usual position in Small Press (M-13, next to Mike Heffron’s Arch Blue at M-14 and Jim Heffron’s Lawdog Comics at M-15), I have a new home this year. You can find me at Small Press L-01. It’s only across the aisle from where I’m usually set up. I’ll directly across from Jim and Mike, instead of next to them, and I’ll have the excellent Barry Gregory and Gallant Comics next to me. Here’s a diagram: 

New stuff for the con!

I’ll have What We Say in the Shadows, a new quote book similar to the Ron Swanson Swansonisms book I debuted at SDCC last time.

 I’ll be bringing the Swansonisms book, and I have limited copies of the Elf Musings quote book I did last Christmas.

I’ll also have all six Athena Voltaire collections, including the latest volume, Terror on the Orient Express. In addition to the Orient Express trade paperback, I’ll have a few copies of the Kickstarter deluxe box-set of the book (which includes a signed and sketched-in copy of the book and a bunch of cool swag), and a few copies of the Kickstarter Orient Express Mystery Box, which contains a signed copy of the book, 2 mystery creator-owned comics by me, 2 pieces of swag from my other series, and a mystery 6×9 piece of original art. I’ll also have the Athena Voltaire Creators’ Edition, which features the script pages of issue #9 on the left-hand pages and the corresponding ink artwork on the right-hand pages. It’s a cool “making of” collection!

And I’ll have the first collection of The Catch, Ismael Canales and my comic about a skip tracer specializing in costumed criminals who skip bail. In addition to the trade paperback, I’ll have a deluxe box-set for The Catch, including the trade, a signed 4×6 sketch card, and a show bunch of swag. And I’ll have a few copies of The Catch Creators’ Edition, which breaks down issue #1 of the series.

I have a couple of new 11×17 prints for the con this year. One is a Kate Bush piece I drew for my partner a few years back (she’s a big fan) and the other is a Mandalorian piece. I never sell many prints, so I’ll be bringing limited numbers of these (and limited numbers of some of my other prints). If there’s one you’d like to reserve, please email me at SteveBryantArt@gmail.com to stake your claim and I’ll set a copy aside for you. And I also finished up my Rush series, completing Alex Lifeson late last year.

I never know what to bring

Books? Yep, the whole Athena Voltaire, Ghoul Scouts, and The Catch lines. Quote books? Yeah, as listed above. Prints? Select ones, sure.Original art? Yeah…some. I never know what to bring, art-wise. I’ll have my 9×12 Inktober pieces from a few years back (TV show theme), and I try to bring a variety of pages from high-end to affordable. But it’s heavy and, since I’ve been working digitally, there’s not a lot of new work in there. That said, I know a few of you have checked out the original art portfolios in the past. If there’s a piece you’d like, please email me and I’ll make sure to bring it for you. 

Happy Little Accidents

or “Steve Takes a Painting Class”

One of the acrylic paintings from my class.

From January 2022 to May 2022, I took an acrylic painting class. I hadn’t taken a class in traditional media since the mid/late 80s—a class in oil painting. In the years since, I taught myself watercolor and digital painting.

Here’s to adventure!

The first half of the semester was dedicated to workshops on techniques and exploratory exercises. Honestly, I’d have been satisfied if that’s all the class was. Too often, as creatives, we get caught up in the need to make art with purpose. There’s something incredibly exciting about experimenting and seeing where it goes without any further expectations.

For the second half of the semester, we were tasked with creating a series of paintings that incorporated some of the techniques we’d been workshopping. I wanted to apply some of this newfound knowledge to my existing stories/characters/worlds, so I opted for a series of Athena Voltaire pieces. I specifically wanted them to feel like a cross between lobby cards and concept art.

While my professor wasn’t exactly thrilled with my illustrative tendencies and tastes, she let me roll with this concept.

Since 2013, my workflow has included a significant digital component and I wanted to see if I could incorporate digital underdrawing to this series, as well. More experimenting!

My original grayscale underpainting. The composition is different from the final painting. Another advantage of a digital workflow is that if something isn’t working, revise, reprint, and try again!

I created a tonal underpainting digitally (grayscale), changed the art to sepia (sepia underpaintings have been a part of numerous traditional artists work for centuries), and printed that out on 2-ply bristol board, using my inkjet printer.

The underpainting converted to sepia.

I watered down some gesso to seal the image. Watering it down allowed the line work to show through.

Anyone with an inkjet printer knows what happened next: the image smeared once liquid was applied on top of it. And anyone who’s gessoed bristol board knows the other thing that happened: the paper curled up.

Through experimentation, I settled on the process: print to bristol board, apply a couple coats of spray fixative (to keep the image from smearing), spray mount the bristol to foam core board (to keep it from warping), and seal it with clear gesso (allowing the complete digital underpainting to be visible).

The sepia underpainting printed onto bristol board, mounted to foam core board, and trimmed to its final size.

Once the process was in place, I was able to start layering thin washes to build up value. Backgrounds were where I applied the experiments we’d workshopped in class: spatter, dripped and poured paint, and impasto painting.

Six paintings in all. Here’s how the rest of the series came out:

I think this is my favorite color scheme and background of the series.

Probably my favorite piece of the series.

Professor Benton Quinn from Athena Voltaire and the Terror on the Orient Express.

SIS Agent Desmond Forsyth from Athena Voltaire and the Brotherhood of Shambalha.
Detective Chang Apana from Athena Voltaire and the Volcano Goddess.