By Christopher Moscardi / Writer for Independent Propaganda
When I met Evan we talked about the rise of the graphic novel like it was a rebel faction intent on a bloody coup. We were refugees of the fall of comicdom and we were heartened to speak of the subterranean uprising that had the potential to bring the Great American Artform to its knees. It was rebel talk: riotous and violent and buzzing with nihilism. But it was also progressive talk: intelligent and evolutionary and frosted with potential. He brushed an ill strand of black hair from his eyes with his forearm, careful not to smudge himself with ink. I winced slightly in between words that we vollied back and forth like World Cup veterans on the practice pitch. The needles dug deep in my back-ink trailed down my spine. His hand was heavy, but the bite of the needle was a reminder of the permanence of the tattoo; the permanence of this moment-it was a grinding metal connection and it was shoving black ink with force into my stretched skin canvas. It was two like minds finding a singular thought. I fucking love tattoos.
Evan had been tattooing for three years and he said he loved every minute of it. His eyes kept the promise-they danced in inky black like he was born of the craft. His portfolio, sitting on the table like an artist’s manifesto, betrayed his talents. I said I fancied myself a writer and he inquired as to what sort of stuff I fancy myself writing. Funny that we should have already been talking about graphic novels.
Finding a good artist is tough. Not that there isn’t a bursting cornucopia of talented artists that dot every corner of the globe (I once spoke with a guy living in a military installation in Antarctica-he drew the most haunting frozen wasteland I’d ever seen), but for some reason finding someone who can illustrate the ramblings of my mind’s eye can be exceedingly difficult. The majority of people willing to take up their pens for me I’ve met over that great amalgam of information, the internet. ‘Build Your Creative Team Here’ websites are virtual breeding grounds. But a connection made in ones and zeroes tends to lack a third dimension. I’ve met like-minded subterraneans on the net, members rallied behind the banner of creative consciousness, but they are, in my short experience, few and far between. And I’ve never seen my ideas dance in another’s mind through the window of their eyes. It’s validating in a sense because it means that someone else sees my vision; that my vision is even worth seeing.
When Evan’s finished I have two inverted feet, like the Buddha’s yin yang boomerang, padding deftly up my spine. I’ve told him about a couple of projects I have in the works and I do my best to paint vivid pictures of my work for him as my body numbs to the dull pain. There’s the one about the shepard who defies an empire. There’s the one about the eight year old who raises the apocalypse. There’s the hitman in his renaissance and the insanity of the damned priest. Evan’s eyebrows arc slightly as he asks me about the priest. I tell him the sad story of Unnatural and he says that’s the one.
He’s already given me two pages in as many weeks. If Ben Templesmith tattooed his illustrations onto the page, Evan’s work would do it justice. It’s surreal and gritty, unique but accessible. It’s a brilliant adaptation of what I wrote. And I think that a good deal of the reason he can translate my words with such grace is because I can stare him down and tell him what I see. We’ll sit in the parlor, stark and white and hospital clean, or in the chaos theory of his room and we’ll banter back and forth about how Lucas (the protagonist) would react to this situation, or how he should carry himself with a dark elegance. He suggests a change in the layout-move this panel here and spread this one for a wider shot-and he grabs his notebook to sketch it out for me to see.
A collaboration like this, walking up opposite lanes of a two way road each with a sack full of ideas, is remarkably invigorating. It instills a sense of confidence; I swallow it like a creative steroid. Finding a good artist is tough. They’re always in the last place I look.
What I Was Listening to While I Wrote This: Nina Simone - The Very Best of Nina Simone
About The Author: Chris is as nomadic as anyone who doesn’t own a camel can be. Since he is frequently on the move, the only place one could really say he lives is in his own head. He works with EnemyOne Studios on myriad comic book endeavors with both writing and lettering credits to his name. His current project is called The Winter King on his fledgling website American Bootleg. His influences include (among many others) his family, the music of Bob Dylan, the writing of Neil Gaiman, and the open road. In his twenty-four years on this planet he’s become sure of one thing: you may love a story, but it will not love you back.
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