Back in the Saddle, Again

My life of late has, frankly, sucked. My computer, cell phone, and television all died within weeks of each other. Like lemmings or members of some misguided cult, they all committed mass suicide for reasons which are beyond me, this has happened to me before in the past. I shall bore you all no further with the details except to say that I am still struggling to get back on my technological feet and am lost without Photoshop.
What I have learned from this experience is that the best computer hospital in Manhattan is Tekserve on 23rd Street. The sympathetic staff provide tissues at every counter, they have witnessed every desperate emotion and possess the tactful skills of a funeral director, they are also a fraction of the price I was quoted from other places. They retrieved the files off my old hard drive for 47.50 as opposed to the 749.00 quote from creepy Computer Overhauls, Tekserve even carried my computer out to the street while I hailed a cab. I would like to thank my friend and neighbor Amy for recommending this place to me. Despite the fact that Amy spends most of her time collecting bugs and leafs from the Amazon rainforest, she knows a lot about Manhattan.
This drawing is the companion piece to the Jockey illustration I featured in an earlier post commisioned by Town and Country. Like the thrown rider, I shall dust off my humbled behind and get back on that technological horse.

Ghosts of Summer

Most of my family live in upstate NY and at one time or another has owned what is called a "camp" in the Adirondacks.
Tents are not involved, "camps" are log cabins nestled in the pine scented woods overlooking a placid lake.
The Vanderbilt's bought Camp Sagamore, J. P. Morgan summered in Camp Uncas. These were rustic palaces known as "grand camps" unlike our modest, suitably named Camp Bunny.
Camp Bunny provided a child like me with all the wonderment and excitement a forest and lake could provide but my mother only imagined snakes lurking under the beds and the threat of a chipmunk attack while opening the bread box so we eventually went to a hotel.
Fortunately my cousin Jill blossomed into a glamorous stewardess, married a doctor, bought a camp on Lake Luzerne (see boathouse photo) and generously allowed me to run amok in it with a questionable NYC crowd. Those summer afternoons spent drifting on the lake were perhaps the best moments of my life.
Her camp has since been sold leaving only my cousin Amy to carry on the family tradition of happily falling down in the Adirondack woods, blaming the mishap on the obscure light provided by a full moon rather than the cocktail which was once in hand.
I rescued this old photo from my Aunt Kaki's drawer after she died. It was taken in the Adirondacks with her Brownie camera but nobody seems to know who these handsome frolickers are. I do know it captures the carefree essence of a camp and looks like a recent image from an Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue.

Hair Me Roar

My extremely dated eighties illustration appeared in W or maybe DNR magazine, I dunno, I was out every night at the time until the sun came up. I am however certain that the bottom illustration appeared in DNR as I still have the faded issue.
I do not have a wistful longing for my misspent youth but was recently sent reeling back in time by La Roux, a UK duo made up of singer Elly Jackson and Ben Langmaid. They are heavily influenced by 1980s British synthpop, that's club music to you and me. I wore the same hairstyle featured in this video at Les Bains Douches in Paris as a young man, it is also the same hairdo worn by the dentist in the classic claymation Christmas special Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.
It is sweltering here in NYC and I am sick of the air conditioning so I have opted to open the windows and play Bulletproof, loud. I have not annoyed the neighbors in years. Thank you La Roux.

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn...

...but nothing grows on my Manhattan windowsill.
I have had an ongoing feud with the pigeons and squirrels who sit on, dig up, and in general destroy the flowers I foolishly buy from the Farmer's Market on Fourteenth Street.
I have in the past armed myself with a water bottle sprayer with which I shoot to no avail at obnoxious city creatures. I have yelled at them like a crazed maniac at the top of my lungs only to be gazed back upon as if I were a crazed maniac, yesterday I gave up. I was not defeated, I was charmed.
The white Impatiens I planted were uprooted and lay dead beside the clay pot, in it's stead slept the culprit, a baby squirrel. The little creature languished in the heat, it's body conformed to the pot.
I did not squirt it with water, I did not yell at it, I observed it's fat little belly rise and fall with each breath it took. I envied the peace of mind it obviously enjoyed.
I see squirrels everyday but never gave a thought to where they slept.
NYC is a tough town, it is every man for himself, or in this case, squirrel. Sarah Jessica Parker said "A squirrel is just a rat with a cuter outfit".
Perhaps, but I know beauty when I see it and I will not be planting any more flowers in that pot. If I can offer a bed to a baby, I will do so.
I do not want to get too attached, I am not going to name it. I have been down this road before with mourning doves.
This illustration was drawn for an off Broadway theater magazine concerning some Dali inspired play. The squirrel in my story is far cuter than the one I drew here.

An Irish Raisin in the Sun

Literature professors always whine on ad nauseam " Write about what you know" and I apply the same logic to my drawings.
I have not, and probably will never visit a nudist colony. Ping pong, tennis and calisthenics require support lest they become ridiculous. Breakfast, lunch and dinner should whet your palette, not induce gag reflexes.
Clothes are important.
I am however completely comfortable with nudity on beaches. The sun blinds me to my Catholic shame of original sin, the surf washes away any impure thoughts and gentle breezes shroud my physical flaws.
I wish Americans could deal with nudity on a mature level but it will never happen in my lifetime.
I am sorry I dropped the C word bomb in my last post so cavalierly, I had no idea that some of you people out there cared enough to actually take the time to email me.
The fact is the Pope read my blog and gave me skin cancer, stage three. Surgeons dug in deep and removed all of it, it had not yet spread to my lymph nodes. I am fine. I am however flooded with bills that my lame insurance company refuses to pay without a fight.
I will not be sunbathing ever again without wearing a burka but will gladly accept all invitations to a midnight skinny dip in your pool.
I once foolishly swam alone during a thunderstorm in something called a black swimming pool in South Hampton. I stripped off my dinner clothes and dove to the bottom where I turned and looked up to admire all the enormous beads of rain dancing in the lightening on the water's surface and knew at that moment I could die happy.
The moral of this story is that nudity is OK if you are not Catholic and that you should always use sunscreen or swim only at night, especially if you are a pasty white Irish/Scottish underinsured person such as myself.
This drawing was not commissioned by any publication, it was scanned from my sketch book, I used sea water to dilute my watercolors.

