Moving moving moving on

I haven’t had the chance to work too much on These Frames Are Hiding Places material over the last week or two.  I’ve moved into a new place (just a few blocks from my old one) and have been devoting most days to packing and loading and unloading and unpacking.  But now that’s all done, so I’m excited to get back to it.

Here is my lovely new workspace, complete with feline “helper”:

While packing up the old place, I encountered several of the trees that brought me to the collage-oriented work I’m doing here.  Most of them had nothing directly to do with my mom or my relationship with her.  They were more the outgrowth of a general feeling, emotion, sadness that her death had caused and that bled into other areas of my life.  I thought I would share a few photos:

More comics soon!

 

 

Drawing Lines

I originally made a version of this set of pages back in October.  As I’m thinking about printing a few of my strips (possibly for a regional comics festival/expo in June!), I returned to this one since it works well on its own.  What do you think?  The printed version will be small … pages measuring probably 4 x 5 inches or so.  I did a pretty crappy/haphazard scan job here (there should be more shading in some of the drawings, for instance).  Sorry!  :-)

Also … this drawing emerged while I was revising the strip.  A little self-portrait that I kind of like.

Unidentified Fluid Object

Part II of this:

I had a great deal of fun hooking into my geeky sci-fi side for this one.  Affectionately naming this alien race “The Splats” (though I suppose the form that my affection takes is suspect …).

Thanks to Sarah L. for making me doodle.

Small Steps

This memory (based on an experience that happened just a few days before my mom died) is a very tender one for me—tender in terms of endearing, yes, but more in terms of very very soft … painful to the touch .  I still tear up when I see people, strangers, especially strangers, taking small steps.

My mom was a force—incredibly strong-willed, independent, stubborn—and depicting her this vulnerable became a challenge.  Initially, the images looked very different from the way they look now (I completely scrapped the initial set).  Even after I became comfortable with the direction in which I was taking them, I revised several of the words and images (some over and over again).  I’m still not sure if it’s clear; maybe it needs a little more context?

Too, I remain uncomfortable with the limited perspective I’m giving.  I was not my mother’s only (or primary) caregiver, for instance, and do no want to give any false impressions (or piss people off).  But I also do believe that this story is not about comfort—not for me and not for what it has to say about death.  So …

Okay. I am going outside now to enjoy this rare sunny day in Seattle.  :-)