Cartooning at the Schulz

HEY KIDS! Here's a fun thing some cartoonist pals and I will be doing at the Charles M. Schulz Museum next Saturday afternoon: a Cartoon-A-Thon to celebrate Paige Braddock's 25 years working for Peanuts (that "working for peanuts" joke is very old but I still love it) and General Excuse to Get Twenty Cartoonists in the Same Room.

Unless I'm mistaken, Paige is now the only person at the Schulz Studio who actually worked for/with Mr. Schulz. In fact, she's the artist who laid out the very last "Peanuts" strip that ran on February 13, 2000, the day Schulz died.

I've done these Cartoon-A-Thons before and they're always a hoot. I committed to it long before a nationwide demonstration was scheduled for the same day, so while I am at the museum talking about comics, sketching pictures, and selling books, I'm counting on the rest of you good freedom-loving folks to hold the fort. I will man the ramparts with you next time. 

Hope to see you at the Schulz!

Color in Practice

I've been corresponding with a student doing a master's dissertation who asked me about the use of color in Mom's Cancer. Honestly and immodestly, this isn't the first time an academic has asked about that. I liked my reply enough I thought it would make a good post about how I approach making comics.

The question was basically: why is so much of the story black-and-white, and how did I decide where and how to use color? I said: 

I have a lot of respect for black-and-white art as a medium, in the same way that critics respect black-and-white photography or movies. It’s a different medium with a long tradition, with its own rules of visual storytelling that are different than those of color.

Honestly, it was also faster and easier to not color all the pages. Back then, trying to document my Mom’s illness and treatment as it happened, I was in a hurry. 

Color has a very specific meaning and purpose in Mom’s Cancer. It is similar to the way color is used in the movie “The Wizard of Oz,” where Dorothy famously walks out of the black-and-white ordinary world of Kansas into the Technicolor fantasy world of Oz. In my book, color indicates that something out of the ordinary, subjective, or unreal is happening. It is first seen during Mom’s transient ischemic attack (TIA) as light blue spots that are meant to suggest the phenomenon is happening inside her head rather than actual blue bubbles floating through the room. Fantasy sequences, like the superhero fight, are likewise in full color. 

I also used golden-brown sepia color in the sequences that looked back at Mom’s past, to instantly signal to readers that this flashback was different from the regular storyline. My favorite use of color in the book is a very subtle example toward the end, when my grandmother’s casket is colored sepia, indicating that the past is being literally and metaphorically buried, and the flashbacks are done.

In general, color is an often ignored and underutilized tool in graphic storytelling. If you’re just coloring the sky blue and grass green, you’re missing half the fun! Different palettes can set a mood, establish character and place, convey emotion, and guide a reader’s attention and feelings in ways they don’t even realize. More cartoonists should think harder about color and do more with it!

250 Words on the Prisoner

[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Tuesday until I run out of good ones.]

The Prisoner is the best TV series I’ve ever seen. Not my favorite, although it would be near the top of that list, too, but in terms of artistic intent and execution, smart use of the television medium, innovative storytelling, and good fun, it’s outstanding.

Patrick McGoohan conceived, produced, and starred in the 17-episode British series, which was first broadcast in 1967. I saw it a decade later, when U.S. public broadcasting stations picked it up. 

McGoohan plays an unnamed government agent who angrily resigns, goes home, gets gassed, and wakes up in the Village, where he’s called “Number Six.” The boss of the Village, Number Two, wants information. The inescapable hamlet is populated by shiny happy people who may be prisoners or guards. The game is afoot! 

The Prisoner is a very ‘60s meditation on individuality, collectivization, conformity and dehumanization. You may think you’re free, but maybe you’re as much a prisoner of your own self-made village as Number Six is of his.

One reason The Prisoner is special to me is that my mother and I watched it together. We puzzled over the meaning of every episode, debating the characters, themes and subtext. I saw another side of Mom: she had some serious literary analysis chops! 

The Prisoner is an admittedly weird series that wouldn’t be right for everyone—it’s the ancestor of shows like Twin Peaks and Lost that kept viewers off-balance and guessing—but it was right for Mom and me, and that made it great.

