A Small Press Life-of Horny Appliances and Comic Books Well-Done

A few years ago, I had my first exposure to a small-press and comics convention. It is called SPACE, it is held in my hometown and is well-thought of and attended.While it was far from the aesthetic and performance freak-show that a typical Sci-Fi Con is, SPACE was, in its smaller,marginally saner way, a touching and determined triumph of independent artistry and spirit.
It takes all sorts, to populate the earth and to create art.SPACE was full of a strange,arresting and engaging crew of creators,fans and those striving to move from the latter to the former.Some were already accomplished in their artistry, with viable and identifiable oeuvres;others were in the floundering,awakening stages of finding their voice, their line or their milieu.
For most, these weekend gatherings represent not just a venue to showcase wares and services;they act as a wellspring of strength and camaraderie.Art is famously and accurately pursued solo. Mingling with others is usually reserved for the after-product pastimes of networking and selling, begging and whoring.When,whether by passionate choice or practical necessity, one pursues their artistic path through the Small Press World, that sense of supportive community attains deeper importance.
During that particular SPACE weekend, a young woman from Michigan occupied the table across from ours. We were giving away copies of our arts magazine, as part of a wider promotional campaign. She was trying, with a talkative desperation, to interest anyone in her little self-produced comic book.It could, with charity, be classified as the crudest kind of zine--a primitive kitchen table affair, copied on a public machine and held together with staples.The asking price,early on, was fifty cents. Mid-way through, she was giving copies away.
She had, after paying the set-up fee, traveled a few hundred miles for the privilege of handing out,gratis,her artistic product to mostly uninterested strangers.Attendant upon accepting her comic zine was the awkward requirement of hearing a shred or two of her uncomfortably sad life story.Bluntly, all that the 20-something had of value was her art,which was the most awkward subject of all.I still have my copy tucked away in a box somewhere yet consultation is unnecessary: I remember it well.
Her tiny comic told the painfully unfunny story of the sex lives of a group of kitchen appliances (a toaster, a coffee pot and, I believe, a blender). Further elucidation would be pointless.I initially felt sorry for the sad girl,whose bewildered,loving father had made the trip with her.Upon deeper reflection, I saw it from a different angle;an angle that has, along with many other varied experiences, including my own, helped to inform and shape my life's mission.
Creators must,at any cost,however lonely or painful, create.That is what the Michigan girl was doing. Her zine was obviously self-medication as well as self-expression.Yet, instead of crafting her art in secret, and keeping it there, she chose the bold and liberating step of placing it in the world, however fragile the task.Art is art by the very act of creation--slim talent and poor reception do not make it less important.Taste,ability and fame wildly vary from one artist to the next;passion and dedication are much more constant.
In contrast to the now-nameless girl, there were many independent artists of acclaim, respectability and esteem in attendance.To the right of us sat a comic book artist of brilliance,originality and, evidently, poor time management,as he showed up hours into the affair.No matter. There was a small band of fans waiting for his arrival.Word quickly spread--he was soon mobbed by followers of his very specific artistic cult.The average American would not recognize his name or know of his existence but his rabid readers and,likely, bank balance show a very different story.
A surprising number of artists and writers showing at that edition of SPACE were able to, with hard-wrought freedom, earn their living by brush or pen.They did so in true Small Press fashion, by avidly disseminating their art, and that of others, through old-fashion leg work:by personally attending trade shows and conventions, selling their product on the Internet, and publishing in Indie and self-produced periodicals.
The Michigan girl and the brilliant artist are on opposite ends of the spectrum but they, and many other artists who share the poles or exist somewhere in between the extremes,tread the same road of artistic sovereignty,fulfillment and destiny.

Collection Obsession

There are a few things that make my heart and mind exceptionally happy, aside from life's essential, simple pleasures. Any time that I am able to combine two or more of those loves, I feel as if I have been given an extra slice of pie.Rarely do I find something that catches hold of me in such a way as to spark an instant itch to start a collection. Recently, I came across an artist whose work meets all of the above criteria.ART+GOLDEN-ERA MOVIE STARS=LOVE at first sight, at least at the gifted hand and eye of Kate Gabrielle.

I am an old-movie nut of the first tier. It is therefore not by coincidence but by sly design that I write, among other things, both on this site and elsewhere, about Classic Hollywood in its many strange, riveting facets.I also have an art background hidden in the not-so-distant depths of my past. Thus, while I know my stuff, I am much like anyone else: I know what I like when I see it, period.

Kate Gabrielle has an Etsy shop full of delightful, slightly quirky yet spare, and altogether arresting images of old stars.She sells originals as well as excellent high-quality copies, all signed.The array of her subject matter is contained tidily within the name of her shop: silents and talkies (silentsandtalkies.etsy.com). There you will find represented the iconic ( Audrey Hepburn, Steve McQueen)alongside the (to modern eyes) obscure ( Audrey Totter, Annette Hanshaw, George Brent). In between are true heavyweights (Barbara Stanwyck, James Cagney) and living legends (Maureen O'Hara,Shirley MacLaine).