Bugger Off you Gits

It is Independence Day here in the States, more commonly referred to as the Fourth of July.
On this date in 1776 we declared independence from the evil Kingdom of Great Britain. Fireworks are set off in celebration, barbecues are lit and picnic blankets spread.
While it is fun to listen to each state butcher the English language in their own unique way, I suspect we all envy the fact that England has NHS, a national health care system. Perhaps we should have paid that tea tax, far cheaper than my cancer surgery.
I love America, I just cannot afford to get sick here.
This illustration appeared in Child Magazine.

A Sea of Distraction

I came across this glamorous yacht illustration in my files the other day and wondered why my life did not imitate my art. It is common knowledge that all illustrators become millionaires early on in their careers, where did I go wrong?

This seemingly innocuous illustration appeared in the travel section of The New York Times many years ago, the large dated flip phone is a dead giveaway. Why I drew a disembodied hand spilling wine over the VIP 's head remains a mystery to me, though I often restrain myself from doing just that in real life to boors who spew inane verbiage over their phones at decibels that cannot be ignored in social settings.
I firmly believe that banning smoking at outdoor cafes foreshadowed the demise of the art of conversation but cell phones dealt the death blow.
I suppose we may all live a few annoying years longer than good taste dictates but I would rather spend a few hours with a chain smoking drinking buddy than an excruciating eternity with a health conscious fool who accepts every call, text message, and tweet.
Will somebody please help me down from off this soapbox?

We All Get Lost Along the Way

I have not written much of late as I have been uncharacteristically depressed by the world's news.
The fact that BP is now burning trapped endangered sea turtles alive, Haiti has been all but forgotten and Times Square along with every corner of my city is a potential target, has taken it's toll.
I have no money to donate, I am a commercial artist trying to survive in a wrecked economy despite the cheerful facade I have hopefully drawn of my life in the past.
Times are tough for most of us but giving up and turning a blind eye (I am preaching only to myself here) is not the solution.
I did physically volunteer at ground zero, that I could do. I cannot go to the Gulf Coast, I cannot go to Haiti.
I can however, humbly, offer my illustration services for free to any legitimate organization that is trying to make a positive difference in this world, just email me.
I feel better already having said that.
Please do not donate children's books to Zimbabwe at St. John's parish hall, the event is long over, I just used this as an example of work I have done in the past.

Four Weddings and a Robbery

This illustration was originally published in Brides Magazine and "borrowed" by Steve Paster of Alpine Creative Group for his own use in promoting his custom invitation printing business. I took him to court and won but he had creatively hidden his assets years before he stole from me. I did not collect a cent. Mr. Paster continues to cater to a rather dubious clientele which can be looked upon as his just desserts.
Illustrators, photographers, calligraphers, beware of this unscrupulous thief. I had never heard of this man until my work appeared on his promotional stationary.
Sometimes you just lose despite being right. I am not the first nor will I be the last.
In celebration of unions planned with joy, honesty, and in honor of my goddaughter Olivia's recent marriage, I would like to post some family wedding photos.
The first image is of my Uncle John and Aunt Evelyn who always traveled in style with their alligator skin portable bar containing bourbon and gin.
The second photo is of my Aunt Kaki Burke who enjoyed a discrete Whiskey Sour out of range of the lens.
The last photo is of my mom with my dapper dad sporting a white dinner jacket in the background. No illusions, they loved and drank and I was born.

Oily Hair?

Sinéad O'Connor shaved her head before ripping up a photo of the Pope on Saturday Night Live. Mia Farrow suddenly cut off her locks after a brief marriage to Frank Sinatra, I am surprised she did not cut off her own head after Woody Allen.

The War Production Board asked Veronica Lake to sacrifice her signature "peek-a-boo" style during WWII to discourage factory women from emulating her and hence, run the risk of getting their hair caught in machinary.
The world is now faced with the lies of BP which is spilling oil into our oceans at a rate 10 times higher than they first claimed.
The truth has washed ashore killing marshlands along the Gulf Coast which is only the beginning of an environmental catastrophe.
What can we do? Apparently hair absorbs oil and can be washed and reused to absorb more, a far better solution to the toxic and untested chemicals BP has been pumping on to their mess hoping that we will not notice the sludge and gasping wildlife.
Cut your hair and save the clippings, go to Matter of Trust for details.
Thousands of boxes of hair, fur, fleece, feathers and nylons are coming in now by drop-offs from every city in North America and from donors in the UK, France, Spain, Germany, Mexico, Australia, New Zealand, Japan, China and Brazil... it's a start.
I'll leave you with this mournful video by a much maligned and misunderstood woman who gave a voice to the abused, whether it be altar boys, the planet or the brokenhearted. The growth of untamed hair revolutionized the sixties, it's time to cut it off in protest of the bald faced lies