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250 Words on Manly Models

[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Tuesday until I run out of good ones.]

My biological father left my life when I was 3 and my stepdad entered it around age 10. I think those years between are important to a boy figuring out how to be a man. My grandpa and uncle did their best, but they had their own lives and concerns, and didn’t know what to do with me after it was evident I wasn’t destined for baseball.

Although I grew up in the era of heroic Space Age astronauts, I didn’t know enough about them personally for them to shape my conception of masculinity. I wasn’t interested in their ethics, values, or approaches to life. I just wanted to grow up to do their job.

Make-believe men filled the gap. Batman (both comic book and Adam West), Superman (both comic book and George Reeves), Captain Kirk, the Lone Ranger, Zorro, Robin Hood, King Arthur, and similar characters taught me the ways of manliness. 

I could have done worse.

Fictional heroes distill a culture’s highest ideals into easily digestible archetypes. They were paragons with few flaws, which made them impossible to live up to but not bad guides. They taught me the importance of loyalty, bravery, and grace under pressure. Protecting the weak, defending your principles, controlling your passions. 

That’s a good list!

I never felt I missed anything being raised by a single mom, although I know she worried about it. I had my fictional mentors, while she was a living model of courage and strength I witnessed every day.

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Hands Off!

Karen and I with our homemade signs. Karen hand-lettered hers. I suggested she make the "P" stand for "Poopyhead" but she didn't go for it. I did NOT hand-letter mine, but I did draw and watercolor the penguin.

Making good trouble in downtown Santa Rosa, Calif., today as our little part of the "Hands Off" rallies happening in some 1400 cities across the country. Hard to estimate how many turned out, but we filled the town square and the sidewalks on both sides of three city blocks. Maybe a few thousand? Not the hundreds of thousands who demonstrated elsewhere, but a nice group of witty people with a lot of positive energy. 

We ran into several friends because we know quality people. Someone on Facebook cautioned about posting photos of people at these events without their permission and, while I'm not that paranoid, isn't it a shame that we even have to give a thought to the government rounding up protestors and shipping them to secret prisons? That's why we're there. Anyway, I won't out them in this post, but if you were one of those friends it was great to see you.

Look: I have no illusions that a few thousand people in my hometown are gonna change the world. That's not the point. Community, fellowship, letting other people know they're not alone and we have their backs--that's the point. Pebbles make an avalanche.

Makin' trouble. Woot. I pointedly wore my red, white and blue Fourth of July shirt to reclaim its iconography for the good guys. RIght-wing fascists don't get a monopoly on patriotism or the flag.

My view for most of the event, across the street from the park at the center of town, Courthouse Square.

A long shot down Third Street. I was standing on the right side of this street about halfway down when I took the previous shot; Courthouse Square is out of sight to the left. This was just a fraction of the folks who came out today.

250 Words on the Leader of the Pack

[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Tuesday until I run out of good ones.]

I carefully observe my little dog, Riley, trying to figure out how her brain allocates its resources. 

It’s around 50 percent food and treats, 25 percent pee, 15 percent poop, 5 percent guarding her territory from any bicyclist or cat that wanders past, and 5 percent a sense of affection for the apes she allows to love her on her terms.

That deal’s OK with me, but I try not to fool myself that it’s more than it is.

I often recall my writer friend Mike Peterson’s observation that a dog’s extraordinary sense of smell must make the world feel like being on psychedelics all the time. Riley and I have totally different experiences walking around the block.

I got one insight into Riley’s mind a few years ago, when I helped a neighbor close her broken garage door. My fingertips momentarily got caught between the hinged panels, and I let out a yelp before yanking them free. From a couple hundred feet away, Riley rocketed down the street like a fur-covered torpedo, ready to fight demons by my side. 

“I’ve got your back, boss!”

That kind of courage and loyalty earns a lifetime of unrequited belly rubs.

I do tell Riley how much I appreciate her many contributions to the team. Dogs are dogs and people are people, and anthropomorphizing doesn’t do either of us any favors. But as inscrutable as her mind is, I’m certain we’d both fight fiercely for our pack. I’ve got your back too, pal.