I do not recall, even after such brief time, exactly how I came across her page. Yet, once I saw the images, I knew that a new collecting mania was about to take hold and inhabit my consciousness. I purchased three pieces, all copies;proving that I possess a strength and self-discipline of which I should be proud.

Wrapped up nice and tight, ready for their trip to the framer's, are energetic, personable likenesses of Myrna Loy, Veronica Lake and Clara Bow. They will soon be joined by a number of others; their ranks will doubtless be growing over the next few months. On seeing her work for the first time, I instantly envisioned an entire wall dedicated to her movie star renderings. All that remains is deciding which ones will find their home on that wall,which will act as a giant inspiration board as I sit typing away at my articles and stories-some of which will be about the very people whose faces and features surround me.

ARTWORK: KATE GABRIELLE

PLEASE VISIT HER SHOP AT: silentsandtalkies.etsy.com

HER SECOND SHOP IS AT: kategabrielle.etsy.com

SHE ALSO HAS A BLOG: silentsandtalkies.blogspot.com

PHOTOS BY: THE AUTHOR

Umbrella Series #3-Claude Monet

Zelda :The Other Fitzgerald

"My few friends admire or love me not for what I've accomplished, but for what they think I might have done. And ultimately a work of art that does not exist is the most beautiful work of all--it's a rich blend of nostalgia, stoicism, and futility."-Colin McPhee

There are a thousand, a million, uncountable Zelda Fitzgeralds. Every time that her husband F. Scott hijacked her look, her words, her mannerisms, her sentiments--sometimes dipping into the sacred vessel of her diary--part of her was spun off, and a new incarnation was born. The famous flapper grows a new persona every time we, the public, thrusts a projection onto her. She is a member, however unwilling, of that most elite of groups: the perennial star.

She manages a most difficult feat, that of being spectacularly of her time and yet engagingly modern. However watered-down and cliched our repetitive analysis has made her personality, she is not a cardboard creation like so many of her contemporaries. This may very well be due to F. Scott's pilfering of her most private being. What we can trace back to him, we know to be a genuine, though skewed,portrait of his wife's vulnerable elan vital

Over the years, several writers and historians have made a case for or against Zelda Fitzgerald, the artist. This war is not confined to the merit or potency of her work. Rather, it begins--and for some, ends--with whether or not she may be called artist in the first place.

Art is, as life is: entirely subjective. It is not necessary to agree with, like, or even understand a painting, a meal, or a pair of shoes for it to exist as such, exactly as it was intended: as a painting, meal or pair of shoes. Stealing someone's right to call themselves an artist simply because you do not like what they create or, worse, because you do not think that they, because of who they are, even have the right to make the attempt, is elitist bullying. That is a treatment that Zelda Fitzgerald has received from many people who should know better.

Many couples have created art, if not exactly side-by-side, while engaged in intimate relationships. In all of the examples one could put forth, there is not one instance of them achieving, or maintaining, equal stature. One is bound to soar higher than the other.

Going into their relationship, F. Scott was the creator, Zelda the carefree debutante. A ballerina in her youth, by the time she met her future husband she had ceased her studies; her dancing was limited to social occasions. After their marriage, when literary acclaim was already his to hold, she was asked, doubtless tongue-in-cheek, to review his latest book. It was her first published piece, revealing a fluid vocabulary and a style distinct from her husband's.

The bulk of her writing career consisted of magazine articles. Her only finished novel, "Save me the Waltz", was published in 1932, when she was living in a sanatorium. As autobiographical as anything written by F. Scott, "Save me the Waltz" is laden with lovely, masterful language and the voice is certainly her own.

Her artistic aspirations were not limited to words. She was widely ridiculed for a last-ditch attempt at a ballet career, begun at 27, an age far from realistic for any chance of success. She had talent, and there were those who believed in her, but her timing was sadly amiss.

The pursuit to which she devoted the most time, over the greatest number of years,and with the largest output, was painting. She painted during the long years spent in the sanatorium, until her death in 1948, as a result of a fire.

Zelda Fitzgerald the woman, in life and death, is doomed to an impossible comparison. She is held to the mirror of both her fictional counterparts and the mythos built up around her real-life exploits. Zelda Fitzgerald the artist is doomed to an even more futile, fruitless comparison, to her husband. A war of creativity waged between them when they were married; they both were losers, as individuals, artists and partners.

The slivers of artistic vision which she was able to develop reveal a gift of singular sensibility, her raw ability yielding under a surprisingly effective command. Zelda Fitzgerald is best known as an ultimate liver of life, a rare talent at which she excelled with panache, humor and fortitude. She was also a creator, of things beautiful, witty, complex and sensual. How much was left unrealized, we will never know: that answer died with her.

The greatest work of art that it is in our limited power to create is that which we fashion, edit and salvage from the raw material of our lives. Zelda Fitzgerald, in potential and adversity, made much of what she was given, as a human being and as an artist.