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NOTE FROM BRIAN: I wrote this essay a while ago and randomly assigned it to post today; it is a very sad coincidence that Riley died last week following a bout of congestive heart failure. She was a month shy of 13. Riley was a terrier mutt that someone had left tied to a bus stop when she was a pup, and we gave her the best home and family any dog could have had. 

My wife, Karen, read today’s essay and told me to edit it to read, “Riley devoted 50 percent of her brain to loving her Mom.” That sounds about right, if not low. 

George Carlin said that getting a pet means "you are purchasing a small tragedy," and here we are. For being such a small dog, she leaves an enormous hole. 

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Dr. Bryant Lin and Stanford

My friend Elaine messaged me this morning to say, "Your book is on TV!" And so it was, in a story by ABC's San Francisco affiliate, KGO TV, about Stanford physician and professor Bryant Lin.

I know Dr. Lin and have spoken to his students a few times (and am scheduled to do so again next month). He is a cancer researcher who has a very serious, probably fatal cancer himself. The knowledge and passion he brings to teaching the subject is extraordinary. 

One of the most gratifying and surprising outcomes of writing Mom's Cancer is seeing it taught in medical schools such as Stanford. I did not anticipate that at the time--wasn't even on my radar. Mom would have been thrilled. 

Here's the KGO story, which is definitely worth 5 minutes of your day:

250 Words on Immortality

[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Tuesday until I run out of good ones.]

Most stories about immortality are cautionary tales whose moral is “be careful what you wish for.” Living forever, we’re told, consists largely of ceaseless boredom and ennui.

Sounds like sour grapes to me. I think I’d handle it well.

“Millions long for immortality who don't know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon,” wrote novelist Susan Ertz, but I excel at rainy Sunday afternoons. I’m very good at doing nothing; if I feel boredom coming on, I’m also good at finding something to do.

I should define my terms. My vision of immortality doesn’t include invincibility. I could still be killed falling off a cliff or getting hit by a Cybertruck, but absent mortal trauma I wouldn’t die. Also, learning from the mistake of the mythological Tithonus, who forgot to read the fine print and won eternal life but not youth, I wouldn’t grow older. My DNA would simply stop making copying errors, which many gerontologists believe accumulate into the condition we call “aging.”

I imagine I’d read a lot. Master some trades. I’d keep a diary and send volumes to the Smithsonian a century at a time. Live in exotic places long enough to settle in and learn the language—maybe 50 years—then move on. I expect I’d become detached. It’d be hard to care about immediate problems, people and politics after you’ve lived a few centuries. I’d be a quiet loner.

I’m already halfway there!

Forever is just an infinity of rainy Sunday afternoons.

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250 Words on Dexterity

[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Tuesday until I run out of good ones.]

I used to be ambidextrous. When I was a kid, I wrote the left half of a page with my left hand, then switched the pencil to my right hand to write the right half of the page. My third-grade teacher declared that the laziest thing she’d ever seen and made me write right.

My handedness hardened into a hash. I write and draw right-handed but play most sports left-handed and left-footed, although I bat and golf (if I golfed) right-handed. I can paint with either hand; I think my left just lacks the muscle memory and fine motor control of my right. My left eye is dominant—good to know for archery and astronomy. My wife, Karen, marvels that I can flip pancakes both ways.

That ambiguity makes me flexible but can also lock me up. I once stood frozen in the kitchen trying to remember how to open a jar. Neither hand felt correct.

Because I’ve enjoyed, studied, and worked in both science and art, people sometimes speculate that the right and left halves of my brain are more interconnected than most. Maybe, but I’m doubtful. As I understand it, the “rational left brain/creative right brain” generalization is overblown. There’s a lot of slosh and overlap between the hemispheres’ functions. 

It is true that doing science and art feel similar to me. Both involve discovering patterns and expressing new connections using the tools in your toolbox, whether those are math and scientific instruments or ink, paint and paper. 

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The Ides of March Already?!

The Ides of March are a noteworthy date in world history and an even more important date in our family's history: it's when my daughters changed my life by going to the trouble of being born. Happy Birthday, Chiquitas! Dinner, cake and presents are waiting.

(Photo taken when they were 18 months old. They're all grown up now.)

Whose Story Is It?

My friend Matthew Noe pointed me to this thoughtful essay on what a writer's obligation should be to real people who appear in their stories. I've faced that question myself so I left this response on his post, which I thought worth sharing in a post of my own.

It's an interesting and important question, especially for those of us who occasionally tell nonfiction stories. 

As mentioned in the piece, I think the first responsibility a writer owes to all the real people in their story is to get it as right as you can. I treat everything I do as journalism (even my fiction), and aim for accuracy while understanding that objective truth in human interactions can be impossible to know and everyone has their own perspective. Sometimes people tell me I got it exactly right; other times they say, "Well, that's not how I experienced it, but I understand how you did." I can live with that.

Also, to put it coarsely, you have to decide who and how much you're willing to betray. People live their lives in your presence with no expectation you'll be recording and broadcasting the details. Nobody is always at their best. I believe Alison Bechdel has talked about that in relation to her mother and family.

I often cite the example of my graphic novel "Mom's Cancer," in which I was not willing to betray my mother. If she hadn't supported the story, or it had caused her a moment of concern or anxiety, I would have killed it and no one would have ever seen it. On the other hand, I decided to include my stepfather in the book regardless of what he thought of his portrayal, which wasn't entirely complimentary. So you have different levels of pain you're prepared to inflict and take, and I urge memoirists to think that through before publication. It's one thing when it's on manuscript pages in your desk drawer, quite another when it's printed in thousands of books around the world.

With both "Mom's Cancer" and "A Fire Story," the predominant response I get from real people who appear as characters is some measure of gratitude for telling their story. Many are indifferent, a few are even sort of proud of their "celebrity" and brag about it to their friends. I can't recall anyone getting upset. Partly that's because I'd never use a book to deliberately make someone who's peripheral to the story look bad or settle a score. Villains (incompetent doctors, bureaucratic insurance weasels) are anonymous composites.

That's a line I draw that other nonfiction writers or memoirists wouldn't. Everybody's got to figure out where their lines are and ask themselves, "Can I live with the consequences?"

If it helps you sleep at night, there's always the quote by Anne Lamott: “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”

250 Words on Life Drawing

[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Tuesday until I run out of good ones.]

People sometimes ask how much art I’ve studied, and the answer is as much as possible in high school and college. Art was hard to fit into a university schedule because studio classes were three hours long, but I did what I could. Otherwise, I’m self-taught.

The best, most useful art class I ever took was life drawing. That’s drawing naked people. I strongly encourage anyone interested in visual arts to do it.

For me, the value of life drawing was breaking bad habits and learning to draw what I actually saw rather than some preconception I imagined. It was the sort of environment where on Day One the instructor looked over my shoulder and said, “Ah, you’re a cartoonist.” Not a criticism, just an observation. Cartoonists draw contours, the outlines of things. That can be a start to good art but is far from the end.

The lasciviousness of sketching nudes evaporates fast. A body quickly becomes interesting shapes and shadows connected in challenging ways. In fact, the best models are those who don’t fit stereotypical beauty standards. Scrawny, fat, or wrinkly people are a delight to draw. 

It’s also an artistic legacy stretching back centuries. Artists have always depicted nudes, through the Renaissance to the Greeks and earlier. How do yours stack up against Michelangelo’s or Rembrandt’s? (Not well.) Good life drawing reveals us to ourselves.

I believe the real trick to art is seeing what’s truly there. After that, all you have to do is capture it. 

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Genius/Time

My Top Three List of History's Greatest Explosions of Genius in the Shortest Amount of Time:

1. Isaac Newton, who in 1666 (while hunkered down at home avoiding the Great Plague) invented calculus, optics, the laws of universal gravitation, and basically most of what's now called classical physics.

2. Albert Einstein, who in 1905 published papers on the photoelectric effect (which won him the Nobel Prize), Brownian motion, E = mc^2, and the special theory of relativity in a span of six months.  

3. Dolly Parton, who in 1972 wrote the songs "Jolene" and "I Will Always Love You" on the same day. 

Other candidates are welcome in the comments!